Pacific Paranormal Research Society

CATHEDRAL PARK

ST. JOHN'S BRIDGE

CATHEDRAL PARK /St.Johns Bridge

PORTLAND, OREGON

It is not hard to find a haunted synopsis on Cathedral Park on the web. As for the disembodied screams that apparently still screech out for help causing the cops to arrive, well, my research has indicated that this has not happened for many, many years.
I decided to do something different this time, and I wrote the following story to be narrated by Thelma Taylor herself. The girl deserves a voice- much more than just her non-existent ghostly screams of pain and suffering.

Obviously, this story is fiction- and I have created events on how I felt that they may have been played out. I have not purposely tried to contact Thelma; if she helped me write this story, I do thank her, but I would not have asked her. She's where she should be now, and I have no intention of bothering her. The photograph of Thelma below on her graduation is widely circulated, so I would deduce it is public domain.

I have spoken to Morris- he IS one of the ghosts that lurk in Cathedral Park. The way I've described him is the way I've encountered him. Please be aware that this story, along with everything else on this website is copyrighted. You are not allowed to copy any part or portion of this story or content for any web content or literary reason whatsoever without my express permission. Got it? Good. ~M.

"I remember it like it was yesterday; that day and the days that followed are etched inside my permanent memory. I understand now that is was "my time" as they say, but I also understand that if I would have fought back harder and paid more attention to my surroundings at the time, I could have stopped it. I sometimes wonder what my life would have become?
"My name is Thelma Taylor. Here's a photo of me at graduation.

It was during the summer months, and the year was 1949. I went to Roosevelt High School.The year earlier, when the above photo was taken,I had graduated from James John Elementary School. I was glad to be out of school. I didn't care much for it. My classmates relentlessly teased me about the way I smelled. I will admit that I wasn't as adamant about personal hygiene as I possibly could have been, but I don't feel that gave them the right to tease me so much, and call me by the nickname of "Stinky." Anyway, I was glad it was summertime.

"I was excited, as I had just acquired a job picking beans and berries. It was hard work, but it was steady. I was saving my money to acquire school supplies and, for myself, some new clothes. I also had dreams of one day traveling and seeing the world.
"There was a "Berry Bus" that would come by and pick me up off of North Fessenden Street. I had to get there really early in the morning to catch the bus, but thankfully, the bus stop wasn't too far from my house. I must admit, in the beginning, it was a bit creepy being out that early in the morning with just myself and the bus stop for company. But I suppose when you perform routines day in and day out, you get used to them. This morning I was headed toward the bus stop, and scheduled to meet a friend so we could ride together.

"On that particular morning, I first noticed the wirey male drifter with greasy, disheveled black hair, lumbering across the street from me. He was illuminated under the early morning mists, and seemed to be in his mid 20's, and was talking to himself. Occasionally he would throw furtive glances my way. Each time he did so, he would put his head back down again and grin eerily, speaking to himself and nodding, like he had just realized some deep dark secret. He was probably drunk, lost, or both. We get a lot of drifters through this part of Portland, and to be perfectly honest, I wasn't too concerned about him.

"The man eventually reached the end of the block, then turned around and headed back on my side of the street. At this point I stopped paying attention to him; it wasn't until he reached the spot where I was sitting and began talking to me that I began to feel a little apprehensive. But in those days, there was not much reason to fear that a transient or anyone else anyone would have bad intentions or try to hurt you. It was pretty much unheard of in these parts, even when you were alone face-to-face with a stranger. Those things just didn't happen here.

"He told me he was lost and wanted directions to someplace I didn't know. I was pleasant, and told him that I didn't know where that was and I was sorry I couldn't help him. As he spoke, the man lit up cigarette after cigarette, and began acting more nervous. He asked me more questions, "Where does this bus go again?" "What is your name?" "Where do you go to school? Do you like school?" "Wow, this is early in the morning, isn't it?" "So when does the bus arrive?""What did you bring for lunch? What are you picking there?"

We exchanged pleasantries. He said his name was Morris Leland and he was originally from the Midwest. I asked him if he was going to get on the "Berry Bus" too. I told him he could share my lunch with me at lunchtime- I had made 2 sandwiches. I had been taught good manners and I would be expected to share with someone less fortunate than myself- even though we didn't have much.

"At this point, Morris glanced nervously around, rambled something incoherent, and threw his lit cigarette into the street. He had a wild look in his eyes, and he kept brushing his hand through his greasy hair, all the while staring wide-eyed at me and then behind him. I remember asking him, "Morris, Sir, are you okay?"

"The last thing I remember was feeling a hard, abrasive knock against my head.

"Apparently he hit me so hard that I had passed out.

"I awoke some time later, with him above me- talking to himself cryptically, and wrapping my arms and legs together with some kind of heavy rope that made my skin tingle & sting. He had me on my back, and bushes and trees surrounded us. I could look to my left and see the St. John's Bridge, so I knew we were steps away from the Portland Woolen Mill. I asked him what he was doing and begged him not to hurt me. He brought his face close to mine at one point, and I could smell sweat and liquor on his breath. He told me that if I kept quiet, then he would let me go. But, If I made any noise over a whisper, he would have to kill me. "Please don't make me do that." he said. After he had me bound so I couldn't move more than a wiggle, he tried to take (without success) embarrassing liberties on me that I'd rather not go into detail on. Then he proceeded to indulge himself in my lunch.

"I complied out of fear with the 'no speaking above a whisper ' rule. Hours passed. I tried to plead with him and tell him that people would be looking for me and it would be easier if he would just let me go. Morris began to exhibit emotional outbursts- many times he'd start crying; other times he'd get the "horrors." He would start beating me and yelling, followed by his furtive and useless attempts to take lliberties with me. Sometimes he would leave for a while and bring back food and liquor; neither did he offer to share with me. Nor did he cover me up- and, oh, it was so cold at night. Sometimes he'd drink quite a bit of alcohol, and carry on untillegible conversations with me and with an unseen person or persons. He spent a lot of time pacing, drinking, smoking, mumbling, and molesting me- all the while blaming me for causing him to do this.

"For me, well, I was going in and out of consciousness all the time. Due to his abuse, environmental factors and the lack of sustenance, the hunger pangs began to dissipate, and extreme fatigue and sleep started to overtake me. I would drift in and out- dreaming of the smells and sounds of my family, and dreaming of falling into my own bed, while drowning in white, creamy, comforting blankets of cotton and feathers.

"I don't know how many days had passed, before I started to experience extreme desperation, and tried to undo my bindings. I got my wrists undone, but I was too weak to reach my legs and feet. When Morris found out what I had done, this really sent him into a rage. Later on, in what seemed to be the early morning, I thought I heard footsteps close by so I started screaming and yelling for him or her to come and help me. Days of terror, fear and hunger were taking its toll on me and I was feeling claustrophobic, caged, and desperate for help. Unfortunately, it was Morris, returning from one of his "runs", and he was shocked and obviously agitated by my extremely noisy display. I had been fairly quiet up to this point- his threats to kill me if I spoke above a whisper had worked up until then. It was obvious that my current and more frequent outbursts were upsetting to him.

"The last thing I remember, is Morris screaming at me as I was screaming at him. He had his cold hands wrapped around my face and neck, while yelling, "You need to be quiet, you just need to be quiet, gotta keep her quiet, shut up, shut up, SHUT UP! SHUT UP! " All the while I was putting all of my strength into my voice by yelling and screaming and telling him he was hurting me and to let me go. He soon stuffed something made of rough paper into my mouth to muffle my screams; still I contintued my tirade. And still, he kept yelling at me to be quiet. He began hitting me first with his fists, then harder, with a steel like object.

"Soon, I could not hear either of us yelling, and I felt dizzy and tired. Everything at that point became completely fuzzy and black.

"Morris Leland was arrested and tried for my murder and abduction, and was eventually executed. After his execution, he came back to the location at St. John's, now Cathedral Park, where he had spent a week abusing and slowly torturing me.

"Forever swallowed up in his guilt, he has committed himself to his own personal hell- constantly replaying the horrific events and scenes over and over, and swimming in his manmade pool of horror and mayhem.

"The St. John's Bridge carries a morbid fascination in its own right- it has become a location where, over time, many people have taken their own lives either by drug overdoses, or by jumping off of the bridge. Morris has acquired a lot of company these days, and many of these lost and homeless spirits wander around in their own dreamless world of ego-based self-loathing and guilt-- many of them resting on the edge of lunacy.

"So, just so you know- if you should hear screams at Cathedral Park, please be aware they are not from me. Someone came and got me shortly after my experience, and took me to a high place.

"I'll admit that I have forgiven Morris for what he did to me back in 1949, and for me, my horror has ended. Morris has to live with his horror for the rest of eternity- I think we can all deduct which situation is worse.

"So the next time you are at Cathedral Park and think you hear something strange, you just might be. But it's not me. Please believe me, I'm fine. I'm at peace. May you go in peace too."

The following photos from the Oregonian are courtesy of Jennifer Olson from the Phantom Seekers. She was nice enough to share her investigative research on Cathedral Park with us. I believe she is the first person to actually find this newspaper photo of Morris Leland. I'm so proud she's let us post her findings!! Thank you so much Jennifer!

Courtesy J. Olson@ Phantom Seekers