Kathy Petro’s Story
I conducted this interview with Kathy at her home. I couldn’t help but notice that Kathy’s residence was decorated with many framed photographic memories of her late husband and family.
It wasn’t until the actual interview began that I found out about her tragic personal history. There were a few moments when she looked about to break down in tears, but to her credit, she “held it all together,” in order to give me her side of a most unusual personal encounter she experienced with the spirit of a young man.
— Antonio
“I’ve lived in Castle Rock for 40 years. Originally, I lived in Los Angeles and moved to Castle Rock after my late husband, Josh, was killed in an on-the-job accident. This terrible and tragic circumstance was multiplied 10 fold when my husband’s own sister was murdered in Los Angeles just a week after Josh’s accidental death. It didn’t take me long to decide that I needed a change of environment. I had gone through a very rough time. Friends and family were helpful, but when all is said and done, only the person directly going through their personal, awful period can feel the full impact of the emotional stress. I was a total mess, and needed to get away, very far away from Los Angeles. My younger sister, Loraine, lived in Castle Rock and asked me to come and live with her in the winter of 1966. Since then, for most of those years I’ve lived on the south end of town.
When I had an encounter with the ghost that I saw one evening, I was not drinking or under any narcotic influence. I know that what I saw was real and no one can make me think other wise. I saw what I saw, and it was a real ghost!
I was driving home one evening at around 7:30 p.m. I had just finished doing a little shopping and had groceries in the back seat of my Volkswagon bug. The sun was still up in the sky and there was plenty of light. As I was coming to the end of a slight turn in the road, I spotted a young man about 17 years old, standing by the side of the road wearing a light colored shirt, Levis and a dark baseball cap, holding a long handkerchief to his head.
Given the murder of my sister-in-law just a few years before, I had been overcome with the issue of not trusting anyone who I might meet. The human quality of hope and confidence in others was a very touchy thing for me to once more buy into and accept. I was mentally wounded and filled with negative thoughts, and even went through a period of having panic attacks. Thankfully, I sought the help of counselors and this helped me very much. So why did I do what I knew to be the opposite of my own safety? I can’t really find a good answer to this question. All I can say is that it appeared to me that the guy might be in some trouble, he looked so wounded, so helpless. I immediately could see that he might be in some physical trouble, so I decided to stop and see if he were all right. It was a very stupid thing to do. But something so strong, something so spiritual, took a hold of me, and overcame my desire to keep on driving. The early evening was still filled with plenty of sunlight, and there were a few cars on the road, so I guess I didn’t feel there was much danger in stopping.
As I slowly pulled to the side of the road, I rolled the window only half way down and asked him if he was all right. He turned to look at me and said, “Oh, could you please take me to the hospital, I’m not feeling very good.” I could see that that he would not cause me any harm by the way he was speaking, and how much in pain he was in. I said, “Sure, hop on in.”
As he entered my car I said, “What’s your name.” He said, “Thomas Mitchell.” I asked him what had happened to him. He answered, “I hit my head real bad and all I remember was crossing a street a mile or so down the road, when bam!” I responded, “Did you fall or get hit with a ball, what happened?” He said, “No I guess a car must have hit me, I’m not feeling very well right now.” I answered, “Well, I’m headed to the hospital right now so just try and relax, okay?” You know, I never did see any blood on his shirt or handkerchief. This in itself was strange, and he didn’t say much more during our drive.
It only took me a few short minutes to get to the hospital’s emergency entrance, and as soon as I drove up, Thomas opened the door and told me, “Thank you.” I asked him if he needed me to wait for him, but he just quickly walked to the front door, opened it, and walked through. I decided to find a parking spot and follow him inside. I thought I could call his mother, or offer some further assistance.
As I entered the waiting room, I noticed that the area was empty. I walked up to the receptionist and asked, “Where is the young man who just walked in a few minutes ago?” The woman responded, “I don’t know, he might have gone into the bathroom, but I haven’t seen anyone come in these doors.”
I thought that was odd, but I did walk over to the men’s bathroom and knock. When there was no answer, I slightly opened the door and yelled, “Anyone in there. Thomas, are you in there?” No answer. I walked a few feet down the hallway and asked an older gentleman if he could search the bathroom for a friend of mine. He said he would, and after coming out of the bathroom he told me there was no one in there. I then walked back to the receptionist and asked her once more if she had seen a young man with a baseball cap. She said she had not. Things were becoming very strange. I decided not to linger at the hospital any longer, so I got back into my car and drove home.
A few days later, while at my job, I took a lunch break and overheard co-workers talking about a radio news flash regarding kid’s body that was found early in the morning by some highway construction workers in town. The local paper had printed a story about a young man’s beaten body that had lain in a shallow ditch for about two days before being discovered. The picture of the area where the body was discovered showed the ditch and a large metal building in the background. It was the exact place where I had stopped to pick up Thomas Mitchell! I was left with my mouth wide open from shock. I remember actually opening my mouth in disbelief.
I didn’t tell anyone my story. I was so shaken that I left work early and drove straight home. A few hours later, I phoned my sister Loraine and described everything to her. I was surprised to hear her reaction, “Well Kathy, you know how you’ve been under so much stress. You had to have imagined it all. You know how upset you’ve been with Josh and his sister’s death. Of course you imagined it all. This boy’s murder is something that you must have read about beforehand, and your mind simply created the whole story around the unfortunate incident.”
I chose not to pursue the subject any further with Loraine, so I just agreed with her and kept my true thoughts to myself. But I knew better. I knew I had not imagined any of it—the boy, his clothes, the hospital—none of it was made up by my imagination. I never, ever read anything about his death in the paper before- hand. It really did happen and in my soul I’ll always believe, and know, this to be true.
I never did find out the boy’s actual name, the paper did not print any further details due to him being a minor, and the pending police investigation. And I never, ever brought up the subject of the boy’s death to my sister again. I’ll always carry this experience with me until the day I die. I do feel confident in knowing that I did try to help that poor spirit as much as I could at the time. The experience gave me more in return than what I could ever hope to give the spirit of Thomas Mitchell. Thomas has never visited me since, and I hope he has found his final peace. I feel grateful knowing I might have helped him on his journey.”
COLORADO SPRINGS
In its early history, Colorado Springs was known as Little London. The city was founded by Gen. William J. Palmer in 1872, and given the town’s cultured and urbane atmosphere—having fine hotels and opera houses—Palmer chose to make the town his home. Palmer was a Civil