Haunted Tampa

Spirits of the Bay

Deborah Frethem

• Publisher: The History Press
• Year: 2013
• Print ISBN: 9781626192133
• eBook ISBN: 9781625846891
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: North American History
• Index: History

Tampa may be known for sunshine and good times, but it has a scary side. When dusk settles down over the Hillsborough River, spirits begin to stir. Strange things happen in old hotels, theaters and public buildings, and an old cemetery becomes surprisingly lively. Some have seen an old crime boss walking the street. Some have encountered ancient spirits in a public parking garage. Still others have met a long-dead soul in a downtown shop. Join local author and historian Deborah Frethem as she navigates the twists and turns of the more macabre side of Tampa Bay.

PART I

EARLY DAYS

FORT BROOKE

For about one hundred years, the Seminoles lived peacefully in Florida, but by the early nineteenth century, the “white man” had set his sights on their sunny peninsula. Florida became a territory of the United States in 1822. The ink was barely dry on the treaty with Spain when the United States decided to establish a military presence near the mouth of the Hillsborough River. On January 10, 1824, Colonel George Mercer Brooke and four companies of the Fourth U.S. Infantry arrived at the selected site. A wooden fort was constructed from local materials. Originally called Cantonment Brooke, it became Fort Brooke later that same year.

Among the soldiers stationed at Fort Brooke was a young officer and graduate of West Point named George A. McCall. While serving in Florida, he wrote many letters home to his family. These letters were preserved and later gathered together and published under the title Letters from the Frontier. In a letter to his father, dated March 28, 1824, George recounts what may be Tampa’s earliest recorded ghost story.

At about 9:30 on a foggy morning, one of the sentinels, who had climbed to the top of a huge live oak for a sweeping view of all of Tampa Bay, suddenly called out, “Sail ho!” Officers and men, some carrying telescopes, hurried to the shore and saw sails on the horizon. Was it four ships or five? It was hard to tell at a distance. But as the ships continued to come nearer and nearer, they could clearly discern the sails of five ships. Uncertain as to just who might be in these ships, Colonel Brooke decided to go out and meet them and ordered refreshments to be prepared to welcome their guests, whoever they may be. But as the commander and several other soldiers were getting into a small boat to row out to meet the ships, one of the soldiers cried out, “Where, where are the vessels?”

Troops assembled at Fort Brooke. Courtesy of the Tampa-Hillsborough Public Library System.

The five ships had completely disappeared. According to McCall, “Men rubbed their eyes and could not yet believe them.”

There has never been an explanation for the phantom ships that vanished from Tampa Bay that spring. But there were many at the time who remembered that a ship’s crew had recently been murdered by pirates in that spot. Were these ships sailed by the ghosts of that murdered crew? No answer has ever been found.

THE FORT BROOKE PARKING GARAGE

Fort Brooke remained an important outpost for many years. Throughout the Seminole Wars, it served as a launching point for troops and as a supply depot. During the Civil War, it was captured by Union forces on May 6, 1864. But as the war ended and the years passed, the government decided that the old fort had outlived its usefulness. The fort was decommissioned by the U.S. Army in 1883. The buildings were simply abandoned and allowed to deteriorate. In time, the area where the fort once stood became the “sin district” of Tampa. In the waning days of the nineteenth century, other structures were built over the old foundations. Fort Brooke had become just a part of history.

However, in 1980, the city began construction of a municipal parking garage. It was to be a large structure near the intersection of Franklin and Whiting Streets. Unfortunately, when they begin to dig foundations, they made a grisly discovery. It seems that when Fort Brooke was abandoned in 1883, no one had bothered to do anything about the Fort Brooke Cemetery. Bear in mind that the bodies in that graveyard were not embalmed. Many did not have coffins, and the few that did had coffins made of wood. Not every grave had a marker, and the few that did were marked with wood, not stone. In most cases, over a century had passed since the original interment. Decay and decomposition had taken their toll. What was left was little more than bones.

Still, there were some clues to the identity of the remains. Metal buttons and scraps of wool clinging to skeletons suggested that some of the dead were soldiers, who wore heavy wool uniforms, even in the Florida heat. Wooden buttons and cotton cloth suggested settlers. A few scattered beads even suggested that the bodies of Seminoles were buried there. Further excavations even revealed a few bones that were dated back almost two thousand years—undoubtedly the remains of the Tocobaga who once lived in this spot.

Of course, this was the cause of some concern among historians and archaeologists, but progress will not be stopped. The bones were removed, and construction continued. The bones that were deemed to be from settlers and soldiers were moved to a mass burial site in Oaklawn Cemetery on the outskirts of downtown. The bones of the Seminoles were given to the Florida Seminole Tribe and were buried on tribal land, out near the Seminole Hard Rock Casino, with the appropriate ceremonies and respect from their own people. There was no living tribe to claim the Tocobaga bones, as that tribe is now considered extinct, so they, too, were buried in a separate mass grave at Oaklawn.

It is worth noting that with all the intervening years, there is no way to be certain that all of the human remains were removed from the site before construction continued. Perhaps that accounts for the strange occurrences in the Fort Brooke Parking Garage to this day. People say they have seen shadows cast upon the walls when there was no living being present to cast such a shadow. The sounds of chanting and Native American drums have also been heard. A strange feeling often overwhelms those who walk into the stairwells. One young lady who works in one of the nearby banks parks there every day, noting, “When you park in most parking garages, you feel creeped out because you are alone. In the Fort Brooke Parking Garage, you feel creeped out because you know you are not alone!”

THE LEGEND OF JOSE GASPAR

If you have been in Tampa in mid-January, you most likely witnessed a huge party. In fact, it would have been difficult for you to avoid it. The Gasparilla Festival is like a Mardi Gras celebration but with boats and pirates. Is it a festive commemoration of Tampa’s pirate heritage? A remembrance of historical events? An excuse to gather beads and drink? Perhaps the truth is a little bit of all three.

The word “Gasparilla” means “little Gaspar.” According to legend, Jose Gaspar was very short of stature. However, he was a gifted navigator, a fine swordsman and a man of intelligence and ambition. Born in Spain in 1766, he worked his way into high position in the court of King Charles III. But as often happens in political situations, other members of the court became jealous of his success and plotted against him. The plotters convinced the king that Jose was guilty of treason. As a result, while Jose was out at sea, his mother, wife and infant son were murdered and his home burned to the ground. Orders were given for his immediate arrest upon his return to Spain.

However, one of Jose’s friends got word to him, and he never returned to his homeland. Understandably embittered, he vowed to “henceforth be an enemy of Spain.” Notice that he did not say he would become a pirate, just an enemy of Spain. However, he soon found the fat merchant ships of Great Britain and the United States irresistible, and he began to prey on any ship he could find along the coastlines of Florida. Some even claim that Captiva Island, near Fort Meyers, is the place where Gaspar held female captives until they could be ransomed by their families. Of course, male captives were given only the choice of a life of piracy or death.

Today, Tampa’s Gasparilla Festival celebrates a battle between Gaspar and American forces that supposedly occurred in Tampa Bay in 1821. There is a huge “invasion” during which large numbers of boats enter the harbor and disgorge their pirate crews. These marauders then “kidnap” the mayor and hold him until he turns over the key to the city. What follows is two days of revelry, including parades where beads are thrown to excited—and often inebriated—onlookers.

But according to the legend, Gaspar was not victorious in his last battle. An American pirate-hunting vessel, the USS Enterprise, disguised itself as a British merchant ship and took Gaspar by surprise. When it was clear that the American forces would win the battle, Gaspar vowed he would not be taken alive to face the hangman’s noose. So he wound the anchor chain about himself and threw himself and the anchor into the sea, crying, “Gasparilla dies by his own hand, not the enemy’s!”

And to this day, it is said that you should not stand alone on the deck of a ship in Tampa Bay. For if no one is with you and no one is watching, the ghost of Jose Gaspar will rise up from the depths, still wrapped in the anchor chain. His hair is filled with seaweed, his eyes are gone and his pale face drips with water—and he’ll grab you and drag you down!

It’s a great story, but there’s not a word of truth in it. Shhh—don’t tell the Tampa Chamber of Commerce. No historical record of Jose Gaspar has ever been found. No one can find even a mention of his name until the twentieth century. But that does not stop people from believing the legend. The disappearance of a ship’s captain from the deck of the Genevieve in 1925 is often attributed to the piratical ghost.

So just where does this legend originate? It turns out that the infamous pirate was the invention of a man named Juan (or sometimes John) Gomez. We do know that Juan did spend some time in the brig at Fort Brooke. We do not know on what charge, although it is possible it may have been piracy. After his release, he went out the southern tip of the peninsula that forms Tampa Bay, the area we now call Pass-A-Grille. There, in the years before the Civil War, he became the first tour guide in Tampa Bay. He found an old Spanish well and cleaned it out to provide fresh water. He built a huge fire pit and crude wooden benches. Then, in his small boat, he would ferry passengers out to the barrier island for picnics. His guests would watch the sunset, have their picnic suppers and listen to Juan tell tall tales around a roaring fire. Juan was never one to let the truth get in the way of a good story, and he found that the wilder his stories became, the more customers he had. And the more customers he had, the wilder his stories became. And thus, the legend of Jose Gaspar was invented.

The Civil War put an end to Gomez’s tourism endeavors. Instead, he used his boat for the benefit of the Confederacy, running blockades and harassing Union ships. After the war, he moved out of the Tampa Bay area, farther south to an island called Panther Key, near modern-day Fort Meyers. There he married, although he never had children and continued to live a quite happy, if not very rustic, life.

The Fort Meyers Press published an article about Juan on June 14, 1894, at which time he claimed to be 113 years old. The Press described him as short and heavy, with a thick, curly beard, which may have once been black but had now gone gray. In the interview, Gomez claimed not only to have sailed with Jose Gaspar but also that he knew Napoleon personally and was with him at the Battle of Waterloo. He also said that he had been in the Battle of Lake Okeechobee during the second Seminole War, serving under General Zachary Taylor. Gomez was indeed a busy man.

The Fort Meyers Press reported Juan’s death on July 19, 1900. According to the article, Juan had lived to be 122 (however, since the paper reported that he was 113 in 1894, someone’s math was obviously a little off). But here is where things get a little strange. Apparently, on the day of his death, Juan had gone out fishing and, while casting for bait, had become entangled in his own nets. He fell overboard and drowned. His rapidly decomposing body was found days later, hanging from his boat by one of his feet, still entangled in his nets.

So, Juan died very similarly to his fabricated pirate, Jose Gaspar. Both men drowned, Juan bound by his nets, just as Jose had been bound by the anchor chain. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.

PART II

THE OLD CITY CEMETERY

OAKLAWN CEMETERY

On the corner of Morgan and Harrison, just outside of downtown, stands Tampa’s oldest and most haunted cemetery. Originally known simply as the Tampa City Cemetery, it was created in 1850, when Tampa was a struggling town of about five hundred. In those days, the grave markers were mostly wood (usually carved cypress), and many of those rotted away. Even worse, the plat of the cemetery was misplaced sometime shortly after the Civil War, and the locations and identities of many early interments were lost. Wherever you place your feet, you may be standing on a long-forgotten grave. No wonder the spirits are restless within these walls.

In many ways, Oaklawn is typical of other graveyards of the era. Cemeteries of that time were designed to be pleasant places to come and walk, sit or even picnic while visiting the final resting place of loved ones. Some of the markers are beautifully carved, almost works of art. Old live oaks provide shade, and Spanish moss trails in the breeze.

No new burials will occur in Oaklawn. The most recent was in 2008, and the cemetery is now considered completely full. It is currently maintained by the Tampa Parks and Recreation Department, and you can still visit any day. Just pass under the metal arch that reads “Oaklawn Cemetery” and wander the cobblestone paths—but remember that they lock the gates at 6:00 p.m. Be sure to be out by then, unless you want to spend the night with some of the ghosts of Tampa’s past.

DR. JOHN P. WALL

On the right-hand side of the main path in Oaklawn, just past the first crossroad, is the Yellow Fever Memorial. This mass grave contains an unknown number of victims of the yellow fever outbreaks that raged in Tampa during the nineteenth century. This often-fatal form of hemorrhagic fever created havoc in many communities throughout the South. Tampa had five outbreaks between 1850 and 1905, the worst having come in 1887–88. The locals did not know the cause of the illness. A prevalent belief at the time was that diseases were caused by foul odors, so the victims were often buried quickly in mass graves in hopes of containing the disease. Ironically, a local doctor, John P. Wall, is buried in a family plot not far from the mass grave. He was a Tampa pioneer who served in the Confederacy during the Civil War even though he was not in favor of the Confederate cause. He simply felt it was his duty to care for the wounded. Wall served as mayor of Tampa from 1878 to 1880 and founded the first hospital focused solely on yellow fever patients. He contracted the disease himself but recovered. However, his family was not so lucky. His beloved first wife, Pressie, who is also buried here, and their infant child died of the dreaded disease. Wall embarked on a lifelong crusade to find the cause of the scourge that had taken his family. Eventually, he came to the conclusion that yellow fever was spread by mosquito bites. We now know that theory to be true, but at the time, he was widely disbelieved and even laughed at. Perhaps his spirit wanders the grounds today just to say, “I told you so.”

Also buried in that family plot is John’s son Charles. Although some believe he haunts the cemetery, his ghost is more often associated with another location that will be discussed later. For now, suffice it to say that Charlie Wall is someone you would not want to run into, even when he was alive.

VINCENT MARTINEZ DE YBOR

The cemetery itself was originally divided into two parts. The part nearest the front was nondenominational. But the rear was known as St. Louis Cemetery and was consecrated ground for Catholic burials. The name “St. Louis” can still be seen in paving stones along the dividi...

Table of contents

• Front Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Acknowledgements
• Introduction: A City Built on Bones
• Part I: Early Days
• Part II: The Old City Cemetery
• Part III: Downtown
• Part IV: Across the River
• Part V: Around the Bay
• Selected Bibliography
• About the Author