Weldon Spring haunting
A tale of the old yellow cake factory.

There was a time in high school, "after" the uranium processing of the of yellow cake for cold war weapons ceased, before the EPA delcared Weldon Spring a Super fund site and the construction of the massive containment dome, that the old factory was the go to party spot. In spite of the faded radiation signs.

Haunted Weldon Springs

"I don't know, this may be stupid," I muttered, wiggling through the torn fence, my backpack clinking with beer cans and spray paint.
Calvin followed, stumbling in the dark, "The guards barely leave their office and the Sheriff never comes here."
The abandoned Weldon Spring uranium plant loomed ahead, its concrete skeleton stark against the autumn moon. Fresh EPA warning signs dotted the perimeter like yellow tombstones: "DANGER - CONTAMINATION" blazoned in reflective letters appeared in a flashlight beam.
"Turn that off," hissed Calvin. "I didn't say the guards never came out."
"Let's spray our school name over all Francis Howell names and get out of here. We can drink the beer down by the Weldon boat ramp," I suggested.

"Shhh, guards, do you hear them?" said Calvin.
"No. What is that, it sounds like girls talking?"
We entered a side door and looked upon five Francis Howell students sitting cross-legged in the main processing room, candles flickering between them.
"That's Sarah Thompson from the crossroads," said Calvin.
"And that is Madison Chen, her mom boards a horse at our stables."
I did not bother to say that Madison had never once acknowledged my presence in the barn or at parties. I was like a ghost and did not exist in her realm.
Sarah held an old Ouija board, while Madison Chen clutched a dusty black and white photograph.
"I don't know the other girls, but let's scare them," Calvin whispered, reaching for something to throw.
"Here," said Calvin, handing me a clammy piece of metal.
"Wait for it," we hissed together, my grin hidden in the dark.

The girls held hands and chanted in low voices, "Spirits of the Weldon Spring factory, speak with us." Photographs of long-dead workers in stained jumpsuits lay at their feet.
"No way," I said, “A real séance? That may be stupid.”
"Speak to us," repeated the five girls

Calvin grinned and lobbed his piece of metal against cracked glass. The girls jumped, their candles flickering.

“Sit down!” Sarah, the leader, snapped.
"Spirits," said Madison, and I flung my metal to the opposite side of their small circle of light.
Their brief screams made me bite my shirt sleeve attempting not to laugh out loud.
"Ohh," I said, the small groan of laughter escaping my shirt. The noise was muffled and evil-sounding.
One of the girls, said, "Did you hear that moan?"
Calvin punched me in the arm and shook me, trying to contain his laughter. It hurt trying to laugh.
"Another," hissed Calvin.

"It's working," hissed Madison. "Everyone steady."
Calvin punched me again, hissing, "Like they aren't going to piss their pants soon!"
Another sound came from the shadows, the impact like a thrown rock, but Calvin had not stood to throw whatever he held picked up to throw.
The girls yelped in alarm as two shadowy figures stepped into the ring of their light.
The figures began laughing, two boys from Francis Howell High School.
"Damn you Bobby!" said Madison. "We almost had my grandfather manifesting!"
"It is all bullshit, said Bobby, a large athlete-looking teenager.
"Want to burn a joint?" said the other boy.
"We did not invite you here," said Sarah, but accepted the joint when the lighter flared in the darkness to light the red tip.
"Wait," hissed Calvin, sensing I was about to throw another piece of rusty iron. I could feel threads in the darkness. I was holding an old bolt.
"Let them get buzzed," said Calvin. The glee barely contained in his voice.
Madison accepted the marijuana, took a deep breath, and passed it to another girl.
She has never acknowledged I exist..
The pot smoke caused their images to waver in the candlelight.

Whispers filled the big room, voices reciting numbers, formulas, and temperatures. "U-238... yellowcake processing... 1600 degrees Fahrenheit..."
Then impossible louder words, formulas for yellowcake uranium, acid-leach concentrations, and critical-mass ratios
“You asked… for us.”
Shadows materialized in the toxic mist – workers with radiation-twisted bodies, some with bird feather wings.
From the green-stained corners, figures emerged. Their suits were torn, faces wearing grimaces of poison, fixed masks of fury and sorrow. Limbs twisted at odd angles as if the radiation had reshaped bone and flesh.

I stumbled backward deeper into the shadows. Calvin swore.
Madison dropped the marijuana, shaking her head. “We have to go,” she gasped, her breath carrying a metallic taste that burned her tongue.
Sarah dropped the Ouija board, which skittered across the floor, its planchette moving by itself, spelling out uranium enrichment protocols.

Calvin and I stood paralyzed until two of the fleeing girls collided with us in the darkness, causing all four to scream in terror. Fear, recognition, and relief mingled on our faces as flashlights were turned on.
Suddenly the lights from the security patrol shone in our direction.
"Run!" I shouted.
"This way!" Calvin, recalling the path to the hole in the fence.
Feet pounded the concrete corridors pushed on by fear. We ran together, while the security patrol cornered the other students with spotlights.
A vehicle speaker said, "Stop right there, you are under arrest for trespassing."
We burst from the buildings and raced toward the fence hole.

At the fence, we squeezed through the hole, collapsing into the tall grass beyond.
The lights from the security patrol disappeared.
Beyond the fence’s jagged gap, chests heaving, no one spoke for a long moment.
My hands shook as I passed around warm beer from my backpack, passing them around without a word.

Madison accepted the beer, "Thank you, is that you Ryba?
"What... what were they trying to tell us?" Sarah asked, her voice trembling.
"Did you see those things?" asked Madison.
"The cops?" I asked.
Finally, Calvin managed a laugh so shaky it cracked. “So… Wentzville High spray-painters save the day.”
I lifted my beer in a shaky toast. “Never underestimate a six-pack and a stupid plan.”
The silent moon illuminated the Missouri darkness and trees to the east. "A really stupid idea," I said.
Silently we agreed about the Weldon Spring Séance.
And we began to laugh.

Note: I'm not sure if this is exactly what happened. It t his story has exaggerated a few facts.....There were a couple of cans of beer involved and it was a spooky place.

Return Home from Haunted Weldon Springs

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Author Bruce Ryba at Kennedy Space Center Launch Pad 39B & Artemis 1. "We are going to the Moon!"

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