Love locks adorn the bridge that serves as an entrance to the abandoned Moonville railroad tunnel. After having driven along the gravel roads that only continued to narrow as the valleys grew deeper in Zaleski State Forest, I observe the faded golds and pristine silvers of padlocks old and new. The bridge leads me toward the tunnel, looming in the distance. Graffiti already begins to appear on the trees swaying in the wind. Bushes filled with bright yellow flowers buzz from the droves of bees within them.
As soon as I’m between the dilapidated bricks painted in various words and markings, as soon as the sunlit trail is replaced by shadow and heavy moisture, everything stops. It’s as if I’ve stepped into another world, one I only vaguely remember.
My first visit to Moonville didn’t pan out very well. After having discussed some supposed ghost stories about the place, a group of friends and I decided to make the trip. We got there rather easily, even in the pitch-black dead of the night, a book of Moonville legends in hand as we journeyed into the tunnel. But, because it had poured down rain the past couple days, the other end of the tunnel was flooded and none of us had come prepared to deal with water or mud.
So, we left. That was that. No great encounter with a ghost, even though most of us swore we had felt something.
This time, however, I came during the day. I figured it’d be the perfect opportunity to see if my mind had just been giving into the paranormal discussions that first night or if there really was something to discover in Moonville. My first pass through the tunnel is quick, save for a few stops and stares at the increasingly strange graffiti or the remnants of campfires and charred beer cans left behind by other visitors. To remind myself of the area, I continue along the trail to a broken-down bridge that was also part of the railroad before turning back.
My second walk through the tunnel, I take it slower and decide to stop right in the middle. Breathe. Close my eyes. Finally, that feeling from the first time comes back. My arms and legs break out in goosebumps and I get that sense that overcomes you when you feel like someone is watching you, or maybe standing right next to you. I stay silent, unmoving, until my brain decides it’s been long enough and that I should open my eyes.
I know this hasn’t fully proven anything. Truthfully, there’s no way to prove a place like Moonville is haunted or not. On paper it’s simply an old mining town that peaked in the 1870s and was abandoned in 1947, with the rail line itself subsequently abandoned in 1988. Now, it’s just a nice trail for hiking and horseback riding.
Yet, I smile as I begin to leave. The tunnel carries this uncomfortable aura that beckons you to pay attention. It’s one I felt both at night and in broad daylight. It’s not a ghost, no, but it confirms in my mind there’s a deep, complicated history to the Moonville tunnel. And it might just be the souls left behind trying to tell us their stories.
Jackson Horvat is a junior studying journalism at Ohio University. Please note that the views and opinions of the columnists do not reflect those of The Post. Do you agree? Tell Jackson by tweeting him at @horvatjackson.
