Governor's Palace

The official residence of royal governors of the Colony of Virginia from 1722 until the Revolution. The original building burned in 1781 while serving as a hospital for American soldiers wounded at Yorktown.

The Governor's Palace stands as Colonial Williamsburg's most imposing structure, rebuilt on its original 1706-1722 foundations after a devastating fire. But beneath its elegant Georgian facade lies a darker history—one of death, suffering, and restless spirits that refuse to leave.

DEATH IN THE PALACE

Three royal governors died within these walls. Lieutenant Governor Hugh Drysdale passed away on July 22, 1726, after suffering poor health for two years. Francis Fauquier, whom Thomas Jefferson praised as "the ablest man" to ever serve as lieutenant governor, died on March 3, 1768, after requesting an autopsy be performed should his doctors not determine what killed him. Most beloved was Norborne Berkeley, Baron de Botetourt, who died suddenly on October 15, 1770. On his deathbed, he told a visitor he was leaving his Palace comforts "with as much Composure as I enjoyed them." When his cellars were inventoried, they held 2,820 bottles of wine and beer—comforts he would never again enjoy.

THE SOLDIERS' GRAVEYARD

After Virginia's capital moved to Richmond in 1780, the abandoned Palace became a military hospital following the Siege of Yorktown in 1781. On December 22, 1781—possibly by arson—the main building burned to the ground. When Rockefeller-funded archaeologists began excavating in 1930, they made a startling discovery: 156 soldiers and 2 women lay buried in the garden orchard. Many had musket balls with teeth marks in them—wounded men had bitten down on lead bullets during amputations without anesthesia. This grim practice is said to be the origin of the phrase "bite the bullet."

These men died in agony from battlefield wounds and primitive surgeries. Today, if you look at the third-floor windows at night, you may see a lantern passing behind the glass—likely the ghost of a surgeon still making his rounds, or one of the soldiers who died of excruciating wounds in the makeshift hospital.

MURDER IN THE HEDGE MAZE

Just years after women were first admitted to the College of William and Mary in 1918, a young female student was walking past the Palace with her sweetheart. Feeling adventurous, the couple decided to jump the wall and explore the hedge maze beyond. The young man boosted his date over first. As he climbed after her, an earsplitting scream pierced the darkness.

Scrambling over, he found his beloved bleeding to death from a massive gash in her neck. Standing over her was a crazed man holding a blood-stained scythe. The murderer rushed off into the maze and was never seen again. He was believed to be an escaped patient from Eastern State Hospital—America's first public mental asylum, located just miles away. Neither the killer nor his gruesome weapon was ever found.

Today, visitors in the hedge maze report seeing the ghost of the murdered girl with a cut throat. Black shadows move through the hedges alongside them. Disembodied footsteps follow visitors through the winding paths, and whispers emerge from empty corridors. Legend warns: never turn around for any sound in the maze, for if you do, the mental patient with his scythe is waiting.

SECURITY GUARD ENCOUNTERS

Colonial Williamsburg security knows students still jump the Palace wall at night to traverse the maze. Guards work in pairs—one at each end—to catch them. One night, a guard heard footsteps approaching from around the corner. He waited, then shouted "Come on out, let's get this over with!" and turned on his flashlight. No one was there.

Yet the footsteps continued—walking closer and closer until they were directly in front of him. Then they passed by and continued behind him. His partner, stationed at the other end and hearing the same footsteps, could find no one either. The two guards fled the Palace, knowing whatever walked those paths was not human.

Another incident occurred when security responded to reports of someone carrying a lit candle on the third floor. When they arrived, they smelled a strong scent of burning candle wax throughout the building. But they found no candles—and the security system showed no one had entered. Colonial Williamsburg does not leave candles in the building.

PHOTOGRAPHED APPARITIONS

Ghost tour guests have captured startling images: a colonial figure in a tri-corner hat and cape walking in front of the Palace; a ghostly face with a coiffed white wig peering from the entry—possibly one of the royal governors still surveying his domain; and a dark figure photographed lurking near the entrance. A ghostly silhouette has been seen peeking from behind a tree, its colonial-style hat and face clearly visible.

The reconstruction opened on April 23, 1934. The bodies of 158 Revolutionary War dead remain interred in the garden, marked today by a small cemetery where the Williamsburg Chapter of the Sons of the American Revolution places a wreath each Veterans Day. The dead are honored—but they are not at rest.