They Still Have Stories to Tell

True Ghost Encounters and Conversations Through Mediumship.

"I don’t chase ghosts; I give people one more opportunity to tell their story."

A Day at Knoebels Through the Eyes of a Medium

Every so often Spirit surprises me in a way I never see coming.

Being a medium means you never really know who you might meet during what seems like an ordinary afternoon. Sometimes it's while walking through a cemetery. Sometimes it's in the middle of a grocery store. And, as I recently discovered... sometimes it's inside a carousel museum.

If you've ever wondered what it's like to unexpectedly strike up a conversation with someone, who hasn't been in physical form for many years, keep reading. This story is a little longer than my usual posts, but I hope you enjoy it.

Before I tell you what happened, let me share a little history.

For those of you who have never visited Knoebels Amusement Resort in Elysburg, Pennsylvania, you're missing a true step back in time. Unlike today's large commercial amusement parks, Knoebels has somehow managed to preserve the feeling of simpler days. Family-owned and operated, it offers campgrounds, picnic groves, a water park, classic rides, games, homemade treats, and one of the largest wooden roller coasters in the world.

The Knoebel family purchased the land in 1828 for just $931, and when the amusement park officially opened in 1926, no one could have imagined what it would become. Yet despite nearly a century of growth, it has never lost its rustic charm. Everywhere you look there are reminders of its history—from the cottages and picnic pavilions to the vintage arcade games and fresh fudge shop.

I have always been interested in history.

Perhaps that's why what happened next didn't surprise me nearly as much as it probably should have.

As the heat of the day was building, my friend and I wondered into the pleasantly air-conditioned Carousel Museum.

The museum contains an extraordinary collection of beautifully restored carousel horses and menagerie animals dating back to the late nineteenth century. Lions, pigs, ostriches, dogs, and magnificent horses filled the room, each with its own story. Historic photographs, display cases, tools, and informational plaques surrounded us, preserving generations of craftsmanship and memories.

As my friend and I wandered through the exhibits, I found myself slowing down.

One of the things I've learned over the years is that places seem to hold an energy all their own. Some locations simply feel... alive. History leaves an imprint, and every so often that imprint becomes easier for me to sense.

As I looked around the room, I became aware of someone quietly working near the far corner.

He was an older gentleman wearing a brimmed cap. He had a thin build and slightly above average height. He wore the kind of durable work clothes you might expect from someone who spent his life repairing machinery or maintaining equipment. His faded blue work shirt had long sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His matching pants showed years of kneeling, and the toes of his lace-up work boots were worn smooth from countless hours on hard floors.

I remember noticing his hands almost immediately.

They were strong, capable hands—hands that had spent a lifetime building, fixing, polishing, and caring for things. They were weathered and calloused, yet moved with gentleness as he carefully worked.

His face carried the same story.

The lines etched across it spoke of decades spent outdoors under the Pennsylvania sun, yet there was an unmistakable kindness behind his eyes.

Before approaching him, I did what I always do.

I paused.

One thing many people don't realize is that Spirit communicates personality long before they communicate facts. Before names, before dates, before memories, I usually get a sense of who someone is.

(It's always a good idea to double-check... lol.)

Immediately I felt loyalty.

Not obligation...

Loyalty.

He was the kind of man who probably arrived before everyone else and stayed long after everyone had gone home. The type of person who quietly took pride in doing a job well, even if no one ever noticed. He had a quick sense of humor, genuinely enjoyed people, and possessed one of those steady, dependable personalities that instantly makes you feel comfortable.

There was also something wonderfully mechanical about the way his mind worked.

Whether he had been an engineer, a mechanic, or simply someone who could repair just about anything placed in front of him, I couldn't say for certain. But I knew he loved understanding how things worked.

As I watched him, I noticed he seemed completely absorbed in caring for two particular carousel horses.

They were beautiful barber-pole horses from the 1920s with saddles, colorful embellishments and flowing horsehair tails. His movements were slow and deliberate as he gently smoothed the tails and polished every inch as though preparing them for another day's riders.

I quietly walked toward him, intending to introduce myself.

Before I could say a word, he simply tilted his head in my direction without ever stopping his work.

He smiled.

"How'd you do?"

It caught me completely off guard.

Not because he had spoken...

...but because he spoke as though there was absolutely nothing unusual about the two of us standing there having a conversation.

It felt as though we'd somehow known each other for years.

His warmth immediately put me at ease, and before long we were chatting as naturally as two old friends.

He was wonderfully talkative.

As our conversation continued, he began sharing stories about the park.

He often smiled as he spoke about "back in the day" and "how things used to be."

The more he talked...

...the more I realized this wasn't simply someone sharing old memories.

This was someone who had lived them.

For the next several minutes, I mostly listened.

He seemed genuinely delighted that someone wanted to hear his stories.

There was a warmth about him that made conversation effortless. If you've ever met someone who could strike up a conversation with anyone, anywhere, you'll know exactly what I mean. He wasn't simply recalling facts—he was reliving memories that still filled him with pride.

He told me about the days before restaurants and modern food stands.

"The women baked everything," he explained. "Pies, cakes... all kinds of baked goods."

I could almost picture it as he spoke.

Families preparing food late into the evening so visitors could enjoy it the following day. He described large barbecue pits, seasonal candy apples and fresh corn on the cob, homemade treats, and a time when neighbors truly worked side by side to create something special.

Then his stories shifted to the sawmill.

His eyes seemed to brighten as he described the men who handcrafted nearly everything the park needed.

Picnic tables.

Benches.

Cabins for guests.

If something needed built, they built it. If something needed repaired, they repaired it.

There was tremendous pride in making things that would last.

He talked about the old swimming hole before the swimming pool was built in (1926) and spoke of how excited everyone was when the new pool finally opened. He enjoyed working in the Pennyland Arcade after it opened. (1931)

What struck me wasn't simply what he remembered.

It was how he remembered.

Every story centered around people.

The families.

The workers.

The community.

Never once did I feel he was reminiscing because he wished those days would return. Instead, I sensed immense gratitude that he had been fortunate enough to live them.

As mediums, we often say that Spirit retains the essence of who they are.

Standing there listening to him, I wasn't hearing a ghost tell stories.

I was meeting the very same man his coworkers had likely known decades ago.

Kind.

Funny.

Hardworking.

Proud.

The only thing that had changed was that one of us was no longer living in a physical body.

As our conversation continued, he casually mentioned something that immediately caught my attention.

"The carousel," he said with deep affection.

Everything about his energy changed when he spoke those words.

He explained that when the Grand Carousel arrived at Knoebels (1942), he was entrusted with caring for it.

You would have thought he was describing a member of his own family.

He spoke about the machinery with admiration.

He appreciated the craftsmanship.

He loved every horse and every detail.

The sound the carousel made as it came to life each morning.

His attention to detail bordered on perfection, but it wasn't perfection for perfection's sake.

It was love.

The kind of love that quietly reveals itself through faithful service.

As he spoke, I watched him gently run his hand along the carved neck of one of the horses.

Not inspecting it.

Not evaluating it.

Simply caring for it.

It suddenly became very clear to me...

This wasn't someone who had chosen to stay because he was lost.

He had stayed because this place had become part of who he was.

He smiled as he described watching children race toward the carousel, each determined to claim their favorite horse before someone else did.

He chuckled as he spoke about what he called "the older folk."

"They're just as excited," he said with a grin.

He loved watching grandparents become children again.

He loved seeing parents lift their own little ones onto the very horses they had once ridden themselves.

He spoke about the music drifting across the park from the great band organs, drawing families toward the ride almost as if they were being called.

And then he mentioned the brass rings.

He delighted in watching children—and just as often adults—stretch as far as they could in hopes of catching the coveted gold ring.

For just a moment, I forgot where I was.

I wasn't standing in a museum anymore.

I could almost hear the music.

The laughter.

The carousel turning.

Children squealing with excitement.

It was as though his memories had become my own.

Then he quietly shared something more personal.

Like so many people during that time, he had fallen on difficult circumstances.

Work had become scarce.

He had wandered into the area looking for an opportunity when someone at the park decided to give him a chance.

That chance changed the course of his life.

Not because it made him wealthy.

But because it gave him purpose.

Some people find the place where they belong.

I couldn't shake the feeling that he had found his.

And perhaps...

Never truly left.

Eventually our conversation came to a natural close.

There wasn't a dramatic goodbye.

No bright light.

No sudden disappearance.

He simply returned his attention to "the old ponies and such," continuing to smooth their tails and lovingly care for them as though another busy day at the park was about to begin.

My friend and I continued through the museum and back into the park, my mind was processing everything he had shared with me and I in turn was sharing the experience with my friend.

As is often the case with experiences like this, I never assume that everything I receive is automatically accurate. Mediumship requires trust, but I also believe it deserves humility.

Whenever possible, I like to verify what I can.

So, after leaving the museum, we spent time walking through Knoebels' historical displays and later dug a little deeper into the history of the park and the Knoebel family.

One by one...

The pieces began to fall into place.

Even details that weren't exactly common knowledge began matching what he had shared with me.

I often tell people that mediumship isn't always about receiving earth-shattering messages.

Sometimes it's simply about witnessing someone's continued love for the life they lived.

What touched me most wasn't the historical accuracy.

It wasn't even the fact that I had spent time talking with someone whose earthly life had long since ended.

It was the love.

His love for the park.

His pride in his work.

His gratitude for having been given an opportunity when he needed one most.

His delight in watching children laugh and grandparents become children again.

His joy hadn't ended.

It had simply continued in a different way.

As I reflected on our conversation, I found myself wondering how many people have walked past him over the years without ever realizing someone was quietly standing nearby, admiring the carousel just as much as they were.

Maybe you've been one of them.

Maybe you haven't.

Either way, the next time you visit Knoebels, I hope you'll take a few extra minutes to wander through the Carousel Museum.

Slow down.

Take in the craftsmanship.

Read the stories.

Imagine the countless hands that built, repaired, painted, polished, and lovingly cared for everything around you.

Then make your way over to the Grand Carousel.

Listen to the music.

Watch the children.

Watch the families and friends.

Notice how everyone, regardless of age, smiles just a little differently when that carousel begins to turn.

And if, for just a moment, you happen to sense someone quietly standing nearby...

Or perhaps you hear what seems like a faint laugh carried on the music...

Offer a simple...

"How'd you do?"

...and maybe tell him how beautiful the carousel still is.

I have a feeling he'd appreciate knowing that people are still making memories there.

As for me...

I'll be back at Knoebels this weekend.

Hopefully the weather cooperates.

I'm looking forward to visiting an old friend.

One final thought...

Whether you believe my experience was a conversation with Spirit, an extraordinary intuitive moment, or simply a good story, I'll leave that for you to decide.

My purpose has never been to convince anyone.

It has always been to honestly share my experiences and allow others to draw their own conclusions.

Every now and then, Spirit allows me to meet someone whose story deserves to be remembered.

I have a feeling this gentleman would be delighted to know that, nearly a century later, people are still talking about the carousel he loves so dearly.

A quick note: The historical photograph included with this post is not my own. They were gathered from publicly available online sources, and all credit belongs to their respective photographers and owners.

Truthfully, I became so immersed in the experience that taking my own photographs never crossed my mind. I also used online resources to assist only with the final editing of my original content.