Not exactly.

But legends have a funny way of refusing to stay buried.

If you’ve lived around Columbus long enough, you know better than to dismiss whispers coming out of Mill Race Park.

Fifty-two years ago, something unusual happened at Mill Race Park. Nobody’s ever nailed down what, exactly — creature, mistaken identity, a town that got swept up in its own story, take your pick. But the Mill Race Monster became part of Columbus history, full stop.

Eyewitnesses described a towering, green, hairy creature lurking near the river. Police investigated. Hundreds of curious residents flocked to the park hoping for a glimpse. Newspaper headlines carried the story far beyond Bartholomew County — by the time it was over, papers were calling it one of the largest monster hunts the country had ever seen.

And then there are the details that still make me smile. Before the creature was ever reported, multiple witnesses described strange lights drifting silently over Mill Race Park. Later, people who’d never met one another gave remarkably similar descriptions of what they saw. Then there are the contradictions — those wonderfully human inconsistencies that somehow make the whole episode feel more authentic, not less.

UFO sightings right before a cryptid encounter? Somewhere, a cryptozoologist just nodded knowingly. It’s almost a cliché at this point. (Seriously… look it up.) Coincidence? Maybe. A pattern? Plenty of researchers have wondered the same thing.

When I started digging into the Mill Race Monster, I wasn’t trying to prove a monster roamed Columbus — I just wanted to know what actually happened in the fall of 1974.

The deeper I got into the newspaper archives and eyewitness accounts, the clearer it became that this legend wasn’t built on one wild story. It was built on dozens of small moments — some consistent, some contradictory, all fascinating. Believe in cryptids, mass hysteria, mistaken identity, or just the staying power of a good local legend — whatever you land on, that’s part of what makes this one so much fun.

The Legend Comes Back to Mill Race Park

Which is exactly why I’m thrilled to share the news: the Columbus Area Arts Council is bringing the legend back to life with the very first Mill Race Monster Festival, October 23–25, 2026, right at Mill Race Park — the very place where the legend first took hold.

This festival isn’t out to solve anything. It’s here to celebrate it. Over three days, the park will transform into a living, breathing version of the legend through art installations, performances, storytelling, music, and hands-on experiences dreamed up by local artists. Expect the earnestly weird, by design.

Legends don’t become festivals overnight. This one’s been quietly working its way back into the public imagination for years.

In October 2023, after weeks of digging through newspaper archives and interviewing witnesses — with generous help from people who shared historical records and tracked down information I couldn’t have found on my own — I published one of my favorite Paraholics investigations: Vote For The Mill Race Monster.

The title was tongue-in-cheek. Beneath the joke, though, was a serious point.

Here was one of Indiana’s strangest and most enduring local legends, and Columbus seemed to be letting it quietly fade into history.

The Mill Race Monster is uniquely ours. Nobody else gets to claim this story, because it didn’t happen anywhere else. It belongs to our shared folklore.

Every town has stories that make it distinctive. This is one of ours.

And unlike so many legends, this one can still be experienced in the very place where it happened.

So I made the case that Columbus should finally claim it as part of its own identity.

And if we weren’t going to…

Well…

Maybe the Mill Race Monster ought to run as a write-in candidate for mayor.

After all…

The campaign platform practically writes itself.

I later republished the article on Paraholics’ Substack after moving the site from WordPress in 2024, adding a brief note that Columbus had once again missed an opportunity to celebrate one of its most delightfully strange stories.

Not long afterward, I had the pleasure of leading a Mill Race Monster walking tour through the park as part of Landmark Columbus Foundation’s public programming. The legend was still alive. It no longer belonged only to newspaper archives — it belonged to the people still telling the story.

Around the same time, local artists were rediscovering the Monster through projects like The Monster Show at 411 Gallery and Kevin Zeigler’s comic. Now all of those threads have come together.

The Columbus Area Arts Council, alongside Visit Columbus and Columbus Parks & Recreation, has done exactly what I hoped someone eventually would. They’ve embraced the legend — not to explain it, not to prove it. Just to celebrate it.

I also want to extend a heartfelt thank-you to Brooke Hawkins and everyone at the Columbus Area Arts Council for recognizing that local folklore isn’t just something to archive. It’s something to experience. Columbus invited everyone to come play.

I’m genuinely honored that Paraholics was tapped as one of the historical resources that helped inspire this event. I also owe heartfelt thanks to everyone who contributed time, memories, research, newspaper clippings, photographs, and encouragement during the original investigation. Local history is rarely preserved by one person alone, and this project benefited from the generosity of many people who cared deeply about documenting this remarkable story.

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Want to Be Part of the Legend?

The best folklore isn’t locked away in books or museums. It stays alive because people keep telling the story — and sometimes by writing new chapters of it themselves.

One of the things I find most exciting about this festival is that it isn’t just something to attend — it’s something the community can help create. The organizers are inviting artists, authors, folklorists, researchers, podcasters, performers, vendors, educators, paranormal investigators, cryptozoology enthusiasts, volunteers, and other creative people to get involved. I’d especially love to see members of the paranormal and Fortean communities show up in a big way.

A quick heads-up: Vendor, performer, and activity-host applications are due August 28, 2026, so don’t sit on this one.

Learn more or apply: https://www.millracemonsterfest.com/get-involved

Read the original investigation on Paraholics: https://www.paraholics.com/p/the-mill-race-monster

Fifty-two years later, and we still don’t know if the Mill Race Monster was flesh and blood, folklore, or something that slipped between the cracks entirely. What we do know is that the story’s still growing, and that’s exactly what a good legend is supposed to do.

For years, I’ve hoped Columbus would realize it already had something no other city could ever duplicate. Looking at what this festival has become, I’d say that day has finally arrived.

Mill Race Monster Festival

Where: Mill Race Park —Columbus, IN

When: October 23–25, 2026

Latest news, schedules, and participation:

https://www.millracemonsterfest.com

P.S. If you notice strange lights drifting silently over Mill Race Park beforehand… well, now you know why some of us will be looking up before we start looking into the trees.

This video marks my first real-world session using the IDC-2K Reverse Reaper, conducted at Stepp Cemetery—a location I know well, and one that has earned every ounce of its reputation.

The IDC-2K Reverse Reaper was custom-built by Jay W Prather and Austin Maynard, two builders who don’t just assemble ghost boxes—they design serious ITC (Instrumental TransCommunication) research tools. I challenged them to create a compact, travel-ready system capable of multiple experimental configurations while remaining compliant with TSA restrictions.

They delivered—cleanly.

This isn’t a novelty device or an off-the-shelf toy. The Reverse Reaper is modular, adaptable, and intentionally designed for controlled experimentation, including reverse-speech operation to reduce contamination and challenge pareidolia. In short, it tightens the conditions and forces better listening.

What surprised me most wasn’t the location—it was how quickly the session stabilized. New devices usually take time to settle in. This one felt responsive almost immediately.

The video goes deeper than gear. It touches on mindset, protection, and why ITC isn’t really about “ghosts” at all. It’s about intelligence, interaction, and the patterns that emerge when conditions are handled responsibly.

If you want the full historical context of Stepp Cemetery—minus the internet nonsense—check the links in the video description, including A Requiem for Baby Lester. The real weight of this place has far more to do with human behavior than fabricated legends.

This article is just a doorway.

Watch the video. Listen carefully.

More work, research, and field sessions can always be found at Paraholics.com.

— Evel Ogilville

It wasn’t just any book that fell.

It was The Exorcist—facedown, off the display shelf at Viewpoint Books—the beloved indie bookstore in Columbus, Indiana. And it didn’t fall quietly. The book launched itself just at the edge of her vision—but clearly enough to catch both the attention of her and an employee standing at the register nearby. The moment was strange enough that Beth Stroh, the bookstore’s owner, messaged me immediately. Her text led to another full-blown paranormal investigation of the shop.

Watch the Investigation: The Exorcist Incident at Viewpoint Books!

A coincidence? Maybe. But that’s never quite how it feels when it’s that book.

What followed was a series of events that seemed to flirt with something deeper than residual energy: a strange timing, a provocative gesture, and a communication session where intelligent voices—through a method known as Instrumental Trans-Communication (ITC)—responded to our questions with uncanny precision. One voice, when asked why the book had been knocked down, replied:

“Dirty book.”

Another? “Bowdern.”

It’s a name you rarely hear—unless you’ve studied Father William Bowdern, the Jesuit priest who led the real-life exorcisms that inspired The Exorcist.

The book’s fall, the ITC responses, and the quiet current running through the bookstore’s basement all seemed to converge on not just a haunting—it felt like an answer shaped by awareness.

But rather than letting this strange encounter be reduced to a spooky story, let’s widen the lens. Exorcism is one of humanity’s oldest rituals. It’s been a source of mystery, power, and fear across cultures for thousands of years. Catholicism may have codified the rite, but the impulse to drive out unwanted forces—whether spirits, demons, or madness—is far older and far more universal.

So this isn’t just about a book. Or even a ghost. It’s about what happens when we try to name, fight, and understand the forces we can’t see—those that exist just beyond the veil of ordinary perception. And what it might mean when they talk back.

The Modern Obsession with Possession

Despite being rooted in ancient ritual, the concept of possession has never been more alive in popular culture. Films like The Exorcist (1973) didn’t just terrify a generation—they redefined how the Western world imagines spiritual intrusion. They gave evil a voice, a face, and a cinematic vocabulary: spinning heads, guttural growls, bodies flung by invisible hands.

But long before Regan MacNeil crawled backward down a staircase, the idea that a spirit could inhabit a body—take over the mind, bend the will—was embedded deep in the global human story. The difference now is the frame.

Possession has become entertainment.

We binge demonic thrillers and share “possessed girl on the subway” clips on social media. Exorcism is a meme, a genre, a punchline. Paranormal TV shows dangle it as the final boss—proof that a location has crossed from spooky to serious. Even some ghost hunters now stage dramatic confrontations that resemble low-budget reenactments of The Rite.

But what’s often missing in this spectacle is nuance. The idea that possession might be symbolic, psychological, or culturally specific is often ignored in favor of fear-mongering. And worse, the rise of this obsession often sidelines the voices of those who live in spiritual traditions where spirit influence is real—but not always sinister.

There’s a hunger in our culture to believe in demons—just as much as there’s a hunger to mock the idea. And maybe that’s because the idea of being overtaken speaks to something primal. Something unspoken in our age of overstimulation, fractured attention, and identity crisis.

Possession, in this modern context, isn’t just about ghosts.

It’s about what owns us.

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The Catholic Rite and Its Roots

If possession is the wound, then exorcism is the attempted cure—or, at least, the ritual intervention. And in the West, no tradition has shaped our collective imagination of exorcism more than the Catholic Church.

The Roman Catholic rite of exorcism isn’t medieval pageantry or Hollywood spectacle. It’s a carefully delineated process—codified, updated, and tightly controlled. First formalized in the Rituale Romanum of 1614, the Church’s rite requires strict discernment before any ceremony is approved. Mental illness must be ruled out. Psychological evaluations are expected. And even then, only specially trained priests, operating with explicit episcopal permission, are authorized to perform the rite. (While cultural traditions view possession spiritually, modern medicine often interprets similar symptoms as mental health conditions—consult professionals accordingly.)

In the 20th century, very few Catholic exorcisms were publicly acknowledged—until the case of Robbie Mannheim (a pseudonym for Ronald Edwin Hunkeler) captured the attention of Jesuit circles in the late 1940s (Allen, 2021). His alleged possession and subsequent exorcisms at the hands of Father William Bowdern in St. Louis became the seed for William Peter Blatty’s novel The Exorcist (Blatty, 2011).

Ironically, the Church never intended for this case to be publicized. Father Bowdern and his assistants kept extensive notes, but the records were sealed. Blatty learned of the case years later through academic sources and clergy contacts—not official disclosure.

The Catholic Church walks a strange line. On one hand, it’s cautious to avoid fueling hysteria or validating superstition. On the other, it continues to appoint exorcists around the world, acknowledging that spiritual affliction can be real—and that evil, however we define it, sometimes requires confrontation.

But even here, within one of the most rigid institutions in human history, the definition of possession is far from settled. Is the exorcist battling a literal demon? A manifestation of trauma? A psychosomatic archetype? Or some mix of all three?

The ritual may be standardized. The mystery remains.

Global Rites of Expulsion

The Catholic rite of exorcism, while widely known in the West, is but one thread in a vast global network of traditions that seek to restore spiritual and energetic balance when it is believed to be disrupted. Nearly every culture has developed its own form of spiritual intervention—some dramatic and theatrical, others contemplative and symbolic.

In Islam, ruqyah is recited from the Qur’an to drive out harmful spirits (jinn), often accompanied by physical rituals like blowing or anointing with oil. In Judaism, dybbuk possession is countered through prayers of atonement and sacred naming, occasionally led by a rabbi in structured exorcisms. Hinduism offers manifold paths, from chanting Vedic mantras and invoking deities to specific rites found in the Atharva Veda designed to ward off malign influences (Goodman, 1988).

In African Traditional Religions, particularly among the Yoruba or Bantu peoples, spirit possession is more nuanced—sometimes seen as healing or divinatory, other times as intrusion. Ritual drumming, dance, and invocation are used to restore communal harmony. Likewise, in Vodou and Santería, trance states and possession by loa or orishas are common, but when unwanted spirits arrive, practitioners may employ baths, offerings, and the assistance of powerful intermediaries.

Tibetan Buddhism, though not centered around the concept of demonic possession, acknowledges spiritual interference as part of samsaric suffering. Rather than confronting “evil” head-on, practitioners may engage in rituals such as chod, which invites the practitioner to visualize offering their own body to hungry spirits as a radical act of compassion, or phowa, which guides consciousness at the moment of death. Protective mantras, mudras, and wrathful deity visualizations—like those of Mahakala or Vajrakilaya—are also employed to transmute negative energies rather than expel them violently (Levack, 2013).

These traditions vary widely in tone and cosmology—some depicting spiritual affliction as a moral failing, others as imbalance, ancestral unrest, or a call for attention. What unites them is the impulse to rebalance, to reassert connection between body, spirit, and cosmos, and to do so through a framework deeply embedded in the culture’s view of reality.

Exorcism as Mirror

What if the point of exorcism isn’t just to remove something foreign, but to reveal something hidden? Across faiths and cultures, these rituals often act less like forceful expulsions and more like mirrors—showing us our own shadows, our fears, our projections.

The possessed often become symbols of whatever a society fears most: sexuality, madness, heresy, rebellion, or grief that cannot be metabolized. In this light, the body becomes a stage upon which cultural anxiety plays out. In the West, especially post-Enlightenment, possession is frequently cast as a rare spiritual siege—one that justifies spectacle and secrecy alike. But in other traditions, spirit interaction is not always pathology. It may be communication. It may be calling (Ferber, 2004).

Viewed through this lens, exorcism becomes less about domination and more about discernment. Who gets labeled “possessed,” and by whose authority? Who decides when a voice is sacred or sick? The more we ask these questions, the less tidy the answers become.

We might ask whether exorcisms sometimes serve the ego more than the soul—allowing the practitioner to step into a savior role, or the witnesses to rehearse their belief in evil. The act of driving something out becomes performance: a reaffirmation of the order we think we understand, and the borders we’re terrified to see breached (Turner, 1969).

But if possession is sometimes performance, then so is expulsion. And if spirit communication challenges the boundaries of belief, then so does the act of naming what’s speaking through us.

Instrumental Trans-Communication and the Possibility of Commentary

The incident at Viewpoint Books became more than a quirky haunting the moment we turned to Instrumental Trans-Communication (ITC) to explore it further. As we asked questions about the book incident, we received responses that pointed directly to historical figures and deeper themes tied to the real-life exorcism case that inspired The Exorcist—offering what felt less like ambient echoes and more like intelligent commentary (Macy, 1999).

Among the names to come through was “Bowdern”—a direct reference to Father William Bowdern, the Jesuit priest who led the 1949 exorcism in St.Louis. This wasn’t a name we had mentioned aloud. It surfaced during our ITC session as if the spirits—or “the Others,” as some researchers call them—wanted to highlight their awareness of the story, or their involvement in shaping how it unfolds in human memory.

Another response simply said: “We’re not vicious.” Was this a defense from those responsible for knocking the book off its display? A reminder that not all uninvited presences are malevolent? Or was it commentary on the legacy of The Exorcist itself—a narrative that framed all spirit contact as dark, violent, or demonic?

The clarity of these responses—Bowdern, Robbie, Father Williams—makes it hard to ignore the historical trail they seem to be tracing. But what if these weren’t just acknowledgments? I’ve started to wonder whether they were corrections—a pointed rejection of the dramatized narrative. As if the voices were pushing back on the spectacle. That book, that film, this mythos—it may have made people millions, but maybe to them, it cheapened something sacred or exploited real suffering. Maybe what we heard wasn’t fascination. Maybe it was a quiet protest.

Then came a stranger phrase: “Performing angels.” Was this a veiled reference to theological debates—that so-called angels might be deceivers in disguise, performing roles to influence belief or test faith? Or was it reassurance that protective forces were present and active during our questioning, acting as benevolent performers in a cosmic drama (Rose, 1962)?

Whatever these replies meant, they spoke in riddles. But like any good riddle, their power came not just from what they said—but what they made us consider. The dialogue didn’t offer proof or closure. It offered reflection. Engagement. A nudge to look closer.

And in a way, that’s what ITC at its best has always done. It’s not just about catching a voice. It’s about being willing to listen.

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Echoes, Not Answers

Exorcism, whether practiced in a cathedral, a village hut, or the back room of a bookstore, is never just about spirits. It’s about people. About how we process trauma. About how we assign meaning to suffering. And sometimes, it’s about how we tell stories to keep ourselves from being afraid of the dark (Radin, 2018).

The events at Viewpoint Books—fleeting, unexplained, but real—didn’t affirm or debunk any belief system. They simply happened. The book fell. The names came through. The responses stirred something ancient.

Through the lens of ITC, we glimpsed not just what might linger beyond the veil, but how those presences may respond to what we bring into a space: fear, curiosity, reverence, or cynicism. And perhaps more importantly, we saw how we respond when the unknown stirs back.

Whether the voices we heard were memory, mischief, or manifestation, they acted as guides—pointing not just to Bowdern or Robbie, but to our ongoing human fascination with evil, salvation, and the blurred threshold between (Zimdars-Swartz, 1991).

The Others may speak in riddles. But maybe that’s the point. They don’t hand us truth. They invite us to participate in its uncovering.

So when a book crashes to the floor, when a voice says, “We’re not vicious,” when an unseen whisper names the priest who once battled darkness with prayer and persistence—

It’s not just a haunting.

It’s a conversation.

Postscript

If you’re interested in the true story that inspired The Exorcist, I highly recommend The Devil Came to St. Louis: 2025 Uncensored Edition by Troy Taylor. This updated release includes previously unpublished material, new interviews, and a closer look at the life of Ronald Edwin Hunkeler—the real “Robbie.”

You can order it directly from the publisher via American Hauntings Ink.

But if possible, consider ordering it through Viewpoint Books in Columbus, Indiana—the very place where the book fell, and the veil seemed to ripple.

Works Cited

Allen, David. “What Really Happened to Ronald Hunkeler, Who Inspired ‘The Exorcist.’” New York Post, 20 Dec. 2021, https://nypost.com/2021/12/20/is-the-exorcist-a-true-story-what-happened-to-ronald-hunkeler.

Baglio, Matt. The Rite: The Making of a Modern Exorcist. Doubleday, 2009.

Blatty, William Peter. The Exorcist: 40th Anniversary Edition. Harper, 2011.

Ferber, Sarah. Demonic Possession and Exorcism in Early Modern France. Routledge, 2004.

Goodman, Felicitas D. How About Demons? Possession and Exorcism in the Modern World. Indiana University Press, 1988.

Levack, Brian P. The Devil Within: Possession and Exorcism in the Christian West. Yale University Press, 2013.

Macy, Mark. Conversations Beyond the Light: Communication with the Dead. 1st ed., Three Rivers Press, 1999.

Radin, Dean. Real Magic: Ancient Wisdom, Modern Science, and a Guide to the Secret Power of the Universe. Harmony Books, 2018.

Rose, Eliot. A Razor for a Goat: A Discussion of Certain Problems in the Rationalist Interpretation of Witchcraft and Demonology. University of Toronto Press, 1962.

Turner, Victor. The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure. Aldine Publishing, 1969.

Zimdars-Swartz, Sandra L. Encountering Mary: Visions of Mary from La Salette to Medjugorje. Princeton University Press, 1991.

I was glued to Season 6, Episode 1 of Expedition X, immersed in the haunting vibes of Eloise Asylum. Like anyone drawn to the ethics of ghost hunting—or the raw allure of decaying architecture and echoes of human suffering—I felt that familiar charge when the guide declared, “This is the most active floor.” Cue the EMF meters, the whispered “did-you-hear-thats?,” and the stage set for a haunted experience. I’ve lived that scene a hundred times across a hundred locations.

But after years chasing the why and how of hauntings with relentless passion, I’ve reached a hard-earned conclusion: it’s mostly in your head. Your beliefs, expectations—even collective stories drive what you encounter. If you’re drawn to spirit communication like I am, you’re already tuning into the unseen, whether you know it or not.

Before you hurl an Ovilus at me, hear me out. Hauntings are real, spirits are real, but mainstream ghost hunting—obsessed with gadgets, proof, and virality—is often more performance than revelation. If you’re not using it for personal spiritual growth, or worse, exploiting it for entertainment, you’re not just missing the point. You’re distorting the signal.

To unpack this, I draw on voices like Brother Richard Hendrick, a Franciscan monk whose 2019 Strange Familiars interview blends Irish mysticism with spiritual wisdom (Renner, 2019). His insights, paired with my field experiences and cultural traditions, reveal what’s at stake in the unseen.

Some in the paranormal community find “ghost-hunting” offensive, viewing it as predatory. Fair enough. Here, I mean hunting as seeking—to explore, question, connect, not to trap or harm. I’m not bagging ghosts like it’s open season. But too often, this field misses the mark, favoring thrills over meaning.

What follows is a dive into how your mind shapes the experience, why intention trumps tools, and why we should treat this work as a sacred dialogue, not a thrill ride. This journey starts with a radical idea: reality itself might be mental, and your mind is the key to unlocking the unseen.

Reality Check: It’s All Mental (Literally)

Here’s the key: everything is mental.

Most assume the mind is just neurons firing in the brain. But what if that’s backwards? Philosopher Philip Goff’s work on panpsychism suggests consciousness is the fabric of reality itself, not a byproduct of matter (Goff, 2019). In ghost hunting, this means our minds don’t just observe spirits but actively connect with them in a shared reality. Picture the universe as one vast mind, with our brains as antennas tuning into its frequency. Ghosts aren’t mere remnants—they’re like side-channel transmissions, messages from another layer of consciousness reaching us through the same universal system. Spirits, then, might exist within this shared mental field—a kind of universal consciousness that connects all minds—where our thoughts and beliefs can shape what we encounter, like egregores at St. Albans Sanatorium, entities created by the collective focus and emotions of visitors. When we die, we don’t vanish; we shift to another layer of this cosmic awareness.

This isn’t just philosophy. Tibetan Buddhism’s Bardo Thödol, or The Tibetan Book of the Dead, describes the post-death state as a liminal dream realm, a transitional space where consciousness lingers before moving to the next life (Evans-Wentz, 1960). It’s not an end but a transition, like tuning to another station in the same broadcast field.

So what does this mean for ghost hunting? We’re not just observing external phenomena—we’re entangled in them. Our thoughts, emotions, and beliefs don’t just filter what we see—they shape what unfolds. Ghost-hunting isn’t about proving something with a gadget; it’s about recognizing our consciousness as part of the transmission.

From the Monroe Institute’s sound-induced consciousness research to ITC sessions tapping into consciousness unbound by space or time—like a signal traveling beyond physical limits—one truth emerges: Ghosts may be one mind reaching for another across dimensions. Maybe you’ve never seen it this way, but once you do, you’ll realize your investigations were lost in the static—until now. In short, ghost hunting isn’t just about capturing evidence—it’s about tuning our minds to a shared reality where spirits and our consciousness intertwine.

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Imagination and Intention — The Frequencies We Broadcast

Imagination isn’t idle—it’s generative. It doesn’t just influence our experiences in the paranormal; it shapes them. Walk into a haunted location expecting a vivid figure from its ghost stories, and your mind is already tuning that frequency. If that place is soaked in emotional residue, any intelligence present—especially chaotic or spiritual ones—may seize your script and shape the outcome.

I’ve seen this at St. Albans. My team entered steeped in tales of “Donald” and “Jacob,” entities tied to specific rooms. During our sessions, ITC responses echoed those names repeatedly, though no historical records confirm their existence (Paraholics, 2025). Research suggests ITC can reflect investigators’ expectations, acting like a mirror for our beliefs (Leary, 2013). It felt less like uncovering the past and more like improvising a ghost story in real time, co-authored with the unseen.

To be clear: I’m not saying we invent the spirits. I’m saying our perception colors the channel. Just as a radio plays what it’s tuned to, our expectations can shape which voices come through—and how we interpret them.

That’s why the quality of your consciousness matters. If you enter this work with grounded clarity and compassion—vibrating high in the truest sense: with love, humility, and genuine concern for others—you’re more likely to resonate with higher vibrational intelligences. But come in chaotic, ego-driven, or emotionally unstable, and you risk attracting others operating on that same low frequency.

This work is a mirror. The unseen reflects who we are, not just what we want.

Popular ghost hunting spots, like St. Albans, are often teeming with spiritual energies because of the intense focus and collective intention they receive. This concentrated energy acts as a magnet for a wide variety of entities—not just location-specific ghosts tied to the site’s history, but a diverse array of spirits drawn to the power of the place.

Another example: at the Indiana State Sanatorium, retired New Albany chief of detectives Mike Culwell appeared to connect with a spirit calling herself Mary, who claimed a nursing home room number that didn’t exist. The number was fabricated, matching the ghost story archetype—a lone, elderly woman in a forgotten hospital wing—but not the history. Whether it’s false memory, impression, or a clever trickster, the point is the same: spirit interactions are shaped by what we project. Our intention is the focus.

Brother Richard puts it simply: “Imagination and intention play a massive part” in how we engage the spirit world (Renner, 2019). Seek drama—clicks, clout, attention—and you’ll attract chaotic energies. Approach with respect and clarity, and the exchange may turn coherent, insightful, even transformative.

This isn’t unique to ITC or modern ghost hunting. In Yoruba tradition, rituals focus the mind to align with divine intent. Japan’s spirit boards require careful closure to maintain balance. In Spiritism, practitioners emphasize emotional clarity to avoid deception (Kardec, 1861). Whatever your approach—ghost box, apps, or intuition—your mindset amplifies the connection. Scattered thoughts create static.

But who’s listening on the other side? The spirit realm is more than ghosts—it’s a vast ecosystem of beings, each with its own agenda.

The Ecology of Spirits — A Vast, Layered Realm

Not everything that speaks in the dark is a ghost.

Brother Richard describes the unseen as a “vast ecosystem of spirits”—a complex, layered ecology far beyond pop culture’s disembodied souls (Renner, 2019). It’s a ladder of beings, with countless rungs of intelligences—ancient, indifferent, benevolent, or predatory. Humans? We’re far down the ladder, a minor tier in a hierarchy we barely grasp.

In Irish folklore, the “little people”—literal fairies—aren’t metaphors but entities with their own agendas. Offer reverence, earn protection; disrespect them, invite mischief (Evans-Wentz, 1911). Anishinaabe manitous—spirits animating land, water, sky—coexist but aren’t bound to human priorities (Johnston, 2001). Hindu devas and asuras balance order and chaos (Doniger, 1981). Christian angels and demons hold ranked roles (Russell, 1981). Each being—trickster, observer, elemental—operates with distinct will.

Haunted locations aren’t just for the dead. We might tune into something older, archetypal, or sentient echoes. Most often, we’re hearing low-level spirits—trauma-bound, confused, reactive static of the afterlife.

Discernment is everything. Brother Richard warns theatrical messages demand caution. His process: Root yourself through prayer or meditation, seek repeated confirmation, measure the message—does it bring peace or chaos?

The spirit realm isn’t a ghost buffet. It’s a wilderness. And if you don’t know what kind of being you’re talking to, you might be handing your attention—and your energy—to something that knows exactly how to use it.

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Tricksters and Sensationalists — Two Sides of the Same Coin

Here’s where things get slippery: the trickster.

Every spiritual tradition has one. Norse Loki. West African Anansi. Celtic Fae. They don’t just cause chaos—they expose blind spots. They test your assumptions, mock your certainty, and reflect your intention like a distorted mirror. Their role isn’t to guide—it’s to rattle. And if you’re paying attention, that disruption can sharpen your discernment more than any well-behaved spirit ever could.

Brother Richard warns from Irish tradition: tricksters show up when your ego does. They amplify what’s unexamined—your pride, your need to control, your craving to be seen. Not always malevolent, but always strategic. They will play to your expectations, wear the names you fear or desire, and pull you deeper into a story of your own making.

I’ve seen this firsthand at St. Albans. A voice broke through: snarling, sharp—“Kill them.” I laughed, surprised. It shot back, “How is that happy?” and then, cool and calm: “Kill you, me, God, and everyone.” It was pure performance—but for whom? The stories of “Donald” and “Jacob” that had saturated our sessions had no basis in documented history. The names were echoes of the legend we carried in with us. The trickster didn’t invent the narrative—it borrowed ours and used it against us.

But that’s the point. Tricksters aren’t just obstacles—they’re barometers. How we react to misdirection, contradiction, or absurdity reveals our inner alignment. Do we spiral, get defensive, chase every curveball? Or do we ground ourselves, laugh, ask better questions? Even if their motives are unclear, tricksters arrive to humble us, teaching through chaos what clarity we lack.

And many investigators—especially those performative for social media clout—become unwitting conduits for this trickster energy. By chasing likes, they amplify distortion, feeding chaotic entities that thrive on ego and confusion. Their theatrics show how deeply tricksters can weave deception, keeping us wallowing in the darkness of our own making. The lesson is stark: Unchecked ego invites chaos, blinding us to the truth. The hoaxer thinks they’re running the show, but they’re just actors in an invisible opera, staged by forces more cunning than they realize.

Brother Richard cautions: intend deception, and you’ll attract it. The Others don’t care about your brand—they respond to your signal. If that signal is distortion, expect noise in return.

The lesson isn’t to avoid the trickster—it’s to recognize when it shows up, and to learn from the encounter. That’s what keeps the work honest. That’s what keeps you honest.

The Hubris of Ghost Hunters — Playing God with Spirits

If there’s one trait that warps the heart of paranormal investigation, it’s arrogance.

You’ve seen it—the overconfident approach. People waltzing into locations like they own the place, barking questions at the unseen, demanding signs, brandishing tools like badges of authority. There’s an unspoken hubris in much of ghost-hunting culture: the idea that the dead owe the living their cooperation, that we can command the unknown like a concierge.

Brother Richard calls this out with a scalpel’s precision. In his words, most ghost hunters aren’t in dialogue with the Other—they’re “outside the discourse,” barely “listening through the wall” (Strange Familiars, 2019). Without spiritual practice, discernment, or humility, you’re not leading an investigation. You’re stumbling into a realm you don’t understand, and doing it with a bullhorn.

Nowhere is this arrogance more obvious than in the trope of “crossing spirits over.” It sounds compassionate—helping the lost find the light. But what if that spirit isn’t lost? What if it doesn’t want to go? What if it’s not what we think—perhaps residual energy, thought-forms like those at St. Albans, ancient intelligences, or entities posing as spirits?

I’ve seen groups declare spaces “cleared,” only for fresh phenomena to erupt within days. Did they help a spirit move on, or were they performing a ritual for show?

That said, there may still be value in simply offering peace. If a spirit truly is suffering, being present with compassion—without agenda—can be a quiet act of encouragement. Not a cosmic rescue mission, but a kind gesture. A stillness near the threshold. Not every being needs to be “sent on.” But some may just need to know they’re seen.

To be fair, there are reasons some investigators lean so heavily on tech or spectacle. In a field often dismissed as pseudoscience, gadgets provide something tangible—something skeptics can see, measure, or replay. And with attention spans short and competition fierce, some resort to dramatization just to be seen. But when the pursuit becomes more about validation than inquiry, we risk mistaking noise for signal—and missing the real conversation entirely.

Brother Richard’s ecological lens offers a better way: spirits may fulfill roles we don’t understand—guardians, messengers, witnesses. When we assume every lingering presence is broken, lost, or ours to fix, we stop listening. We project. And that’s when we lose the thread.

The moment you stop being a guest and start overstepping, the Others may remind you exactly who’s in charge. Rather than commanding the unseen, true ghost hunting invites a mindful exchange, where your energy shapes the encounter.

The Reciprocal Dance — Are You Okay with Being Fuel?

Far from the arrogance of commanding spirits, ghost hunting is a reciprocal dance, and our attention tunes the connection.

So what if ghost-hunting is partially performative—does that make it meaningless?

Not necessarily. It’s a reciprocal dance. You bring expectation, emotional charge, ego—and the spirit realm responds in kind. Without grounding, that exchange tips from insight to siphon, draining your energy. Our attention is an antenna, drawing spirits’ responses. Unaware, even genuine researchers can be played, their energy feeding tricksters who unravel the unprepared. Lead the dance—don’t be led, or spirits may feed on your signal.

I saw this at a public event at Waverly Hills Sanatorium. One group barreled in like it was a haunted house attraction—loud, performative, adrenalized. Their sessions were chaotic: mocking, repetitive, disjointed. But the next group, quieter and centered, shifted something. Responses turned intelligible, gentle, carrying a clarity that felt profound. The building didn’t change—our energy did.

Beyond shaping the interaction, the quietest magic of a haunted space is its mirror to your soul. It doesn’t just reflect fear or ego—it reveals your alignment, sincerity, readiness. When you enter with intention and openness, the quality of what speaks back might say more about you than the location. That’s the quiet magic of it. Ghost hunting—at its best—isn’t just about contact. It’s communion. It’s a conversation that lets you take stock of who you are, what you bring, and how the unseen responds. And in that exchange, you might just find yourself.

Another chilling example: during a private residential case, voices came through an ITC device claiming to be the deceased father of the homeowner. But another spirit—insistent, almost frantic—argued it was an imposter, a trickster pretending to be the father, seizing on the homeowner’s doubts. As Allan Kardec warned, spirits may pose as loved ones to test our clarity, turning sessions into performances if we’re not discerning (Kardec, 1861). The homeowner’s uncertainty fueled a narrative that felt like pure spectacle.

Ghost-hunting is a feedback loop. Your consciousness is a transmitter. Every spirit in the hierarchy of spirits has unique personalities, purposes, intentions, humor, and limitations. This is why mindfulness of what they’re capable of is imperative (Strange Familiars, 2019). Brother Richard’s discernment—gauging if responses bring peace or chaos—keeps you on sure footing.

Careless energy makes you fuel. You risk becoming fuel without boundaries. Traditional systems—Tibetan rituals, Indigenous ceremonies—stress closures for safety. So ask yourself: Are you showing up with clarity, humility, boundaries? Or are you flinging open the doors, hoping whatever wanders in is friendly? Because not every presence leaves when you do.

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Ghost Hunting with Integrity — Honoring the Field

Let’s give a nod to the investigators doing this work for the right reasons.

Forget the flood of fakery and theatrics—some researchers are in it for meaning, not metrics. They document with care. They skip the spectacle. They step into haunted spaces with humility and respect. No brand-building here—just a quiet push for understanding.

This isn’t a takedown. It’s a call to step up.

The paranormal world’s drowning in gimmicks. Social media’s a circus of creators turning the spirit realm into a stage—faking evidence, yelling “demon” at every creak, chasing likes instead of truth. And it works. Flashy gets views. Real doesn’t.

The fallout? Haunted spots turn into theater sets. Spirits get reduced to props. And anyone seeking genuine connection gets buried in the noise.

But integrity still holds weight.

Quiet, honest work might not blow up online, but it lasts. It earns trust—with your audience, your peers, and maybe even whatever’s out there. That trust is the foundation for anything real in this field.

For all you sciency investigators out there wanting to prove this is all real, here’s a heads-up: repeatability’s a tough nut to crack in this game. Your headspace, your intent, and the vibe of a place can shift what goes down, making lab-style consistency a pipe dream. Integrity means owning that—logging it straight, looking at patterns and context over cookie-cutter results.

This isn’t about ditching rigor. It’s about rethinking “proof.” Patterns across cases, the story behind each investigation, the bigger picture—they might tell us more than identical outcomes ever will. Integrity’s in the details: owning the variables, reflecting on their sway, and admitting the unseen doesn’t play by our rules. But if we listen close, it might still show itself.

So step back. Dig deeper. Don’t chase cheap thrills when something smarter, richer, maybe even sacred, is waiting in the quiet.

The unseen isn’t here for our amusement.

But it might talk—if we show up real.

A Better Way Forward — For Paraholics Who Want the Real Deal

So where do we go from here?

Brother Richard’s contemplative insights—echoed in traditions around the world—offer direction: we move forward with discernment, humility, and intention. We stop treating the spirit realm like a game or a gimmick.

Start by ruling out the mundane. Not every flicker is a phantom. Not every cold breeze is a message. Not every voice is what it claims to be.

Then set a clear intention. Pause before turning on your recorder. Ask yourself: Why am I here? What am I willing to hear?

Respect the complexity of the unseen. It isn’t just ghosts and demons. It’s a layered ecology—archetypes, ancestors, egregores, and intelligences we don’t yet have names for. Some speak truth. Others test you. Some wear masks made of your own fears.

And finally, treat ghost-hunting as a vehicle for personal transformation—not a content engine. You’re not there to provoke. You’re there to witness, to reflect, and maybe, just maybe, to grow.

If you want to do this with integrity, consider:

• Set a Clear Intention – Seek clarity, not spectacle.

• Ground Yourself – Calm minds make better receivers.

• Close the Session – Don’t leave energetic doors open.

• Reflect – Write it down. Patterns matter more than moments.

At Paraholics, we’re not here to kill the thrill.

We’re here to give it meaning.

Imagine a community of seekers known not for gimmicks, but for depth—for reverence—for asking better questions. A community the unseen might finally take seriously, because we finally started taking it seriously ourselves.

Tricksters will still show up. That’s part of the terrain. Maybe they’re here to test us. Maybe they’re just attracted to the noise. But if you lead with sincerity, even your vulnerabilities will carry weight.

Let’s raise the bar.

Let’s make the unseen take notice.

Because when we lead with clarity, humility, and curiosity—when we show up with compassion, not just questions—we’re not just ghost hunters anymore. We’re in a true conversation with the unseen.

—Evel Ogilville | Paraholics.com

Works Cited

• Doniger, Wendy. The Rig Veda: An Anthology. Penguin Classics, 1981.

• Evans-Wentz, W. Y. The Fairy-Faith in Celtic Countries. Oxford University Press, 1911.

• Evans-Wentz, W. Y. The Tibetan Book of the Dead. Oxford University Press, 1960.

• Goff, Philip. Galileo’s Error: Foundations for a New Science of Consciousness. Pantheon Books, 2019.

• Johnston, Basil. The Manitous: The Spiritual World of the Ojibway. Minnesota Historical Society Press, 2001.

• Kardec, Allan. The Mediums’ Book. Allan Kardec Educational Society, 1861.

• Paraholics. St. Albans Sanatorium: Ghost Hunting and the Power of Belief. 2025, www.paraholics.com/st-albans-sanatorium-ghost-hunting.

• Renner, Timothy, host. “A Monastic View of The Other.” Strange Familiars, episode 131, 5 Dec. 2019, www.strangefamiliars.com.

• Russell, Jeffrey Burton. Satan: The Early Christian Tradition. Cornell University Press, 1981.

• Leary, D. H. (2013). Do you hear what I hear? A research study on the interpretation of radio-sweep voice phenomena. ATransC NewsJournal, Spring 2013. https://atransc.org/radiosweep-study2b/

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St. Albans Sanatorium, perched above Virginia’s New River, stands as a haunted landmark where history intertwines with folklore. My two investigations there, foundational to establishing Paraholics, introduced me to Donald—a mischievous spirit—and Jacob, his subdued companion. Their vivid presence—despite no historical corroboration—introduced me to the idea of egregores: thought-forms shaped by collective belief. These experiences transformed my ghost-hunting perspective, merging skepticism with curiosity.

A Glimpse into St. Albans’ Past

George W. Miles, a University of Virginia graduate, founded St. Albans in 1892 as a Lutheran preparatory school for up to 50 boys, emphasizing classical education (The Promus, 1898-99; Lost Colleges). Student nicknames like “Bess” or “Shortie” hint at camaraderie, yet no evidence supports tales of bullying or suicides (Lost Colleges; Radford Historical Society, accessed October 2023). Assertions of student deaths arise from folklore, not facts.

Financial difficulties forced the school’s closure in 1911 (The Roanoke Times, 1911). In 1916, Dr. John C. King converted it into St. Albans Sanatorium, a psychiatric facility featuring a farm and bowling alley. Despite its progressive aims, it employed severe treatments like insulin coma therapy and electroconvulsive therapy (Asylum Projects; Only In Your State, 2015). By 1945, 6,509 patients strained 48 staff, leading to neglect (Virginia Department of Mental Health, 1945). Suicides occurred, including a female patient’s death in the 1950s in the third-floor “suicide bathroom,” though specifics remain vague (Radford Historical Society; The Moonlit Road, 2015). An on-site morgue processed the deceased.

The 1980 murder of Gina Renee Hall, an 18-year-old Radford University freshman, adds a modern layer of tragedy. After disappearing from a nightclub with Stephen Epperly, her blood-stained car was discovered near the Hazel Hollow railroad trestle, near St. Albans (The Roanoke Times, 1980). Epperly was convicted that same year—Virginia’s first no-body murder case. The verdict hinged on forensic evidence (Commonwealth v. Epperly, 1980). Rumors tie Epperly to St. Albans, but searches found no connection (Radford Police Department Case Files). Unconfirmed EVPs whispering “Gina” linger (Association of Paranormal Study, 2016).

In 1960, St. Albans became a general hospital, joining Carilion Health System in the 1990s before closing in 2004. Now owned by the Radford University Foundation, it offers tours and events (Asylum Projects; St. Albans Sanatorium Official Website). Limited records fuel its mystique, though history and legend seldom align.

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First Visit: A Collaborative Effort

My first investigation, detailed in The Ghosts of St. Albans Sanatorium - Radford, Virginia (March 13-15, 2015), brought together D.K.S. Paranormal, Paranormal And Truth Hunters (PATH), and Paraholics.com. We secured the site for 36 hours, using tools like EMF detectors, digital recorders, bells, and a P-SB7 spirit box—each aimed at detecting or capturing potential spirit activity. It crackled with responses as we rested at The Inn at Saint Albans, Dr. King’s reportedly unsettling former residence.

Standout Moments

• Muffin Man Hallway: Named after volunteer Jenny Johnston’s Halloween costume, this corridor pulsed with EVPs, footsteps, and spirit-box activity. Elizabeth sang faintly; the Grumpy Ol’ Man taunted us with curses and laughter.

• Bowling Alley and Boiler Room: The basement’s heavy atmosphere carried stories of a Goat Man and shadows. Investigating Gina Renee Hall’s case with Lt. Andy Wilburn of Radford PD produced no EVP insights (Radford Police Department Case Files).

• But the room that changed everything was just up the stairs… Donald’s Room: Located up the main staircase, Donald’s room proved revelatory. Folklore cast Donald as a maintenance man who raped and murdered Jacob, a boy abandoned at the hospital. Retired detective Mike Culwell elicited a chilling spirit-box confession. Donald’s persona—wry, occasionally hostile—burst forth, nicknaming investigator Damon “Big Baby Biscuit” and delivering a theatrical, operatic display that fed on our attention.

This intense experience, marked by Donald’s dynamic presence, molded Paraholics’ initial direction and sparked questions about historical accuracy.

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Second Visit: Confidence and a Solo Stream

My second trip, chronicled in To Catch a Preternatural Predator: Donald of St. Albans Sanatorium (August 20, 2016) and Shadows of St. Albans: Featuring the Afterlight Box, involved investigators like Mike Culwell, Gene Caswell of Jefferson County Paranormal Society, and D.K.S. members. I returned more confident, kicking off the day with a solo morning session in Donald’s room, streamed on Facebook, before the team arrived. Later, we explored the Afterlight Box, an app generating random audio clips for spirit communication, across the property.

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Dialogues with the Dead

In Donald’s room, I spoke to Donald and Jacob as if their tale were factual. My PRD 1000 and Geobox Afterlight Edition buzzed—Donald’s taunts were sharp and playful yet laced with malice; Jacob’s responses carried sorrow. The solo stream, raw and gripping, highlighted Donald’s humor thriving on my focus. Group sessions mirrored this, though historical clarity remained elusive. The phenomena—voices, flickering lights—seemed performative, drawing strength from our engagement.

The Afterlight Box and “The Master”

Developed by Martin Bellefeuille and Anthony Mark England, the Afterlight Box uses randomized audio sweeps. In the attic, as Gene Caswell sat on a bed, it produced “the bed” and “The Master,” leaving us intrigued (Shadows of St. Albans, 2016). Later, Paraholics researcher Eunice Specter found a 1893-1894 Promus poem, “The Albans Ghosts,” mentioning a headmaster dubbed “The Master” and a student prank (The Promus, 1893-1894). This link—tying Gene’s session to a historical figure—bolstered the Afterlight Box’s reliability, creating a standout moment in my investigations.

The Egregore of Donald and Jacob

While many hauntings tie to history, Donald and Jacob showed how belief alone can spawn vivid phenomena. An egregore is a thought-form empowered by collective belief, akin to a fictional character animated by a group’s shared imagination (Egregores: The Occult Entities That Watch Over Human Destiny, 2018). Grounded in Hermeticism and Theosophy, egregores may account for hauntings lacking historical roots, as expectation births a “spirit” that feels genuine (Journal of Anomalistic Psychology, 2019). Tulpas are individual constructs; egregores draw strength from collective belief.

At St. Albans, Donald and Jacob align with this concept. Searches through The Roanoke Times, Radford Historical Society, and Virginia State Archives uncovered no evidence of them or their supposed crime (Radford Historical Society, accessed October 2023). Their story—Donald’s villainy, Jacob’s tragedy—leans toward folklore. Yet, the encounters were striking: Donald’s sly humor and operatic flair, from “Big Baby Biscuit” jabs to menacing laughs, dominated both visits. Jacob’s gentle presence evoked empathy. Their intensity grew with our attention, a trend noted in ITC work where phenomena amplify with focus.

This gap prompted reflection. If Donald and Jacob lack historical basis, are they products of belief in St. Albans’ aura? This question probes paranormal research: Are we meeting spirits or shaping them? Donald’s showmanship—his need to be seen and heard—suggested the phenomena fed off our focus, like actors craving applause. This realization fueled Paraholics’ evidence-driven approach, balancing skepticism with openness to explore whether we encounter entities or co-create them.

Seeds of Skepticism

These visits underscored a key insight: ghost stories often diverge from history. The first trip, with Donald’s magnetic debut, awakened my scrutiny; the second, with my solo stream and the Afterlight Box’s corroboration, reinforced it. The Donald and Jacob narrative honed my perspective—rooted in evidence, cautious of unverified lore—steering Paraholics’ mission today.

Conclusion

St. Albans Sanatorium revealed that ghost hunting blends belief with evidence. Donald’s theatrical taunts and Jacob’s subtle sorrow, likely egregores born from collective imagination, left a lasting impression. The Afterlight Box’s “Master” reference, tied to a 1893 poem, provided a rare historical anchor. These visits defined Paraholics’ purpose: pursuing truth through skepticism and awe. So if you visit St. Albans, don’t just listen for Donald’s laugh—ask yourself where it’s really coming from.

—Evel Ogilville

References

• Commonwealth v. Epperly, 224 Va. 214 (1980).

• Egregores: The Occult Entities That Watch Over Human Destiny. (2018). Mark Stavish. Inner Traditions.

• Journal of Anomalistic Psychology. (2019). “Thought-Forms and Paranormal Phenomena.”

• Only In Your State. (2015, November 27). “Virginia’s Creepy Abandoned Sanatorium.”

• Radford Historical Society. (Accessed October 2023). Notes on St. Albans Sanatorium history.

• Radford Police Department Case Files. (1980-2016). Gina Renee Hall murder investigation.

• The Moonlit Road. (2015, December 7). “The Tortured Souls of St. Albans Sanatorium.”

• The Promus. (1893-1894). St. Albans School yearbook, “The Albans Ghosts.”

• The Promus. (1898-1899). St. Albans School yearbook.

• The Roanoke Times. (1911). Article on St. Albans School closure.

• The Roanoke Times. (1980, July 2). “Search for Radford Student.”

• St. Albans Sanatorium Official Website. (Accessed October 2023). Facility history.

• Virginia Department of Historic Resources. (2023, March 24). “077-0046 St. Albans Hospital.”

• Virginia Department of Mental Health. (1945). Annual report.

• Association of Paranormal Study. (2016). “Gina Renee Hall: A Paranormal Perspective.”

• Asylum Projects. (2020, February 12). “St. Albans Sanatorium.”

• Lost Colleges. (Accessed October 2023). “St. Albans School.”

The Floyd County Asylum, widely known as the Haunted Poor Farm, looms as a monument to forgotten lives and the crucible that forged Paraholics. As New Albany marks its 200-year bicentennial, this haunted landmark embodies the city’s resilient spirit. Alongside Mike Culwell, a retired New Albany Police Department Chief of Detectives, and an assortment of dedicated investigators, I carved this journey through six unforgettable visits between 2012 and 2016. Those nights tested my resolve, unveiling the raw stakes of paranormal investigation. This narrative weaves together those chilling nights, the asylum’s sorrowful past, and an urgent plea to rally the paranormal community’s fervor to rescue a site teetering on collapse. My aim was never to save the building for its restless spirits alone, but to channel their magnetic draw into a lifeline, harnessing the millions the paranormal world invests in historic sites through tourism and restoration. This is ghost hunting at its most meaningful, and this place—a gritty emblem of Ohio River settlers’ endurance—merits that effort.

A History Steeped in Sorrow

In 1838, Floyd County acquired 135 acres to establish a poor farm, a 19th-century response to poverty, disability, and societal rejection. A modest log cabin, funded by local taxes, first sheltered New Albany’s desperate. By 1875, a sturdier brick building rose for 60 residents, expanded in 1878 to house over 100. It served as a multifaceted refuge: a workhouse for farming, a hospital for the ailing, and a haven for those labeled “insane” under vague criteria. The Indiana State Board of Charities in 1890 called it a “depressing necessity,” citing overcrowded quarters and scarce resources strained by elderly paupers, unwed mothers, Civil War veterans, and the mentally unwell.

On February 15, 1916, a storm-damaged flue sparked a fire that consumed the wooden attic dormitory, marking the asylum’s darkest chapter. The New Albany Ledger of February 16, 1916, reported five deaths—John Doe, Mary Ellis, Thomas Reed, Sarah Kline, and an unidentified child—though a 2004 Floyd County Historical Society survey suggests a higher toll, with some remains lost in the rubble. The blaze prompted the 1917 construction of the current brick structure, with expansions in 1916 and 1939. By the 1950s, Social Security and welfare reforms rendered poor farms obsolete, silencing its halls.

The grounds host two cemeteries, quiet testaments to forgotten lives. Potter’s Field, within Sam Peden Community Park, bears three headstones—Leslie McCracken (1957), Lerian Neves (1940), and Charles Potter (1933)—but Rich Green’s 2005 survey estimates over 300 unmarked graves beneath sunken earth. A second burial ground, possibly the McCulloch family plot, lies southwest, showing similar depressions. Green notes potential medical waste, like amputated limbs, interred there—a common 19th-century practice. A religious statue, documented in the 2004 survey, marks another suspected resting place, deepening the site’s mournful aura.

The asylum’s records brim with despair. In 1892, Joseph Pierson, aged 34, plunged to his death from a window, per Floyd County Coroner’s Records. Emma Hamilton drowned herself in a cistern in 1870, per the Floyd County Commissioners’ Report of 1871. Matilda Webb, confined since 1822, endured 60 years before dying in 1882, per asylum ledgers. Nellie Mullen, broken by her infant’s 1899 murder, succumbed raving in the “insane ward,” per the New Albany Tribune of August 2, 1899. Lucy Higgs Nichols, an escaped slave and Civil War nurse, died here in 1915, her story preserved by the Carnegie Center.

Other losses weave into this tapestry of sorrow. C.W. Salter, a merchant, died penniless in 1879, per the New Albany Ledger. In 1893, fears of grave-robbing surged when Mrs. Isaacs’ body nearly faced dissection, per the Indianapolis News of March 13. Henry Matthews fell in 1906, struck by a boy’s stone, per the Courier-Journal. Susan McElfresh in 1908 and Nancy Newby in 1910 faded in confinement, per the Courier-Journal. A Civil War veteran, lost to delusion, relived battles, per the Courier-Journal of 1899. Mahala Dorcas, nearing 100, died in 1901 after scavenging glass, per the Courier-Journal of July 7. Yet, in 1874, William Williams and Eliza Vinson wed on-site, a rare joy noted in the Indianapolis News of February 2.

The Asylum’s Decline

By the 1980s, the Floyd County Asylum, once a refuge for the destitute, had shifted to house the Floyd County Youth Shelter and Solid Waste offices. A 2008 redevelopment plan faltered, and by 2012, operations moved to Pine View Government Center, leaving the North Annex vacant, per the News and Tribune of September 28, 2012. Plans in 2021 and 2022 for a government hub dissolved amid rising costs and decay, per the News and Tribune of January 26, 2022. In 2024, New Albany issued code violations, branding the boarded-up building a hazard, per the News and Tribune of April 29, 2024.

As of April 2024, county officials grapple with the North Annex’s fate at 3005 Grant Line Road, now a recycling drop-off site adjacent to Sam Peden Community Park. Commissioner Al Knable envisions a public-private partnership to preserve its iconic status, while Councilwoman Denise Konkle pushes for a sale to ease budget strains from Senate Bill 1’s tax cuts. Commissioner Frank Loop urges demolition, citing its eyesore status. Knable aims to relocate Pine View’s offices and youth shelter by 2026, with North Annex proposals eyed for fall 2024, per the News and Tribune of April 29, 2024. A recycling center atop unmarked graves underscores the site’s neglect—a poignant insult to those buried beneath.

Community Echoes of the Poor Farm’s Haunt

Since sharing the Poor Farm’s tale on my original Paraholics blog, Floyd County residents have poured out memories that resonate deeply. Many spent time there as children when it doubled as a youth center in the late 20th century, a refuge that often left lasting wounds. They speak of a heavy atmosphere, as though the walls themselves clung to persistent echoes of the past. Some recall eerie experiences—whispers drifting through empty rooms, shadows cast by no one, chills defying the drafty corridors—that endure still. These weren’t ghost hunters chasing thrills; they were young people navigating hardship, yet the Poor Farm’s presence marked them indelibly. Their candid stories underscore its potency, not merely as a paranormal enigma but as a force that shaped lives.

Hauntings Rooted in Pain

The Poor Farm’s legacy—scarred by fire, suicides, and neglect—feeds its haunted mystique. Potter’s Field carries a palpable weight, with witnesses describing fleeting shadows, soft cries, and an unsettling calm. Within the walls, investigators report apparitions, disembodied voices, sudden cold, and objects shifting inexplicably, luring seekers to its tormented history.

My findings anchor these accounts. In 2016, Gene Caswell endured a violent basement encounter—an unseen force left him staggered, with growls and slamming doors amplifying the chaos. These aren’t just stories—they’re documented EVPs, ITC sessions, and physical confrontations. The Poor Farm’s unrest flows directly from its tragic past.

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Six Nights, One Evolution

The visits from 2012 to 2016 were my proving ground, each night a step in a visceral journey that birthed Paraholics and exposed the perils of inexperience, particularly with ITC and spirit attachments.

Night 1 – Early 2012

Early 2012: My first foray came in early 2012, invited by PATH (Paranormal and Truth Hunters), Mike Culwell’s initial team. With Todd Smith, Craig Smith, Nick Pennison, and Bill Method of SOUP (Society of Unexplained Phenomena), I arrived armed with DVR cameras, recorders, and EMF meters. We set up experiments across the sprawling Poor Farm. The night was hushed, yielding no standout evidence, yet the site’s sheer presence and historical gravity captivated us. It marked my entry into this storied place.

Night 2 – December 6, 2015

This return visit with Mike Culwell, my daughter Shelby, and sister Beth brought the first real spark of the asylum’s voice. A light switched on without cause, a growl echoed in my ear, and EchoVox called me by name—adding a cryptic nod to Mike’s detective past. In Potter’s Field, a spirit box repeated “372” twice, far outnumbering the field’s three headstones. The evidence was eerie and electrifying—but I left the session wide open, and the consequences followed me home. (See The Hitchhiker Effect.)

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Night 3 – Early 2016

Early 2016: An unexpected spotlight hit when WDRB Louisville, prompted by my 2015 video, invited Mike and me for a news segment. Their cameraman, “Big Country,” a proclaimed skeptic, tagged along to the 2015 hotspot. His professional cameras faltered inside—batteries drained, power severed—yet hummed to life outdoors. Visibly shaken, he had no explanation. The piece aired, stirring local curiosity, though the video has vanished. It wasn’t a full investigation, but it revealed the Poor Farm’s sway.

Night 4 – April 23, 2016

This was my most gripping night. Joined by Mike Culwell, Gene Caswell of the Jefferson County Paranormal Society, and Bobby Rice, we deployed EVPs, spirit boxes, video ITC, apps, and custom devices. A door crashed shut as I crossed the hotspot’s threshold. EchoVox fired back crisp responses, too sharp to dismiss despite my wariness of apps. Gene ventured alone into the basement, only to stagger back, reeling from an unseen assault; his GoPro cut out, leaving only audio as record. Growls, slams, and ITC bursts defined the night’s peak intensity. An EVP session also confirmed the existence of the 2015 hitchhiker and explained why I was trailed home. This night solidified the Poor Farm’s power.

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Night 5 – Mid-2016

Mid-2016: Mike and I teamed up with Christopher Maggard for The Search: Existence Unknown on Roku, alongside James Clarida, Don Clarida of Research Investigators of Paranormal, and my son Charleton. We conducted a swift ITC session in Potter’s Field. My GEOBOX, a tweaked ITC spirit box, synced with their gear to pull “Yes” and names—“Thompson,” “Ashley”—from the graves. It was a tidy night at a historic site, showcasing the Poor Farm’s media pull and simmering energy.

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ITC Session:

Night 6 – October 2016

October 2016: A brief visit with Kristina Goetz of the Louisville Courier-Journal, Mike Culwell, and I spawned a viral USA Today feature, “Chasing Spirits: Ex-Cop Now Hunts the Haunted.” Matt Stone’s vivid photos framed the decay. The night was subtler—a faint “Yes” and “reporters” via spirit box, a nod to Goetz’s presence, joined by overhead moans and footsteps. A temperature plunge and EM spike kept us sharp. Mike urged the spirits to stay put. This moment vaulted Paraholics into broader recognition, catching TV producers’ eyes at paranormal media’s zenith. Article | VR Video | Additional Footage | Facebook Live

The Hitchhiker Effect: When a Haunting Becomes Personal

On that fateful December 6, 2015, I led a pivotal investigation at the Poor Farm with Mike Culwell, my daughter Shelby Jackson, and sister Beth Jackson. The asylum’s chill cut deeper than the December air outside. Armed with EchoVox, Andy’s Box—a custom spirit communication device—and an SLS camera I later tossed for its unreliable stick-figure gimmick, we dove in unprepared. The asylum answered swiftly, its response as unsettling as the night itself.

A light flicked on in a room I entered alone, though the switch hadn’t been touched. A growl hit my ear. EchoVox captured a female voice saying my name and referencing Mike’s detective past with unsettling accuracy. In Potter’s Field, the spirit box repeated “372” as the number of graves—far beyond the three visible markers. The consequences came later.

Within days, exhaustion hit—mental haze, physical drain. While cleaning Andy’s Box, my name rang out unbidden. Something had followed me. A later EchoVox session at a private case revealed two entities: one, claiming to be the homeowner’s late father; the other, a young, curious female presence tied to the Poor Farm. A medium described her as benign, predicting she’d fade if ignored. With that guidance, I pulled my attention away from her—and within days, she dissolved like static. But it was my mistake that let her through in the first place. I’d opened the door and failed to close it.

A follow-up session at the Poor Farm in 2016 confirmed she had trailed me home. That night marked the turning point. The hitchhiker effect—when an energy latches onto you and rides the current of your open channel—isn’t just lore. It’s a consequence of carelessness. It can manifest as voices, tech failures, shadows, or unease. Now, I end every session with intention. I draw the line. I close the door. That night refined my process. And the videos mark the origin—a reminder: if you’re not careful, something will come with you.

A Legacy Left to Rot

At paranormal TV’s height, WDRB’s feature, The Search’s episode, and the Courier-Journal’s USA Today piece drew interest from Ghost Adventures, and Nick Groff’s Paranormal Lockdown. Those pitches promised global reach and funds—paranormal tourism pumps millions into historic preservation, bankrolling repairs. I envisioned that momentum salvaging a shard of New Albany’s essence, a tribute to Ohio River pioneers. Yet this opportunity fell upon deaf ears and dead imaginations—the county council’s investigation ban snuffed out that potential. The irony is tragic.

A Call to Preserve the Past

The Scott County Heritage Center & Museum in Scottsburg, Indiana, shows how to save the Poor Farm. Housed in the former Scott County Poor Farm, it became a museum in 2001 through a Community Focus Fund grant, a USDA loan, and volunteer efforts, now listed on the National Register. With $25 family memberships, donations, and exhibits like the Pigeon Roost Massacre, it thrives without tax dollars, even drawing paranormal enthusiasts to its haunted halls. The Floyd County Poor Farm, with its spectral pull and bicentennial weight, could follow, using tourism and grants to restore its halls and cemeteries as a New Albany landmark.

Restoration faces hurdles—2024 code violations, sagging ceilings, tight budgets. Yet Scottsburg’s model proves it’s possible: start with investigations to fund repairs, seek grants as Scott County did. Demolition erases history; community action saves it. If the Poor Farm falls, we lose Lucy Higgs Nichols’ courage, Matilda Webb’s endurance, and the child in Potter’s Field—stories etched in New Albany’s 200-year soul. Envision a restored Poor Farm: a bicentennial museum of Ohio River grit, where visitors probe haunted corridors and honor graves. The paranormal community, like Scottsburg’s volunteers, can drive this. Let’s unite to preserve these voices.

—Evel Ogilville

Join the Pursuit

Connect with Paraholics on X, Facebook, and YouTube. Share this story and dive into videos and photos from all six visits, courtesy of the Courier-Journal and Matt Stone. Explore more at Paraholics.com.

Sources

Beam, Amanda. “New Albany Bicentennial: Floyd County Poor House.” News and Tribune, 12 Aug. 2013. https://www.newsandtribune.com/news/floyd_county/new-albany-bicentennial-floyd-county-poor-house/article_67b9f7a8-cce6-5a52-9b5f-352889c84090.html

Carnegie Center for Art and History. Lucy Higgs Nichols: A Life of Service. Exhibition Catalog, 2015.

“Life at the Poor Farm.” Courier-Journal, 3 Aug. 1899.

“Mahala Dorcas, Aged Nearly 100, Dies at Asylum.” Courier-Journal, 7 July 1901.

“Henry Matthews Killed by Stone.” Courier-Journal, 15 June 1906.

Floyd County Commissioners’ Report. Floyd County Archives, New Albany, IN. 1871.

Floyd County Coroner’s Records. Floyd County Archives, New Albany, IN. 1892.

Floyd County Historical Society. “Archaeological Survey of Floyd County Asylum Grounds.” 2004.

Green, Rich. “Review of Literature and Historical Documentation of the Floyd County Infirmary, New Albany, Indiana.” Aug. 2005.

“Dispute Over Asylum Body.” Indianapolis News, 13 Mar. 1893.

“Poor Farm Marriage: Williams and Vinson.” Indianapolis News, 2 Feb. 1874.

“C.W. Salter, Pauper, Dies at Asylum.” New Albany Ledger, 12 Sept. 1879.

“Fire at County Asylum Claims Five Lives.” New Albany Ledger, 16 Feb. 1916.

“Obituary: Nellie Mullen.” New Albany Tribune, 2 Aug. 1899.

“Floyd County’s North Annex Future in Question.” News and Tribune, 28 Sept. 2012. https://www.newsandtribune.com/news/floyd-county-s-north-annex-future-in-question/article_8f9b1e8a-09b6-11e2-9f7b-0019bb2963f4.html

“Floyd County Leaders Consider Possible Uses for North Annex Building.” News and Tribune, 26 Jan. 2022. https://www.newsandtribune.com/news/floyd-county-leaders-consider-possible-uses-for-north-annex-building/article_7b8b3c8a-7e7f-11ec-a7c7-874e0f7c1b0b.html

“Floyd County Officials Consider Future Possibilities for North Annex, Pine View.” News and Tribune, 29 Apr. 2024. https://www.newsandtribune.com/news/floyd-county-officials-consider-future-possibilities-for-north-annex-pine-view/article_4d9e8c12-e7f2-11ef-b8e6-6b9d9e8b1c7d.html

“Floyd County Poor Farm.” AsylumProjects.org. https://www.asylumprojects.org/index.php?title=Floyd_County_Poor_Farm

“Floyd County Home Cemetery (Potter’s Field).” Find a Grave. https://www.findagrave.com/cemetery/86329/floyd-county-home-cemetery

State Board of Charities and Corrections. “Annual Report on County Asylums and Poor Farms.” 1890.

“Scott County Heritage Center & Museum.” https://schcam.org

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Waverly Hills Sanatorium in Louisville, Kentucky doesn’t just beckon—it grips you. I’ve roamed its cracked halls over ten times, each step charged with something raw. A full-bodied apparition once crossed my path, fading into shadow. Footsteps trailed me in the quiet. A ball rolled to my feet from nowhere.

But two nights—2013 and 2016—still pulse with fear. Both marked by choking. Both caught on tape. Both still shake me. Waverly’s ghost tales hum, weaving through my story, but its history—heavy with loss—demands respect.

My last visit, though, sparked something else: loathing. A betrayal of its soul that might keep me away for good.

Let me explain.

Waverly Hills Haunting: A History of Hurt

Waverly opened on July 26, 1910, as a tuberculosis hospital—built for 40 patients but swelling to over 400 by the 1920s. TB ravaged Louisville, killing one in five at its peak. Patients coughed blood, wasting away in open-air wards through snow and wind, hoping fresh air would heal them. Some endured brutal treatments—balloons inflating lungs, rib removals—often fatal.

Death came relentlessly: one per day, sometimes one per hour. The “body chute,” a 500-foot tunnel, discreetly moved supplies and corpses, shielding the living from despair. No exact death toll survives—1937’s flood destroyed most records—but estimates range from 6,000 to 9,000 lives lost. In 1945 alone, 152 patients died. Not the 63,000 some ghost-chasers still tout.

By June 1961, antibiotics cleared the wards. In 1962, Waverly reopened as Woodhaven Geriatric Center for the elderly and disabled. But by 1982, neglect—overcrowding, bedsores, filth—shut it down. Despite rumors, Waverly was never an “insane asylum.” It was a house echoing with suffering, etched into every peeling wall.

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Ghost Lore of Waverly Hills: Shadows and Growls

Waverly’s walls whisper stories. Room 502 is said to house the spirit of a nurse who died by suicide in 1928—some say due to an unwanted pregnancy, others say despair. The body chute creaks with phantom slams and groans, tied to morgue carts used for state-mandated autopsies.

Shadow People drift through the halls. The Creeper slinks along walls, prickling skin. Big Black—a suffocating, light-devouring presence—swallows hope. I recorded growls in 2016 I’d credit to it. And then there’s Timmy, the mischievous child spirit of Waverly lore, who makes several appearances in my footage.

These aren’t my inventions. They’re Waverly’s breath—steeped in decades of myth, witness accounts, and dread.

2013: A Spirit Box Choke Unsettles

In 2013, the air turned sharp. Tyra Newsome of In Nomine Paranormal Research brought me along. Mike Flickner, then a guide at Waverly and part of Southern Indiana Ghost Hunters, led us to the first-floor lobby for a spirit box session—a device used in ITC (Instrumental Trans-Communication), a method of attempting to capture voices or messages from nonphysical sources.

He called for “Timmy.” The box crackled—fragments of names and static. Then Tyra began coughing—hard. And the box hissed back one word: “choke.”

Was it dust? Coincidence? Something more? I don’t pretend to know. But my friend Jeff Rocker caught it on tape, and that moment lingers. That night felt like a violation, a dark confirmation. The questions still hang, answers just out of reach.

2016: Choking Shadows Strike Again

On July 26, 2016, fear turned personal.

I was in the old hospital lobby with a small group, running another session with a spirit box. Meanwhile, April Slaughter—psychic medium and respected researcher—led my daughter and others to the second floor.

Our device picked up Timmy’s name again. But upstairs, something stirred. My daughter later described a shadow figure lurching toward her. She froze—and couldn’t breathe. It felt like invisible hands choking her.

Three years after Tyra’s attack. Same building. Same name. Different floor. Different target. Coincidence—or continuation? Timmy’s bad behavior?

As the night deepened, we switched to EchoVox, an ITC app I trust for raw, real-time spirit replies. The concourse lights shut off. Darkness swallowed the hallway. Then came a growl—low, guttural, unmistakable.

EchoVox growled back. Like it knew.

Big Black filled my thoughts, its void-like presence echoing in the responses. Slams. Footsteps. Disembodied voices. Static chaos. But my daughter’s choking—that scar runs deepest.

Video:

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Paranormal ITC: Truth Beyond the Noise

If you ever visit Waverly, know this from my years of experience: it speaks clearest when you ditch the gear and sit in the dark. Unplugged. Exposed. Still.

That’s when shadows flicker. That’s when clothes get tugged. That’s when Waverly breathes.

Forget meters. Forget clean recordings. Between planes, trains, critters, and Louisville humidity, Waverly is acoustic bedlam. A “pristine” ghost hunt? A myth. Don’t chase it—or you’ll miss what matters.

What matters is reverence. For the patients. For the pain. For the dead. Honor that, and maybe what lingers will honor you back.

But lately, Waverly’s caretakers seem to have forgotten this.

Waverly’s Fall: Loathing the Carnival

There was a time when walking Waverly’s halls felt sacred—a privilege to tread where so many lives ended. I came to listen. To feel. To bear witness.

But my last visit, in April 2023, broke my heart.

Halloween props now clutter the first floor year-round—no longer reserved for October. Demonic doctors. Tortured mannequins. Rubber limbs splashed with fake blood. The gift shop sells haunted souvenirs like it’s a theme park. The ghosts who linger—patients, nurses, children—deserve better than being props in this mockery.

It’s a bucket of gross.

Disrespectful to those who suffered. Disingenuous to whatever remains. Waverly’s not a carnival. It’s a grave. This shift feels like exploitation, not exploration. A betrayal of every soul that breathed its last here.

That’s why I may never go back.

Gratitude in the Charged Echoes

Tyra’s choking. My daughter’s attack. They’re not evidence. They’re experiences. Threads in Waverly’s haunted weave. The Creeper. Big Black. Timmy. The nurse in 502. They hum beneath each step I’ve taken—fueling questions, never answering them.

Every visit gave me something. Even the fear. Even the bitterness.

Maybe we’re the ones haunting Waverly—calling too loud, too public, too bold.

Till the next whisper,

— Evel Ogilville

Works Cited

“Hauntings of Waverly Hills Sanatorium.” US Ghost Adventures, usghostadventures.com/americas-most-haunted-trending/hauntings-of-waverly-hills-sanatorium/. Accessed 13 Apr. 2025.

“Inside the Haunted Halls of Waverly Hills Sanatorium.” Travel Channel, www.travelchannel.com/interests/haunted/articles/inside-the-haunted-halls-of-waverly-hills-sanitorium. Accessed 13 Apr. 2025.

“The Ghosts of the Waverly Hills Sanatorium in Louisville.” Ghost City Tours, ghostcitytours.com/louisville/haunted-louisville/waverly-hills/. Accessed 13 Apr. 2025.

“The Legend of Louisville’s Haunted Hospital: Waverly Hills Sanatorium.” WLKY, 29 Oct. 2021, www.wlky.com/article/the-legend-of-louisville-s-spooky-waverly-hills-sanatorium/38090750.

“Waverly Hills Sanatorium.” American Hauntings, www.americanhauntingsink.com/waverlytb. Accessed 13 Apr. 2025.

“Waverly Hills Sanatorium.” Discover America, www.discoveramericablog.com/post/waverly-hills-sanatorium. Accessed 13 Apr. 2025.

“Waverly Hills Sanatorium.” Kentucky Historic Institutions, kyhi.org/other/tuberculosis-sanatoria/waverly-hills-sanatorium/. Accessed 13 Apr. 2025.

“Waverly Hills Sanatorium.” The Real Waverly Hills, www.therealwaverlyhills.com/. Accessed 13 Apr. 2025.

“Waverly Hills Sanatorium.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 9 Apr. 2025, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waverly_Hills_Sanatorium.

“Waverly Hills Sanatorium: A Historical Overview.” Louisville Historical Society, www.louisvillehistoricalsociety.org/waverly-hills-sanatorium. Accessed 13 Apr. 2025.

Introduction to the Repost: Reflecting on Henry Dixon’s Ghost

It’s been eight years since my initial encounter with the mystery of Henry Dixon. When I wrote this article five years ago, I was neck-deep in trying to reconcile his story with my understanding of the paranormal. Today, I’m revisiting it, not because I’ve made sense of everything, but because I’ve grown to appreciate how questions like these shape our journey through the unknown.

To this day, I’ve never heard from Henry Dixon again. Whatever that means in the grand scheme of things, I don’t know. Did I help him somehow? Did I inadvertently bring closure to a restless spirit? Or was the whole experience just another example of the paranormal Trickster playing me like a drum? Either way, I fell for it—hook, line, and sinker. And I don’t regret it.

Looking back on this experience years later, I find myself still grappling with the same questions. What happened after that fateful encounter? Did I truly help Henry, or was I simply a player in some larger, unknowable narrative? Here’s what I’ve come to realize since those early days of exploration.

A Quick Update: Then and Now

Henry Dixon’s story lingered with me for years, starting from the moment I entered the Big Tunnel in Tunnelton, Indiana, in the spring of 2017. From that first encounter, the repeated messages followed me, regardless of where I was or what I was doing, manifesting through EVP and ITC sessions. It felt as though Henry’s story refused to be left behind, insisting on being heard.

The first time I felt I could confirm these repeated interruptions from Henry—and that it wasn’t merely my imagination—was about a year after my Big Tunnel visit, while investigating a funeral parlor in Columbus, Indiana. He came through, stating both his first and last name, and told me directly that I had met him at the Big Tunnel. But before this, I had already been receiving his name, was being told that someone was always behind me, and hearing what seemed to be his frustration with my lack of support. Encounters like this continued for three years, leading me to believe Henry was determined to guide me toward a resolution.

Over time, I began to interpret what I believed to be communication from Henry as directing me toward closure. This persistence all came to a head in the summer of 2020 during a visit to the Dixon Chapel and the Proctor Cemetery. Standing at Henry’s grave, I felt an overwhelming sense of grief and connection, as though the weight of the story had come full circle. That visit became the conclusion to what had been a deeply personal and unexplainable chapter in my journey, putting an end cap on my experience with Henry.

The broader details of this journey—including the specific locations where Henry’s name appeared and the messages I encountered—are woven into the accompanying video and original article. If you want the full picture of how these pieces fit together, I encourage you to explore those elements as part of this work. Together, they tell the story of how Henry Dixon’s name became a persistent thread that wove through my investigations, ultimately leading me to that cemetery visit in 2020.

Response Reel:

Religious Precedent: Helping Spirits Move On?

In the years since my encounter with Henry Dixon, I’ve often questioned whether I truly helped him or if my experience was something else entirely. This led me to explore how different spiritual traditions address the idea of assisting souls in their journey.

Catholicism, for example, includes the concept of purgatory—a place where souls are purified before divine judgment. Prayers for these souls, known as indulgences, are believed to help them transition out. Similarly, Buddhist rituals like the Phowa or Petra ceremonies aim to guide departed souls toward liberation, while Hindu traditions include offerings and prayers during the Shraddha ceremony to honor ancestors and help them achieve peace.

These practices suggest that helping spirits move on isn’t an entirely modern idea—it has roots in ancient, ritualized belief systems. But here’s the key difference: In these traditions, it is divine intervention, not human power, that facilitates the process. And that’s why I find the claims of some investigators—that they’ve “rescued” or “crossed over” spirits—to be presumptuous. There’s no way to verify these claims, and in many cases, the same spirits reportedly remain active even after such attempts. It’s hubris to assume we have that kind of influence.

When it came to Henry Dixon, I wasn’t seeking to “rescue” anyone. But after years of persistent messages asking for help, I finally stopped to listen. On the surface, it seems like my actions may have made a difference—but I have no way to validate that for certain. If anything happened, I believe it was something beyond my understanding or capability. It’s a humbling reminder that the mystery is always bigger than us.

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The Unexpected Pythian Connection

My connection to the Knights of Pythias spans decades and unfolded in surprising ways. Back in the late 1990s, I came across a ritual skeleton at an abandoned Knights of Pythias location. Though I knew of its existence, I didn’t acquire it until the summer of 2020, while working on my article The Bones of Secret Societies. This investigation delved into the history and mysteries of fraternal organizations like the Knights of Pythias, and the skeleton became a central piece of that exploration.

That same summer, while researching Henry Dixon, I visited his grave near the Dixon Chapel in Fort Ritner, Indiana. To my surprise, the Pythian emblem was engraved on his headstone. It was a startling discovery, tying Henry Dixon to the same organization I had been investigating.

Later, while researching the Crump Theatre, I learned that Colonel John Keith, who built Keith’s Arcade (later the Crump), was also a Knight of Pythias. Finding these connections felt like uncovering a hidden thread that connected years of seemingly unrelated experiences. It’s hard to dismiss moments like these as mere coincidence—they felt more like intentional breadcrumbs, guiding me toward a larger, unknowable story.

Revisiting Doubt: Balancing Skepticism and Belief

Doubt has always been a companion on this journey, but not doubt about whether the phenomenon is real. I believe the paranormal is real. My skepticism lies in the human aspect of our investigations—the tools we use, the narratives we craft, and how much influence the Trickster phenomenon exerts over our understanding.

The Trickster’s manipulative nature complicates everything. It creates doubt not in the existence of the phenomenon but in its sincerity and intent. Is it guiding us toward some cosmic truth, or is it simply playing with us for its own amusement? These are the questions that keep me exploring, questioning, and reevaluating what I think I know.

Humanizing Henry: A Shift in Perspective

For three years, Henry Dixon’s name appeared in my ITC sessions and EVP recordings with uncanny persistence. At first, I treated it like any other paranormal puzzle—an intriguing anomaly to document and analyze. But as time went on, I realized I was missing something vital: the human element. This wasn’t about testing gadgets or unraveling the mechanics of the afterlife. This was about Henry—a father, a husband, and a man whose life had been unjustly cut short.

When I shifted my focus from proving the paranormal to understanding Henry as a person, everything changed. It wasn’t easy to suspend my skepticism and preconceived notions about the Trickster phenomenon or the deceptive nature of some encounters. But once I let go of those ideas, I started to see Henry’s story in a new light. What if this wasn’t just a paranormal event? What if it was a plea for connection?

Imagining Henry as a man who loved and was loved reframed my experience. It wasn’t about validating my encounters or solving a mystery. It was about showing compassion, listening, and responding as one human being to another. Sometimes, the unknown isn’t about answers—it’s about the connections we make along the way.

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Now please enjoy my original post from 2020:

The Ghost of Henry Dixon: The Haunt of the Big Tunnel

Video:

I didn’t start exploring the paranormal for popularity. My endgame has never been to become famous. I created my online presence simply as a means of recording what I’ve observed and experienced throughout the 17 years I’ve been actively pursuing strangeness. When I started my PARAHOLICS blog six years ago, I didn’t expect to have this much—probably too much—to say. But every word, every pic, every video has truly been for me. My path. My journey. Every entry is part of my paranormal diary, and I’ve handed everyone a key.

I try real hard not to get too silly or too woo-woo with my views on paranormal phenomena. As a matter of fact, I try real hard to not stand at all. I’ve grown to reject what I’ve been told and instead stay open to what I’ve experienced. And I try not to discount other people’s experiences or viewpoints. Sure, there are wild stories, theories, and abilities that people claim. I’m not one to dismiss them, but as a skeptical believer, I’m not so wide open that I accept all of what’s presented as paranormal evidence. To me, it’s often just evidence of people’s perspectives in relation to their contact with the unknown.

Which is why the mystery of Henry Dixon has been so difficult for me personally. It’s been an evolving enigma for the past three years, swirling around me and presenting itself at the most unexpected times. After all my years of involvement with the paranormal, I can’t say I truly believe in ghosts in the classic sense. But I do believe in unexplainable experiences. I believe something resides in the liminal space beyond our perception of reality, something we can’t quite put our fingers on. Our language is limited, so we wrestle with terms like ghosts, spirits, energies, psi, mediums, demons, ITC, EVP, and other tech jargon to fit into a puzzle we’re nowhere close to solving.

I’m guilty of this too—testing what’s credible, what’s valid, and what might prove an interaction. And that’s okay. It seems the phenomena we’re trying to discover can interact with any of these methods on its own terms. So regardless of whether it’s a psychic approach, an ITC device, a high-tech astral anal probe, or a stupid SLS camera—strange possibilities are there.

Faith, Frustration, and the Unknown

Reconciling the supernatural with theology has always been a challenge for me, particularly when it comes to Christianity. As a child, I was taught to believe in a benevolent, all-knowing creator. But the more I delved into the paranormal, the more that framework unraveled. If sins are fully paid by death, as I was taught, where do ghosts, lost souls, or spirit rescue missions fit into the equation?

Faith and doubt have become integral to this journey. They’re not opposites but companions, each pushing me to question, explore, and grow. My experience with Henry Dixon is a testament to that. Whether his story was real, imagined, or somewhere in between, it left me with more questions than answers—and perhaps that’s the point.

The Haunt of Henry Dixon: The Encounter at the Tunnel

Never in my wildest dreams did I think that on May 27, 2017, a stop at the Big Tunnel in Tunnelton, Indiana, would have such a huge impact on me. Indiana’s longest train tunnel was the site of a murder in 1908, when a 27-year-old watchman named Henry Dixon was reportedly killed after stopping the assault of two women in the tunnel. His murder was believed to be an act of retaliation by the gang of men he confronted. Henry left behind his pregnant wife, Mary, and two young sons.

Here’s where the rubber meets the ethereal road. After recording what seemed to be an EVP in the tunnel saying the name “Henry Dixon,” I kept encountering his name in sessions over the next three years—at various locations and using various devices. Along with his name came messages of frustration and ire directed my way. Slowly, and painfully, I came to realize Henry might have seen me as someone who could help him in his plight.

Was Henry with me? Attached to me? Or was he just tethered to my ITC contact field, noticing when I was “online”? I don’t know. I’ve always seen myself as a wartime reporter, observing and documenting the weird, not a paranormal fixer getting my hands dirty. I don’t do cleansings, crossovers, smudges, demon belly rubs, or ghost gang bangs. But the repeated messages of frustration seemed to suggest I was being asked for help—and they were pissed when I didn’t provide it.

So I tried. I started asking Henry for more information, returning to the Big Tunnel to see if that might somehow “drop him off.” Theologically speaking, it doesn’t make sense to me that a father and husband’s soul would be stuck at the scene of his murder for over 100 years. But assuming ghost box responses are legitimate (I’m nothing if not a good sport), I interpreted Henry’s response of “put me with her” as a request to reunite with his wife.

A Cemetery Encounter

Assuming this clue might help, I visited the graves of Henry and Mary Dixon near the Dixon Chapel in Fort Ritner, Indiana. When I stepped into the cemetery, I was instinctively drawn straight to Henry’s marker. Surrounded by countless other Dixons, I immediately felt an overwhelming sense of grief and a tingling sensation shooting through my body as I approached his grave. It was undeniable, unforgettable, and—like most paranormal experiences—completely unprovable.

Did I help Henry? Only time will tell. If I never hear from him again, maybe I’ll feel a sense of accomplishment. But for now, I’m left with speculation, loose ends, and karmic conjecture about why he might have been stuck—or why he recognized me as someone who could help.

Afterword: Closing Reflections 2025

Years later, I still find myself thinking about Henry Dixon—not just as a presence in my investigations, but as a person whose story shaped my understanding of the paranormal. Whether he was a real presence, a trick of the mind, or perhaps we momentarily crossed streams in the vast universal consciousness, his persistence forced me to pause, listen, and consider what it means to truly connect.

If there’s one thing Henry Dixon’s story has taught me, it’s that the unknown challenges us to look beyond the phenomena and see the humanity in the mystery. By doing so, we’re reminded that exploration isn’t just about answers—it’s about compassion, curiosity, and a willingness to embrace the questions.

Perhaps Henry Dixon’s story is more than a haunting—it’s a reminder that the echoes of the past persist, seeking connection, and sometimes finding it in those willing to listen.

What I’ve Learned

• No religion provides a clear roadmap to the afterlife. Everyone’s beliefs will eventually be challenged by someone else’s experience. You can choose to ignore that in the name of faith or use it as a jumping-off point to question and explore. Just don’t judge others for making their own way.

• Did I rescue a ghost? Did I even encounter one? I can’t say for sure. All I have are odd audio snippets and my own unprovable feelings. But I’m grateful for the experience, because it pushed me to dig deep into myself and wrestle with uncomfortable questions about faith and the afterlife.

• Grappling with existential concepts is at the heart of paranormal exploration.Whether or not I helped Henry Dixon, his story challenged my beliefs and helped me grow.

— Evel Ogilville

Henry Dixon’s story is just one piece of the paranormal puzzle, and I know there are countless untold experiences waiting to be shared. Have you encountered unexplainable phenomena, heard a voice from the past, or felt drawn to a mystery you couldn’t ignore? I’d love to hear your story.

Let’s connect and keep the exploration going!

• Subscribe to my blog on Substack for more deep dives into the unknown.

• Follow my journey and subscribe to my YouTube channels for investigations, EVPs, and ITC experiments you won’t find anywhere else.

Henry Dixon

1881-1908

Historic Timeline

“Dixon was a quiet harmless sort of fellow who had not been accustomed to having trouble with anyone.”

Twenty-seven-year-old night watchman found dead at the Big Tunnel in Tunnelton, Indiana, in 1908. Dixon’s body was discovered by the day watchman lying along track at mouth of the tunnel with wound to back/left side of head that looked as if “made by a blow.” His lantern was found upright beside the track, still burning. Mystery surrounded circumstances of death, and whether he or body struck by train, but commonly held belief he was murdered, likely as retaliation.

• “Knowing the train was about due there is some mystery as to how he got (sic) hit. It is not impossible that he may have fainted or limply fallen on the track, unable to get out of the way of the approaching train in time.”

• Day watchman James Fields found lifeless body and believed had been dead longer than half-hour or before the passage of the recent train.

• If Dixon had been struck by train was said he certainly never moved out of his tracks, as his clothing was not disarranged.

▪ “Someone gave engineer the proper signal that track was clear or else he have never taken his train through the underground passage.”

▪ James Donnel/Donnells, engineer of train that passed through before Dixon’s body discovered, said when about 300 feet in the west end of the tunnel, “I saw the watchman standing in the center of the track, or a man I took to be the watchman. My engine did not strike him.” On the way to relieve Dixon, Fields also claimed to have seen a man enter the tunnel with a lantern. When he had not come out, he went inside to investigate and found Dixon.

▪ “It was commonly known that he was murdered and his body dragged into the tunnel for a passing train to obliterate evidence of the crime. The episode was discussed for months and everyone knew who murdered Dixon but it was impossible to legally prove.” (History of Lawrence County, Indiana)

• Murder theory substantiated by claim of two young women of Fort Ritner who about a week prior had started to pass through the tunnel after attending a lecture when they met a group of men who made remarks and insults that frightened them. They returned to watchman’s shanty and asked Dixon for a lantern, which he provided and also accompanied them through to their homes. Men said to have taken exception with his actions and later had words with him.

• “Dixon’s friends are now trying to connect this circumstance with his death.”

• “The fact that the body was found nearly 300 feet from where Dixon should have been supports the murder theory that he was killed while making his way to the point of duty.”

• Officer with B&O Railroad detective department contended Dixon was murdered and presented what he deemed sufficient evidence to warrant arrests of three railroad employees/laborers.

• “He protected two girls (McKinney, Horner) from the evil designs of these men.”

• “He must have been struck by a heavy club or stone and almost instantly killed.”

• Conversation recounted in which Dixon said after walking girls home he had hardly returned to shanty when he was approached by the three men in question who began cursing him for interfering with their plans. They offered him several bottles of beer, which he refused, and one man made the threat “that if he ever ran across Dixon in the tunnel one of them would never come out alive.”

• Official asserted murder was premeditated as watch and money still found in Dixon’s pockets, but the revolver he had taken to carrying since the incident with the group of men was not found.

• Interpreter for men in question said to have went to Dixon, giving him the revolver and warning him of threats and to be on the lookout. “The men were really dangerous … and he would only be protecting himself by shooting them.”

• “There seems to be abundant evidence that Dixon was expecting trouble … Where the state would probably fall short so far is … the fact that the only one who knew many of these things is dead.”

• Men said to have been under surveillance following coroner’s inquests and arrests were to have been made shortly.

• Large number of people attended funeral services.

• Railroad officials declined to make necessary affidavit charging suspected men with murder, satisfied that they knew who killed him but lacking necessary proof. Failure to convict could have resulted in damage suit.

• “While it is generally conceded that there is no longer any doubt that Henry Dixon was murdered, nothing is to be done toward arresting the men guilty of the crime until the grand jury convenes and returns an indictment.” Failure to convict could have resulted in damage suit.

• Surveillance of suspected men said to have continued. Grand jury convened. Case remains unsolved.

Dixon is buried in Proctor Cemetery (Dixon Chapel Cemetery) in Fort Ritner. Born in March 1881, he married Mary Collier in 1903. At the time of his death, Henry was survived by Mary (1908-1957) and sons Alva, 3, and Howard, 2. Daughter Sarah was born three months after his death.

Big Tunnel/Dixon legends

Ghost of watchman popularly associated ghost story, lent name and variations by true tragedy of Henry Dixon.

• Seen carrying lantern and his head or floating through at exactly midnight.

• Some say that he still haunts the tunnel, with his head in one hand and a lantern in the other.

• Legend says if person walks to middle (darkest point) of tunnel will either experience Dixon brushing past, or he will mistake the visitor for his killer and chase the person out the other side.

• During remolding of tunnel, guards hired to prevent theft of building materials and stop vandals from strewing debris across tracks. Two men would meet in middle at designated times throughout the night, including Henry Dixon. One night on patrol he thwarted the attempted assault of a young girl by two men who had dragged her into the tunnel. A few nights later, Dixon failed to show up in the middle of the tunnel at the appointed time, so other guard searched and found him dead with his skull crushed so badly part of his brain was exposed. The news of his death was such a shock to his pregnant sister-in-law that she gave birth prematurely to a son – born with an exposed brain; the condition of his skull with a marked similarity to Dixon’s wound. Baby lived for several weeks and continually moaned “Oh, my God!” – as told by Phyllis Quackenbush Reed (Dixon was cousin of her mother’s), Indiana Folklore: A Reader

Sources:

Historical Newspaper Sources

• “Death of Henry Dixon.” Bedford Daily Mail, 24 July 1908.

• “Follow-Up on Dixon Investigation.” Bedford Daily Mail, 30 July 1908.

• “Dixon’s Mysterious Death.” Indianapolis Star, 24 July 1908.

• “Community Shocked by Death of Watchman.” Rushville Republican, 25 July 1908.

• “Details Emerge in Tunnelton Tragedy.” The Tribune, 25 July 1908.

• “Coroner’s Investigation into Dixon’s Death.” Bedford Daily Democrat, 1 August 1908.

Online Sources:

1. Ogilville, Evel. “Deathly Echoes From The Big Tunnel.” Paraholics, 2024, https://www.paraholics.com/p/deathly-echoes-from-the-big-tunnel.

Thank you to Eunice Regina Specter for your mad research skills!

Thanks for reading PARAHOLICS! This post is public so feel free to share it.

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First, a heartfelt thank-you to Scott Flood for hosting my one and only visit to Octagon Hall. This incredible site, steeped in history and wrapped in layers of ghost lore, continues to intrigue both casual visitors and dedicated paranormal researchers alike.

When I shared my original Octagon Hall post back in the summer of 2020, it sparked more conversation—and controversy—than I anticipated. Looking back, I realize the world was in a very different place, marked by heightened tensions over race, history, and justice. My commentary in the video was informed by the broader cultural climate of that moment, as protests and unrest swept the nation. While my intent wasn’t political or meant to stoke divisions, I felt it was important to acknowledge the legacy of racism embedded not just in places like Octagon Hall but in the larger tapestry of American history. Sites like this serve as stark reminders of the atrocities humanity can inflict upon itself, offering opportunities to reflect and, hopefully, grow.

The tension between history and folklore is also a key part of Octagon Hall’s story. One of the most compelling tales associated with the site is that of Mary Elizabeth Caldwell, the young girl said to have tragically died after her dress caught fire by the basement kitchen fireplace. During our initial research for the 2020 post, we had uncovered conflicting information about this story. Census records from 1860 and 1870 show a Mary Elizabeth Caldwell alive years after the supposed accident. Additionally, notes from the A.J. Caldwell family group sheet, filed with the Simpson County Historical Society, question whether her death as a child was even factual.

In 2020, we reached out to both Octagon Hall and the local historical society for clarification, but to this day, no definitive answers have emerged. Interestingly, this is a recurring theme in the paranormal field: the way stories, whether factually accurate or not, seem to persist and even feed the phenomenon itself. It’s as if the energy of belief and folklore generates its own momentum independent of historical truth. This raises questions about how our minds project onto these experiences—and how the phenomenon, in a trickster-like way, seems to thrive on those projections.

From a paranormal perspective, Octagon Hall continues to fascinate. My two favorite sessions during our investigation were the Geobox session in Mary Elizabeth’s room and the Reverse Speech Box session in the family cemetery. Both yielded responses that were direct, intelligent, and undeniably compelling. The name “Buckner” came through during one session—a name tied to the Civil War history of the site and the Orphan Brigade, which camped on the property. These connections between ITC responses and historical details never fail to captivate me.

I also want to highlight the Reverse Speech Box, which has since blown up and gone to ghost box heaven. That remarkable device consistently delivered responses that defied explanation. Built by Steve Hultay, the device reversed all incoming audio, making it impossible for coherent phrases to naturally occur. Yet, I received clear and contextually relevant replies, raising questions that are as exciting as they are unanswerable. Reverse speech remains an integral component of my ITC experiments.

As always, I’ve preserved the historic timeline and notes from my original post, which provide a detailed look at Octagon Hall’s architectural and cultural significance. The house stands as a witness to a turbulent period in American history, from its ties to the Civil War to its use as a sanctuary for wounded soldiers. These layers of history are what make the location so powerful, both as a site of remembrance and as a hotspot for paranormal activity.

While the mysteries of Octagon Hall remain unresolved, one thing is certain: the stories, whether grounded in fact or not, continue to evoke strong emotions and provoke thought. That, in itself, is a testament to the enduring power of places like this to connect us to the past and challenge us to reckon with its legacies.

— Evel Ogilville

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Conflicting Information Pertaining To Mary Elizabeth Caldwell’s Fireplace-Related Death:

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Octagon Hall

(Also referred to as Octagon House, Mayfair Farm(s), Eight-Sided Mansion, Caldwell-Williams House)

6040 Bowling Green Road

Franklin, KY 42134

Historic Timeline

• Foundation of limestone laid for the three-story brick family home of Andrew Jackson (AJ) Caldwell, a prosperous farmer and leather tannery owner, on plantation site/215-acre farm in 1847.

• Construction of home by slave labor completed 1859-1860.

▪ Edwin Hendricks, contractor; R. F. Haynes, bricklayer; Joe Thomas Ditmore, carpenter (Franklin Favorite, 1/25/2001)

▪ Bricks believed burned on property from red clay of surrounding countryside and lumber hewn from trees on farm.

▪ “Rumored first bricks fired as the cannons roared at Ft. Sumpter.” (Franklin Favorite, 5/21/1992)

▪ “It is said that one slave with a gift for wood carving alone cut and finished all the baseboarding and frame work.” (Courier-Journal, 9/20/1954)

▪ Caldwell relatives noted one of slaves who was skilled and talented craftsman said to have carved eight-sided posts and designs that are part of banisters on main stairwell and doorways. (Franklin Favorite, 5/21/1992; 1/25/2001)

▪ Four large rooms in addition to halls and alcoves on each floor.

▪ Full basement, two small subbasements

▪ Bottom floor considered basement, partially above ground, with kitchen, pantry and cellar; “but legends say also used as a dungeon.” (Franklin Favorite, 5/21/1992)

▪ Caldwell relatives say the sub-cellar “once described as a mystery-chamber was no more than a sweet potato cellar.” (Franklin Favorite, 10/6/1938)

▪ Large octagon-shaped copper lantern once adorned top of house; octagon-shaped chimneys

▪ Cupola hit by lightning and burned in 1920. Caldwell said to have once instructed slave to hide beehive there for safekeeping from Union soldiers.

▪ Rear porch added sometime after construction by Caldwell’s sons. A son also noted the Civil War stopped much of the construction operation and the house remained in that condition until long after Caldwell’s death. “The walls were put up and the inside partially finished.” (Park City Daily News, 2/8/1981)

▪ Old sundial in backyard with inscription: “Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be.” (Courier-Journal, 9/20/1954)

▪ Slave quarters located behind house.

▪ “By 1860, Caldwell had increased his wealth substantially. He had more than doubled his real estate value and was noted as owning $9,500 in personal property, of which a great portion was the value of his now 34-member slave labor force, who lived in three slave quarter buildings.” (explorekyhistory)

▪ Two cemeteries located on property, as well as “mass graves and bone piles.” (Franklin Favorite, 11/1/2018)

▪ Caldwell owned 62 slaves and many were buried on the property near the house. (Park City Daily News, 3/4/2010)

▪ “Many slaves and their children died at the plantation home.” (Franklin Favorite, 10/18/2007)

▪ Grounds also included a slave cemetery, two log slave cabins, smokehouse, carriage shed & barns circa 1862 and 1919.

• Caldwell believed to have died in home of typhoid fever in 1866 at age 47. Buried in Fairview Cemetery in Bowling Green.

▪ First wife Elizabeth Akers said to have died of measles/typhoid fever in June 1851 at age 29, within months of death of 18-month-old son in November 1851.

▪ “Buried in small family cemetery at Octagon Hall with 2 children. The fieldstone surrounding the graves was added later to protect the graves.” (findagrave)

• Linked graves are Mary Elizabeth Caldwell (1847-1854, grave description as buried next to mother) and A.J. Caldwell (1850-1851)

▪ Conflicting stories (age/year) of daughter Mary Elizabeth dying from injuries suffered after dress caught fire by basement kitchen fireplace.

• Mary E., age 11, listed in 1860 Census.

• Mary E. Caldwell, age 23, listed as residing with James and Fannie McElwain (sister) in 1870 Census.

• Record in family bible of Andrew Jackson Caldwell does not indicate death of Mary Elizabeth. Same death year as grave link (1854) for his sister Elizabeth Sutton. (usgenwebsites)

• Dr. Miles Williams, Nashville osteopath, purchased property from Caldwell’s second wife Harriet and restored residence, which had fallen into disrepair, in mid-1900s. Renamed as Mayfair; enjoyed retirement maintaining home and farm, “loved every brick” until death in 1954. (Courier-Journal, 9/20/1954)

▪ Indoor plumbing and electricity installed in 1948.

• Residence received Simpson County’s first historical marker located in front of home in 1962: “an ante bellum landmark.” Original stolen by vandals in 1974.

• Listed on National Register of Historic Places in 1980.

• After Mrs. Williams’ death in 1981, ownership passed through descendants and used as rental property.

• Nonprofit organization Captain David C. Walker Camp 640 Sons of Confederate Veterans acquired in 2001 and opened to public, housing Confederate Studies Archive/Museum. (Franklin Favorite, 4/26/2001) Octagon Hall Foundation formed.

▪ Octagon Hall Museum, ghost hunts currently operated.

Why an octagon?

• During the 1850s, the concept of the octagon in domestic architecture incited the imagination of the country. This movement was given impetus by Orson S. Fowler in his book “The Octagon House: A Home For All,” first published in 1848. Fowler espoused the octagon as the perfect shape for architecture. He introduced to his readers “not merely a new concept of building but a fresh attitude toward housing: “Why continue to build in the same square form of all past ages? Nature’s forms are mostly spherical …” (National Register of Historic Places Inventory, 1980)

• “Caldwell determinedly said Southern Colonials weren’t for him.” (Courier-Journal, 9/20/1954)

• Some believe Caldwell decided on unique shape because of fear of windstorms. Eight-sided homes with 45-degree-angled walls said to have good ventilation and offer protection from strong winds. Caldwell relatives refuted theory, saying he wanted “something different.” Others say desired only octagon-shaped house in the state.

▪ 68 surviving octagon houses included on the U.S. National Register of Historic Places; Octagon Hall one of two in Kentucky.

▪ Deadhouses, structures used for the temporary storage of bodies before burial or transportation, were built in an octagonal shape in the mid-to-late-19th century unique to Ontario, Canada and thought inspired by the fad in U.S. promoted by Fowler (above).

Civil War importance (1861-1865)

Home’s construction completed just prior to Civil War’s start. Throughout Civil War, property used by both Confederate and Union forces as hospital and sanctuary for soldiers. Caldwell known to be staunch-Confederate supporter; relation Confederate Army colonel. Caldwell faced court-martialing if caught harboring Confederates. House’s location between Louisville-Nashville Pike and L&N Railroad, allowed to be used as observation post.

• Because one of tallest structures in area, said Caldwell and family could watch battle of Bowling Green from roof. (Franklin Favorite, 7/7/1983)

• Property utilized by “Orphan Brigade” in February 1862 as overnight encampment after Confederate forces evacuated stronghold in Bowling Green and took refuge at the site.

▪ Caldwell’s nephew Col. John W. Caldwell noted in diary of “camping at Andrew’s strange house six miles from Franklin.” (“Franklin Favorite, 2/22/2007)

▪ Estimated 8,000-12,000 Confederate soldiers camped on the grounds, generals staying inside, before retreating into Tennessee the following morning.

▪ Snow fell overnight on sleeping troops, and when they awoke and pulled back their blankets said to have “looked like the dead rising from the fields.” (Franklin Favorite, 1/25/2001)

▪ Two days later Union army came in pursuit of the Confederates and took occupation of the home.

▪ Buell’s Federal Forces said to have raided Caldwell’s beehives, livestock, food stores and killed Mrs. Caldwell’s pet cow Old Spot/Belle, storing the carcass in the well and leaving the family without water for days.

• Because of Confederate ties, Caldwell known to have harbored wounded soldiers from capture by Union forces and hid them in house.

▪ Story of soldier wandering up to house at night and over breakfast learning he was son of Caldwell’s sister in Texas, who had run away at 16 to enlist and was searching for “an uncle who lived in ‘a round brick house near Franklin.’” (Franklin Favorite, 10/6/1938)

▪ Numerous stories of discoveries of secret tunnels, passageways and hiding places on property, as well as soldier deaths.

▪ “Many were badly wounded and did not recover and are buried on the grounds.” (Franklin Favorite, 10/18/2007)

▪ Mrs. Miles Williams said to have told historical society of discovery of boot of Confederate soldier, cut as if taken off the wounded. (Franklin Favorite, 7/7/1983)

▪ One of soldiers put in attic to hide from Union; his foot was wounded and apparently after taking off boot to remove pressure bled to death; similarly another hiding in crawl space said to have died bleeding out from gunshot wound to leg; another found on front steps early one morning who apparently died there after his knocking at door wasn’t heard. (Franklin Favorite, 10/3/2003; 11/1/2018)

Thank you again to Eunice Spector for her impeccable research!

— Evel Ogilville

A Reflection on the Old Benton County Jail

Sometimes, it’s the ghosts of history that speak loudest when the living fail to listen. The Old Benton County Jail, a stunning Italianate limestone structure built in 1876, has silently borne witness to the unfolding of Indiana’s history. My visit on August 17th, 2019, remains one of the most memorable experiences of my paranormal journey.

Investigating this incredibly active location was an honor. Spending time in the old cells, with their cold stone walls and antique locks, provided a chilling yet fascinating connection to the past. The history etched into this building—both tragic and compelling—creates a palpable energy that lingers in every corner.

The Old Benton County Jail is more than just a historic site; it’s a time capsule of justice, tragedy, and humanity. For paranormal enthusiasts, historic preservationists, and anyone who values our shared past, this is your call to action. The spirits of the jail need your help now more than ever. Preserving this building isn’t just about saving a structure—it’s about safeguarding the stories of those who lived, worked, suffered, and, in some cases, died within its walls.

To raise awareness, I’m reposting the video from my investigation, showcasing the remarkable history and paranormal significance of this extraordinary location.

Video:

Preserving a Slice of Indiana’s History

Located at 603-7 East Sixth Street, Fowler, IN, the Old Benton County Jail served the community for 121 years, making it one of Indiana’s oldest-functioning jails until its closure in 1997.

The building’s front housed the sheriff’s family in a Victorian-style residence, while prisoners were confined to the back in small, cold, unlit cells. This dual-purpose design made the jail both a home and a workplace, and its history includes everyday incarcerations as well as extraordinary, dark events like the lynching of Jacob Nelling.

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The Chilling Details of Ada Atkinson’s Murder and Jacob Nelling’s Lynching

The Crime

In 1883, 15-year-old Ada Atkinson was brutally murdered in her upstairs bedroom on the family farm south of Oxford, Indiana. Her throat was slashed, and she was stabbed 28 times in a frenzy of violence. Blood pooled around her body, and the room bore signs of a desperate struggle.

Jacob Nelling, a 50-year-old Civil War veteran and farmhand for the Atkinson family, confessed to the crime. His haunting statement read:

“I went upstairs and I found Ada there. I said to her: ‘Ada, I am going to kill you.’ She said not to do it, that she did not want to die that way. I told her I would do it, but I do not recollect what she said. Then I took hold of her and threw her down on the floor. Then I cut her throat. Then I became frenzied and made the other cuts. It seems I did not care what I was doing.”

The horrific act shocked Ada’s family and the entire community, leaving a scar on the town’s history.

The Mob’s Justice

Nelling was transferred to the Benton County Jail in Fowler, where he awaited trial. However, outrage boiled over. On October 22, 1883, a mob stormed the jail, demanding Nelling’s release. When the sheriff refused, they forced their way inside.

Nelling, fully dressed and wearing an overcoat, reportedly awaited his fate without resistance. The mob dragged him from his cell, transported him to a walnut tree near the Atkinson farm, and hanged him. A card pinned to his coat read, “A Warning to All Murderers.” You'll see at the end of my video I did a brief stop at that property.

Hundreds of townspeople viewed the grim scene. Pieces of the rope were cut and taken as souvenirs, and Ada’s grieving father, Cephas Atkinson, later cut down the walnut tree to carve canes for the mob members.

The Mystery of Nelling’s Body

Rumors swirled after the lynching that Nelling’s body had been stolen from his pauper’s grave and sold for medical dissection. Decades later, the grave was exhumed and found empty, adding an unsettling mystery to this already dark tale.

Why Saving the Jail Matters

The Old Benton County Jail is a vital link to our past. For the paranormal community, it offers an unmatched opportunity to explore a location brimming with energy shaped by decades of justice, tragedy, and resilience. Its stories connect us to the lives of those who inhabited and passed through its walls, both in life and in death.

If this building is lost, we lose not only its physical structure but also the invaluable lessons and history it holds. The ghosts of the past are calling on us to act before it’s too late. If there’s one thing the paranormal community excels at, it’s raising a ruckus to save a location. Let’s not let this piece of haunted history fade into oblivion.

How You Can Help

The fight to save the jail is underway, but it needs your support. Here’s how you can make a difference:

• Sign the Petition: Save the Benton County Jail

• Donate: Contributions will help cover restoration costs and legal fees.

• Spread the Word: Share this story with your networks, especially within the paranormal and historic preservation communities

• Attend the January 21st Commissioners Meeting: Show your support in person and advocate for preserving this piece of haunted history.

The Old Benton County Jail needs us now. Sometimes it takes the ghosts of the past to remind us what’s worth saving. Let’s honor their stories and ensure they continue to resonate for generations to come.

— Evel Ogilville

Historical Timeline and Notes

• 1876: Jail constructed with a front Victorian-style residence and back cell block.

• 1883: Jacob Nelling lynched by a mob after confessing to murder.

• 1903: Epileptic man confined to jail for four years condemned in Board of State Charities report. (The Herald, 2/20/1903)

• 1937: LeRoy Clark, after confessing to murdering his wife, prevented a teen inmate’s jailbreak. (Journal and Courier, 6/18/1937; Kokomo Tribune, 7/29/1937)

• 1977: Jail evacuated due to structural damage caused by thawing ground. (Journal and Courier, 3/4/1977)

• 1997: Jail decommissioned and repurposed as a museum and storage space.

Sources

• Journal and Courier: 2/26/2016, 3/28/1969, 12/27/1984, 3/4/1977, 2/12/1982, 5/22/2005

• Indiana State Sentinel: 10/24/1883

• Fowler Benton Review: 11/22/1883

• South Bend Tribune: 11/15/1900

• The Herald: 2/20/1903

• Star Press: 3/20/1911, 6/25/1918

• Brook Reporter: 1/21/1916

• Kokomo Tribune: 7/29/1937

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In 2016, I ventured into a hidden location, keeping its address a mystery to protect its secrets. Today, however, the veil has lifted on 410 1/2 Washington Street (second floor) in downtown Columbus, Indiana—a building with a rich history dating back to the 1800s, still echoing with hints of its past. Despite being vacant since the late 1940s, something…

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I love history. Ironically, nothing brings the past more to life for me than an old cemetery or graveyard. The markers, the designs, and the symbols etched in stone offer clues about a person’s life and death, placed by those who loved them. Or, in some cases, I imagine headstones are anchors to keep some bastards and monsters down in the ground. Of cou…

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Stepping onto the grounds of the Indiana State Sanatorium (ISS) for the first time on September 18, 2022, was nothing short of overwhelming. This place is massive. I’ve visited plenty of large, haunted locations, but this one stands in a league of its own. Its sheer size instantly made me question if one night would ever be enough to truly grasp the dep…

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425 Washington Street in Columbus, Indiana, has long been a cornerstone of the community, steeped in history and now a focal point for my paranormal investigations. Recently, I had the chance to investigate this space, and what I uncovered was more than just residual energy—it was a tangible link between the past and present. This building, once home to…

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A Difficult Post: Respecting Victims Amidst the Paranormal

This post is a difficult one—both as a paranormal investigator and ITC researcher with a conscience. I've often discussed the fine line between speculation, intention, and the need for solid data when presenting the supernatural. But when the subject involves horrific tragedies, like those at the…

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Stepp Cemetery: A Pioneer Burial Ground Shrouded in Mystery

Stepp Cemetery, nestled in the dense Morgan-Monroe State Forest, is one of Monroe County’s oldest burial grounds, dating back to the early 1800s. Jacob Adkins, who donated the land, and Reuben Stepp are among the notable pioneers buried here. Over time, approxim…

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In the world of paranormal exploration, certain places beckon the curious, offering a unique blend of history and high strangeness. Viewpoint Books, nestled within the captivating Old Post Office Building at 548 Washington Street in Columbus, Indiana, is one such intriguing location. On June 19, 2022, I was invited to…

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Between two divorces, raising kids, juggling mortgages, and polishing off too much whiskey, I’m pretty sure I’ve sustained some brain damage. Life does that to us all. Yet, I’m still surprised by how well my memory serves me at times, which is why I can earnestly say I remember the moment I snapped the photograph—the one th…

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The original troublemaking follows.

I first published this piece on October 30, 2023. I’ve kept the spirit of the original intact—the election references, the smart-ass remarks, and the demand that Columbus give its monster a festival—while adding a few discoveries from digging deeper into the story. This was my pitch, complete with pitchfork.

Now you can read it knowing the hairy green bastard finally got his party.

A huge thank-you to Brooke Hawkins and the Columbus Area Arts Council, the City of Columbus, Columbus Parks and Recreation, Visit Columbus, and the artists, volunteers, and sponsors who brought this hairy green idea to life.

Who has two thumbs and spent three years pestering Columbus to throw a monster festival? This misguided hobgoblin.

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The Mysterious Mill Race Monster

Alright, let’s cut to the chase. Before we understand why a cat-eating, sexy, hairy swamp beast might be the next mayor of Columbus, IN, we must dive into the mysterious world of the Mill Race Monster. Cryptozoology, for those new to the term, is all about hunting for and studying creatures whose existence or survival is up for debate. And a cryptid? Well, that’s an animal that cryptozoologists find particularly intriguing.

The Facts of the Case

Now that we’ve got that settled, let’s take a stroll down the curious path of The Mill Race Monster and cover a few facts:

• First things first, it definitely wasn’t me—I was just a 9-month-old at the time.

• In the early fall of 1974, near Columbus, Indiana, there were reports of UFO sightings.

• Then, things got interesting in November 1974, when reports of a hairy green “monster” brought Columbus to a boil over the course of eight days.

• But Columbus, Indiana, didn’t quite seize the monstrous gift—it failed miserably.

The First Sightings

So, let’s dissect this peculiar tale. In the autumn of ’74, in the city of Columbus, Indiana, local UFO sightings were a hot topic. But in November of that year, high strangeness struck when four terrified women made an unusual report to the Columbus Police Department.

The women stated that they were driving through Mill Race Park—a park off the White River in a wooded area near downtown Columbus. At approximately 3 p.m., in broad daylight, the women parked their car near a boat ramp when they observed “a monster” lurking near the river. They described the creature as 6 feet tall and walking upright on two legs. They also stated that the creature was covered in dark fur and had a pale green face. The police searched the area but found nothing to support the women’s claims.

A Second Encounter

Later that night, around 11:45 p.m., two young women burst into the Columbus Police Department, terrified and shaken. They had their own “monster” encounter in Mill Race Park. As they sat in their car chatting, a hairy creature with a green face leaped onto the hood, trying to break through the windshield with its teeth and long, sharp claws. When the police suggested it might be a prank, the witnesses insisted, “This did not look like a mask.” Even the car had deep scratches on the hood. A second search of the park yielded no monster.

Both encounters happened on November 1, before The Republic’s first story appeared on November 2. That doesn’t rule out a prank, but it does mean the first reports weren’t simply a reaction to a monster they’d already read about in the newspaper. Somebody—or something—had to get the story started.

Media Attention and Further Sightings

The local paper, The Republic, ran a story about these two reports, with the police guessing it might be a “misguided hobgoblin with lousy timing.” But they advised residents to stay alert.

Three days after the story was printed, the monster was spotted again. Two local men visited Mill Race Park around 4 p.m. on Nov. 5. They spotted the creature lurking behind trees near the park’s covered bridge. The two young men gave the same description: a hairy beast that stood upright with a light green face. Despite the warning issued by the police, they decided to return to Mill Race Park that same night armed with a pair of binoculars. The two young men claimed that they were chased out of Mill Race Park by the monster. The men theorized to the police that the creature might have been accidentally left behind by the UFOs spotted in the early fall.

As The Republic continued to report the sightings, people gathered in Mill Race Park, hoping to see the creature themselves. The news of the Mill Race Monster began to spread as The Courier-Journal of Louisville, The Indianapolis Star, and the Chicago Tribune reported the monster sightings.

A Public Frenzy and a City’s Response

A local smart-ass politician even suggested that the monster was a publicity-seeking political candidate trying to begin an early run toward the 1976 election. Hilarious.

Another sighting came from city dog catcher Rick Duckworth and John Brown, who reported seeing the monster after being dispatched to the park to rescue two cats in a tree. They described the monster as a person wearing a green mask and wrapped in green blankets and spotted about 200 feet away from them. Duckworth said it was 6 feet tall, maybe taller, with a large frame and long reddish hair that hung in its face. But when Duckworth started to approach, it disappeared “as fast as a deer” into nearby woods. After the feline rescue, the cats took off “like bolts of lightning.” According to Duckworth, “They were really scared.” Duckworth said he would plan to shoot the being with a tranquilizer gun he carried for dogs.

But let’s back up to the cats for a second. Who requested the rescue? When were the cats first noticed, and how did that message reach the city? The Indianapolis Star placed the figure about 200 feet away, so somebody could have missed it—or it could have appeared later. I’d still like to know the order of events. The November 8 Republic described Duckworth as being on routine patrol; the November 9 Star described a cat-rescue dispatch. Maybe both accounts fit together. I just want to know how the cat call, the tree, and Hairy Green all ended up in the same scene.

Soon after, the park began to flood with mobs of people, some of whom had traveled miles to hunt for the creature. Many of these folks were armed as the situation devolved into a frenzy.

City officials became concerned for the safety of the public. They felt it necessary to take action before someone got seriously hurt.

Robert Gillikin, the city park director, found it necessary to close Mill Race Park and deem it off-limits to the public.

Police Officer Kenneth St. John was appointed “Monster Control Officer” to address the media’s questions and handle reports of the monster. By November 11, The Republic was reporting that the park remained barricaded from dusk to dawn. Police had turned away 135 cars Friday night, 60 Saturday, and about 30 Sunday. Meanwhile, St. John was fielding questions from newspapers, radio stations, and television stations. Hairy Green had gone viral—1974-style, with considerably more telephone wire.

A Mystery Unresolved

The nighttime restrictions continued while officials tried to get the hunters under control. I haven’t found a confirmed reopening date, but as the excitement eventually faded, Mill Race Park returned to ordinary park business—which, presumably, involved fewer armed expeditions for a green hairy thing.

So what happened in Mill Race Park in 1974? Was it a cryptid sighting? An unknown Sasquatch-like creature just trying to live its best life who wound up too close to a community? An exiled extraterrestrial left behind by a UFO? Or, as the late Harry McCawley, an editor at The Republic, suggested in his October 30, 2014, column on the 40th anniversary of the Mill Race Monster, was it a hoax that tarnished Columbus’ reputation and needed to die?

I find it convenient that he left out of Duckworth’s account that he said the monster disappeared “as fast as a deer” into nearby woods—because that’s normal, right? When I’m dressed up like that whilst running (yes, I said whilst running), I can barely make the speed of a possum-trot and still wind up smashed mask first into a tree.

So it looked like a man in a mask, but Duckworth was willing to shoot it with a tranquilizer upon his next sighting of Hairy—that’s logical, right? If Duckworth was so sure he’d seen a man wrapped in blankets, why was his plan for the next encounter an animal-control response? Was he joking? Was he being a little overenthusiastic with the dog-catching equipment? Or was he less certain about what he’d seen than the “man in a mask” explanation suggests? I don’t know. But if you see a man wrapped in blankets, you ask him if he’s cold. You don’t sedate him.

Harry did concede, however, that the story adds a bit of kick to the city’s brand of “unexpected, unforgettable.”

The “Hoax” Theory and Public Skepticism

In 2015, Harry returned to his “man in a blanket” theory in a column about a feature on Destination America’s Monsters and Mysteries in America. Harry said Sgt. Dennis Knulf had told him the monster was later discovered to be a young man who came forward years later and admitted he dressed in costume but was never arrested because he indeed never committed any crime. Uh-huh.

Knulf is the same officer who told Dave Evensen for his October 31, 2003 Republic article, “Residents laugh about ’74 ‘monster’ hoax,” that police thought someone was playing a hoax but didn’t know for sure—and that strange footprints had been found sometime during that November. The same article reported that nobody had ever admitted to a hoax. So who found the footprints? Where were they? Were they measured or photographed? I’d love to know what became of that little detail.

And here’s another wrinkle: McCawley had already published Knulf’s account of an admission in his October 30, 2014 column, before revisiting it in 2015. The admission could have happened after the 2003 article, but the published accounts don’t give us a date, a name, or a clear breakdown of which encounters the person claimed. If somebody admitted wearing a costume, did that include the incident with the car—or are we putting every sighting under one convenient blanket?

Reflecting on the Past

So here we are, almost 50 years later. Let’s revisit what we know now after our crash course in all things Mill Race Monster. First off, as I said before, I was a baby still swaddled up in my drool and poo in November of ’74—so it wasn’t me, unfortunately.

Secondly, the area was a UFO sighting hotspot before the first appearance. Many cryptozoologists and ufologists see a correlation between UFO sightings and encounters with cryptids—Bigfoot, thunderbirds, black panthers, and a whole menagerie of other bizarre creature cases. Usually, these happen in the vicinity of high-energy sources. So you have a lot of instances around power plants, high-tension power lines, radio and broadcast communication towers, railroad tracks, gas lines, military bases, etc. Columbus, Indiana, checks a few of these boxes, especially considering the railroad tracks that follow the river through the park and Camp Atterbury’s proximity. Just sayin’.

Thirdly, I cannot confirm or deny what was behind the Mill Race Monster claims, but several groups reported seeing a hairy green something over those eight days. Was it a cryptid? Maybe? That sounds exciting. Was it a hoax perpetrated by a young man, as city officials claim? Probably. But I do have a few questions. Harry, in his column, quipped that the first sighting happened during the day, which is not normal monster hours. I want to say that if monsters are real, to my knowledge, Harry wasn’t a cryptozoologist who studied the Hairy Green of Mill Race. Plus, globally, there have been countless cryptid sightings during the day. But, if the accounts were valid, I’d like to point out that the ladies who witnessed the monster should’ve been able to discern the difference between flesh and blood versus a 1970s Halloween mask. Have you watched horror movies from that period? Get real.

And what about the face? In a later account, Tyra Cataline described the creature grimacing and trying to bite through the windshield. More elaborate rubber masks were available in 1974, so I can’t say a convincing disguise was impossible. But if she accurately saw the mouth and facial features moving, a simple fixed-face Halloween mask has a lot of explaining to do. What kind of mask or makeup was it? How did it move? And where is the connection between that costume and her encounter? “Some guy in a mask” is an explanation. I’d just like to see it explain the whole damn face.

Cataline also recalled a terrible smell on the outside of the car afterward, comparing it to decomposing animals. McCawley mentioned the reported odor in his March 12, 2015 column, too. So apparently Hairy Green didn’t just leave an impression—he left a stench.

And attacking women and damaging a car by jumping on the hood and leaving scratches are apparently not offenses that’ll get you arrested in Columbus, IN, either—even years later after the alleged man behind the mask came forward—and I don’t advocate testing that theory out.

Skepticism and City Inaction

That’s the part that gets me. People are willing to accept the hoax theory based on the words of the very employees who work for the city that wanted the Mill Race Monster hassle to disappear. In his October 30, 2014 column, McCawley described Duckworth’s sighting as more credible because it came from the city dogcatcher. But The Indianapolis Star identified Duckworth as twenty and Brown as nineteen. If the young women’s ages made their judgment easier to dismiss, why did a city paycheck suddenly make another young man’s interpretation the one that stuck? Twenty is old enough to vote and apparently old enough to become Columbus’ leading expert on people dressed in blankets. It still doesn’t make him infallible.

Even if Duckworth saw exactly what he thought he saw on November 8, what connects that person to the women’s encounters on November 1 or the men’s report on November 5? One person in a costume could explain his sighting. I want to see the bridge that carries that explanation across the rest of the park.

Why did witnesses go to the police station to report a monster instead of saying a weirdo in a costume? And what about the strange footprints left behind? Why would a cop even mention that? When the dog catcher was dispatched to the park, if the monster was close enough to have had those two cats treed, where was it when the call came in? Was it lurking nearby with its dinner bib on, or did it arrive later? Somebody walk me through the fucking cat-rescue timeline. And why wouldn’t law enforcement at least brag a tad that the case was closed if someone came forward later, or at least dropped a hint to the newspaper, even if no arrest was made and that everything was copacetic? Was there a cover-up? Was it the mayor’s son or wife or something? The local priest? The CEO of Cummins Engine Company? It just feels like revisionist history to me.

And who says this has to be an either/or story? Maybe the first witnesses encountered something they couldn’t explain, and somebody in a costume took advantage once the headlines started rolling. Maybe there was a prank from the beginning. Maybe different people saw different things. A later hoax wouldn’t automatically explain the first reports, and an unexplained encounter wouldn’t prevent some local smart-ass from joining the monster business afterward. Columbus may have had a monster, a prankster, or the world’s most poorly coordinated neighborhood watch. Hell, maybe it had more than one.

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There’s another reason this story deserves more than an eye roll. The sightings produced police reports, newspaper coverage, frightened witnesses, public debate, and a monster hunt big enough to close a park at night. Whatever anyone believes about Hairy Green, that all belongs to Columbus’ history. A festival gives people a reason to bring out the clippings, share what they remember, and keep asking questions. You don’t have to identify the creature to recognize the story’s value.

So, as I said before, my fourth fact is that Columbus, Indiana, has completely dropped the ball on this. Why? It’s a huge opportunity. How so? I’m glad you asked. Towns are always looking for tourism dollars, and nothing smells more like money to me than celebrating the odd story of The Mill Race Monster. But, the city might have to turn its nostrils down enough to get a whiff of the green cash generated by this beautiful green bastard.

Case in point, let’s turn our attention to Point Pleasant, WV, for the perfect example. You’d have to be living under a rock to not at least have heard about The Mothman. In a quick summary, in mid-November 1966, in that small town of Point Pleasant, two young couples fled the local woods, claiming they’d seen a terrifying creature. They recounted their story to the sheriff and reported that the entity looked human in most respects—except for its 10-foot wings and glowing red eyes. During the next few days, other people reported similar sightings after local newspapers reported it. Two volunteer firemen who saw it said it was a “large bird with red eyes.” Mason County Sheriff George Johnson commented that he believed the sightings were due to an unusually large heron he termed a “shitepoke.” Some intriguing similarities, wouldn’t you say? More city officials were pissing down the backs of the people’s fun, I assume.

Learning from Point Pleasant

But here’s where the two tales go in totally different directions. As the city of Columbus willed its monster into historical absurdity, Point Pleasant hopped on the wings of The Mothman and flew on it. How so? Every year, they celebrate with The Mothman Festival, which draws 10,000–15,000 visitors, pumping money into the local community. They have a statue, they have a museum, and they put on a 5K race—all because of an obscure story that happened that nobody can genuinely prove.

The good news for The Mill Race Monster is that it’s not too late. We can start a Mill Race Monster Festival. We need to change the minds of the city of Columbus and let them see the value of embracing that smelly river ape. Plus, 2024 is the 50th Anniversary of the appearance of Mr. Hairy Green. First, we need a statue. Hell, put it opposite on the intersection facing Eos—our version of Beauty and the Beast, Bartholomew County style!

Planning a Mill Race Monster Festival

Secondly, we need a place to host it: Mill Race Park! Boom! Festival planning comes naturally to me—it’s a gift. A 5K run with participants dressed as the monster? Of course! And lastly, we need the city to plan, approve, and pay for this. Since they took the monster away, they should bring him back. They’d eventually loosen up enough to see the monetary value and the community benefits of having some silly, old-fashioned fun.

Columbus: Embrace the Beast!

Who honestly cares what happened? Let’s party! We can justify it as part of our local heritage. Seymour, Indiana, doesn’t have its own damn monster—not even close. What do they have? Lutherans? Nice try, Seymour. Greensburg, Indiana? Get outta here with your stupid shrub growing out of your courthouse tower. So what? We have a flippin’ monster! Columbus, give us our monster, I say, with my voice of pitchforks and torches! For Columbus to be unexpected, unforgettable—sprinkle it with some unexplainable. I dare you to see what happens.

A Call to Action: Vote for the Monster

As the citizens of Columbus head towards the polls on November 7th, 2023, they’ll be voting for the next mayor. Their choices are either Mary Ferdon, a Republican, or Sean Burton, an Independent. I encourage everyone in the city limits to contact both mayoral candidates NOW, before Election Day, and ask them if they’d support starting an annual Mill Race Monster Festival. If not, I wouldn’t vote for either. It would be better if everyone voted for The Mill Race Monster as a write-in for mayor. Even if the people’s will is defeated this round, if we continue this fight in the ballot box, even if it takes years, Hairy Green will eventually come out on top—with a proper festival. After all, monster stories last forever, no matter if you’ve stopped looking under your beds at night.

Besides, not counting that burgomaster creature of a different hue from a few years back, Columbus has never had an incredibly cool monster in City Hall.

Carpe diem, Columbus, Indiana!

And long live The Mill Race Monster!

— Evel Ogilville

#KeepItMeanWithHairyGreen

#MillRaceMonsterFest

#MoreGreenSpaceLessExplanation

#DontTranquilizeTheCandidate

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Timeline:

Mill Race Monster

(also known as (Hairy Green) Monster of Mill Race Park)
Mill Race Park, Columbus, Indiana

November 1, 1974 — The First Reports

Around 3 p.m.: Four young women reported seeing a strange figure near the paved boat ramp at the west end of Fifth Street along the White River. The description published the next day included a creature that was green, hairy, approximately six feet tall, walking upright, and had claws.

Around 11:45 p.m.: Two other young women reported an encounter in the park. They said a figure jumped onto the hood of their car, leaving scratches in the paint.

Police searched the park after both reports but found nothing. The two encounters were reported before the first newspaper story appeared.

November 2, 1974 — The First Headline

The Republic published “Monster / Women Report Seeing ‘Beast’ in Mill Race.” The article said six young women had made two separate reports: four during the afternoon and two later that night.

The newspaper reported that officers hoped the figure was a misguided hobgoblin that had lost track of Halloween. Even so, residents were advised to take care and watch for the “monster.”

November 5, 1974 — The Covered Bridge

Around 4 p.m., two men in their twenties reported seeing a large, hairy figure near the park’s covered bridge. They returned with binoculars that evening and reported another encounter shortly before midnight. According to their account, the figure chased them out of the park.

One of the men suggested the creature might have been left behind by visitors from another planet. The Republic’s November 6 report connected that speculation to earlier UFO reports in the region.

November 5 was Election Day, and the newspaper headline asked: “Mill Race Monster Makes Appearance After Voting?”

November 7, 1974 — The Hunt Escalates

By Thursday night, dozens of people were searching the park on foot and in cars. Authorities counted 28 cars at 11 p.m.

Some searchers carried knives, and one carried a club. Police and park officials warned that a hunter, another person in the park, or someone playing the monster could be hurt.

November 8, 1974 — The Dogcatchers

At approximately 9 a.m., city dogcatchers Rick Duckworth and John Brown reported encountering a figure in the park.

According to the November 9 Indianapolis Star, the men had been dispatched to rescue two cats in a tree. While considering how to reach the cats, they saw a figure about 200 feet away. Duckworth described it as a large man wearing a green mask and wrapped in green blankets, with long reddish hair hanging in its face.

When Duckworth approached, the figure ran into the woods. Duckworth compared its speed to a deer. After the cats were lowered, they ran away, with one reportedly disappearing into a sewer line. Duckworth said the cats were frightened and proposed using the tranquilizer gun he carried for dogs if he encountered the figure again.

The November 8 Republic described Duckworth as having been on routine patrol; the November 9 Star described a cat-rescue dispatch.

November 8–9, 1974 — The Park Is Barricaded

With crowds continuing to gather, parks director Robert Gillikin said the growing number of people searching the park created a danger.

The closure report “‘Green Monster’ No Danger, People Are” says Gillikin counted more than 100 cars in the park on Friday night. The park was closed and barricaded at approximately 1 a.m. during the November 8–9 overnight period, with further nighttime closures planned.

Officials said the purpose was to protect people from one another, including the possibility that armed searchers might hurt someone they believed was playing the monster.

November 11, 1974 — Monster Control

The Republic reported that Mill Race Park remained closed from dusk to dawn. A definite reopening date had not been announced.

Police Officer Kenneth St. John was designated the unofficial “Monster Control Officer,” handling inquiries from newspapers, radio stations, and television stations. The story had attracted attention beyond Columbus.

November 12, 1974 — “Enough’s Enough”

The Republic published an editorial titled “Enough’s Enough,” describing the monster hunt as a dangerous disturbance and the nighttime closure as indefinite.

The editorial reported police turning away 135 cars Friday night, 60 Saturday, and 30 Sunday—about 225 car turnaways across the three nights.

It also described a report that the monster was in a homeowner’s garage. When police arrived, the residents said they had not made the report and had not seen a monster.

November 14, 1974 — A Concerned Reader

A letter to the editor signed “A Concerned Reader” encouraged the public to ignore the supposed attention-seeker, arguing that the monster would stop performing if the hunters stayed away.

November 20, 1974 — A Monster Roast?

A “Monster Roast” was listed as an item on the Mill Race Park Committee’s agenda. The reference shows how the episode had become material for local humor. Whether a roast actually took place remains to be confirmed from the full clipping.

October 31, 1993 — A Witness Looks Back

In Nancy Wheeler’s Republic article “The monster of Mill Race,” an unnamed woman associated with the nighttime car encounter recalled a frightening figure with a pale or greenish-white face, long fingernails like claws, and fangs. She said it did not look like someone wearing a mask or playing a prank.

The article included an illustration credited to Tyra Cataline.

October 31, 2003 — Strange Footprints

In Dave Evensen’s Republic article “Residents laugh about ’74 ‘monster’ hoax,” Sgt. Dennis Knulf said police thought someone had been playing a hoax, but they did not know for sure.

Evensen reported that the woman said footprints had never been found, while Knulf said strange footprints were found at some point during the month. The article did not describe their size, location, or what became of them.

The 2003 article also said nobody had ever admitted to the hoax.

October 30, 2014 — An Account of an Admission

In “Legend of the Monster Lives On,” Republic columnist Harry McCawley quoted retired officer Dennis Knulf describing a person who had admitted dressing in costume to scare people.

According to Knulf’s account, the person expressed regret. Knulf said no charges were pursued because the person had not really committed a crime.

The column did not publicly name the person, date the admission, or specify which encounters the person admitted staging.

2015 — A Witness’s Later Recollection

In Monsters and Mysteries in America, Tyra Cataline described a frightening car encounter, including a grimacing face, fangs, and the figure apparently trying to bite through the windshield. She also recalled a terrible odor on the outside of the car afterward, comparing it to decomposing animals.

On March 12, 2015, Harry McCawley returned to the story in his Republic column “Monstrous Endeavor: Columbus: Home of largest monster hunt in U.S. history.” He recounted Knulf’s account of an admission and discussed the television program. McCawley also mentioned the bad smell in describing the later witness account.

The original November 2, 1974 brief reported the car-hood contact and scratches; the odor appears in the later accounts identified above.

Sources:

Special thanks to Eunice Specter for her research. And a shoutout to cryptozoologist Chris McDaniel and his book, Spooky Reports of Strange Encounters, for keeping the legend of Hairy Green going.

(The Republic: 11/2/74; 11/6/74; 11/8/74; 11/9/74; 11/11/74; 11/12/74; 11/20/74; 10/31/93; 10/31/03; 10/30/14; 3/12/2015; Indianapolis Star: 11/9/74; 11/10/74)