The Flight 93 National Memorial is not a location to be addressed as something you would ever investigate. This is a haunted location that functions on an entirely different level from those you visit in the hopes of spying the appearance of wayward ghosts. So let’s get on the same page about some of the terms I want to use, because I want to speak about this place with reverence and respect for what it represents.
haunt (n): a place where someone often goes or spends time.
haunted (adj): showing signs of suffering or severe anxiety.
ghost (n): a memory, usually of something or someone bad.
As I left Hill View Manor on my paranormal trip East towards Gettysburg, I realized I was right near the Flight 93 National Memorial. So I trekked out to the location in order to pay my respects for the people lost that day and reflect on the events that transpired. 9/11 affected a great many people and those effects can still be felt today. For me, recalling 9/11 stirs up internal trauma of having witnessed in real time so many lives being snuffed out. I don’t want to sound cheesy, but it always makes me think of the horror of Alderaan blowing up in Star Wars and Obi-Wan Kenobi’s line, “I felt a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I fear something terrible has happened.” It physically hurts to think about the events and the images and everything that was part of it. Being an empath, I can feel it in my soul and it can be draining.
I remember that day as vividly as my great uncle remembers Pearl Harbor. I recall my time as a teacher, taking time to help my students understand that day and allow them to have their voice on history. Some shared their parents’ stories, while others admitted they hadn’t even been born yet. While the younger generations grow, this event is more and more lost on them – much like celebrating Pearl Harbor Day felt lost on my generation. We have movies. We have documentaries. But it just doesn’t make the event real for those who didn’t experience it. We who lived it are haunted by this memory. We are haunted by the images we associate with it.
The Flight 93 National Memorial is haunted. That is not to say there are spirits of the passengers or crew or others walking around and you can intelligently engage with them. There may or may not be residual imprints (emotional memories stuck in time, playing themselves over and over again) from the events of that day. What is definitely there, however, is the lingering energy of the tragedy that occurred in this place and the energy continually brought to the location by visitors or even earlier by recovery teams at the time of the event. This location – this land – is haunted by the ghosts of 9/11: the memories, the emotions, and the stories.
Much like when you visit the 9/11 Memorial in New York City, you can feel the energy of this place. It can feel uncomfortable. It can feel awkward as you struggle to determine what to do with yourself in this sacred space. It can feel overwhelming. We all feel something in this place and on this land. (Even saying you feel nothing is still a feeling, a numbness to the emotions that are presenting themselves.)
When I come to locations like this, it is to mourn. It is to open myself to the emotions that are brought here by the victims and those that came before me. Places like this are scars upon the earth and to visit them is to run a metaphysical finger along that scar– to study its contours and to understand how it has changed what once lay beneath. We haunt places like this and the ghosts of history make themselves known to us. Those with gifts might see residual visions or experience the fleeting breath of someone involved in the trauma, but the true haunting of these places is something more profound.
On the day I visited, the wind was so strong– almost violent– as I walked out to the viewing platform at the top of the memorial. In the distance you could faintly hear the Tower of Voices, like whispers of those whose memories remain. I passed the Tower of Voices on my way into the memorial. It is a 93-foot tall tower with 40 spaces housing one chime for each of the 40 passengers. When the wind passes through, you hear the chimes.
The view is jarring as you visually line up the events that transpired. The area of the crash truly is a physical scar on the land, as the plane and its remnants ripped through the earth on impact. The memorial itself is even shaped like a scar, tracking the path of the crash itself. There are several options for navigating down to the crash site, but due to the weather I took the path of least resistance – the car. However, there are hiking areas and gardens to walk through as well.
I didn’t feel or sense much as I made my way down to the field. It wasn’t until I stepped out of my car and connected with the land that I started to feel the weight of sadness. From the parking lot I approached a collection of informational graphics. They discussed the events of the day, provided pictures of the crew and passengers on the plane. It shaped that entire day with facts and visuals, searing the reality of the tragedy into your mind. It was like dancing through a field of ghosts, reaching out to make contact. (Examples of the signage below.)
As I passed through the Visitor’s Shelter and seating area, meant for events or just general contemplation, I started to walk along the black granite lined walkway and wall that would take me past the impact site and to the Wall of Names. This was where the ghosts were haunting. There are several benches along the walk and I took the opportunity to sit down and be present – feeling the grief and mourning those who fell to such awful tragedy.
I said a little prayer aloud that is between me and the wind. I then started hearing a noise. There was no way I was hearing the Tower of Voices. Yet, there were voices on the field. I looked around and realized it was just a light post, but it was chiming like the chimes of the tower. The rushing air was pregnant with an energy of hope beyond the sadness.
My time here, though, was not wholly peaceful. The quietude was broken on several occasions, from my arrival to this moment, by a group of four men with an older gentleman. In this instance, I finally took a moment here to observe and open myself to understanding why their behavior was so disruptive beyond being young men (presumably early-to-mid 20s, as I did overhear that they were not born when 9/11 happened). As I watched… as I observed… that hope I felt, mere seconds ago, was now dashed by what I saw. This man, the father of one of them, was a bit older than me, so maybe the older end of Gen X – this man had brought these boys here to share with them what haunted him and our nation. Instead of being appreciative and meditative and empathetic, they had out their phones and their selfie sticks. I overheard comments that bordered on disrespectful when they made it down to the Wall of Names – even cracking jokes. Maybe the feelings they felt were so uncomfortable, they didn’t know how to handle them and they came out through this disrespectful filter. The father looked so defeated and hung back from the group often. As he passed me again on their way back to the parking lot, I saw military patches on his vest and maybe even some Harley Davidson logos and I felt I knew this man. I knew his pain and what this memorial meant to him. The ghosts were still haunting him, like they continued to haunt me.
As I made it to the end of the path, I walked along the Wall of Names, each name of the 40 individuals who had passed away here etched into polished white granite. I said each name aloud as I walked by, feeling this overwhelming need to speak their sacrifice into being. To manifest their memory and allow them to never be forgotten. Some memorial granite slabs had items and pictures left for those named there. My heart broke in half when I realized one of the passengers was pregnant. I wasn’t a balling mess at this memorial, but my heart was being strangled by the ghosts that still lingered within me and within this space.
I slowly made my way back to the Visitor’s Shelter, past the field of ghostly signage and to my car. There were people tailgating in the parking lot of this hallowed place. I felt so confused by this. So jarred from the spiritual experience that this place provides. It was almost like tailgating outside church on Good Friday. It felt disjointed and out of place. I sent a final message from my heart into the universe and I slowly made my way back to the route that would take me to another spiritual experience.
The Flight 93 National Memorial is a haunted location where we come to visit the ghosts of tragedy, but not necessarily the spirits of those lost in the tragedy. With the granite stones used to memorialize this place, connecting directly to the earth energy of the land where the crash happened, it is no wonder this place is filled with ghosts. We add our own energies to this location for understanding, for grieving, and for memorializing. It all sinks deep into your chest and your soul and a little piece of ourselves realizes it, too, is haunted by this moment.
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