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.

Subscribe now

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.

Subscribe now

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.

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.

Subscribe now

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.

Video:

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.

Videos:

Share

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.

Share

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.)

Video:

Subscribe now

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.

Video:

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.

Video:

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

• ---

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

  Share

  ---

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.

Subscribe now

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:

Share

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.

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

Subscribe now

Video:

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

Share

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.

Subscribe now

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

👉 Sign the Petition Here

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 connected to its history may have never truly left.

Reports of Paranormal Activity

• A couple of visitors reported witnessing a closet door slamming on its own.

• A repairman visiting the second floor for a service call saw a “man” moving in the shadows. When he tried to engage him, this “man” dropped to all fours and crawled into an access point under the floor. Alarmed, the repairman called the police, but a sweep revealed no footprints in the dust and undisturbed cobwebs across the access point.

Despite decades of abandonment, something—or someone—still stirs in this unused space.

Our Paranormal Investigation: April 10th, 2016

Hearing reports of mysterious activity, I set out to investigate 410 1/2 Washington Street firsthand. I stepped into the building with Mike Culwell and a couple of friends, equipped with our gear but no specific expectations. From the moment we set up, it was clear this would be no ordinary night. Bangs, footsteps, dragging noises, and unexplained door movements filled the air. With recorders running, we began capturing phenomena that went beyond the typical creaks of an old building settling.

VIDEO:

Subscribe now

Historical Background of 410 1/2 Washington Street

The upstairs area at 410 1/2 Washington Street has housed various businesses over the years, creating a long trail of life events. These rooms once hosted notable figures, like Dr. J.F. Wright, a well-regarded physician and surgeon, along with several other significant tenants.

Here’s a breakdown of the businesses that occupied this address over the years:

• Medical Practices:

• Pre-1879? Dr. J.F. Wright, physician and surgeon, ran his practice and lived here for several decades, becoming synonymous with high-quality care in the region.

• 1910: J.E. Rhetts Dentistry took over the space, continuing the tradition of medical care.

• 1911: Dr. Alonzo C. Kelble, an optometrist, set up his practice here.

• Diverse Businesses (1933-1947):

• 1933: John C. Hilger, a local tailor, marked the building’s shift from medical offices to more diverse businesses.

• 1946-1947: This period saw agencies like The Hoosier Agency (real estate), Steenbarger’s Real Estate, Rose’s Beauty Shop, and Morgan’s Aquatronic Foot Therapy occupying the space.

The upstairs also served as a residence. Throughout the early 1900s, apartments were rented, with several deaths recorded here:

• 1912: Matthew Pfeiffer, a tuberculosis victim, passed away here.

• 1913: Daniel Miller died in the apartment of his daughter, Mrs. Ida Anderson.

• 1925: Newton Clark, a custodian who lived here, suffered a heart attack after running up the stairs.

Residents listed in city directories include J.F. Lancaster, C.B. Poffenberger, A.K. McCloskey, Lizzie Brattain, and many others, creating a tapestry of past lives that may still echo in the halls.

Dr. J.F. Wright, M.D. (1827-1906): A Notable History

The life and legacy of Dr. J.F. Wright add a complex layer to this location’s history. A well-regarded figure with ties to the community, Wright’s presence here remains palpable. Dr. John Franklin Wright, a descendant of Benjamin Franklin, was one of the most prominent figures tied to this address. After receiving his medical training at Ohio Medical College and completing his surgical studies in Paris, France, Wright began his practice in Columbus, forming a partnership with Dr. Solomon Jackson. Following Jackson’s death, Wright became the go-to physician in Bartholomew County and beyond.

Known for his charitable work, Wright provided free medical care to soldiers’ families during the Civil War. His reputation for “unflinching moral courage and indomitable will” (Biographical Record of Bartholomew County Indiana, 1904) made him beloved in the community. Even while suffering from chronic rheumatism, he advised patients to “lead an active life and never become disheartened.”

Outside medicine, Wright was a yachtsman, a trotting horse owner, and a chess enthusiast. One account mentions he carved a chess set out of elephant ivory that was “unsurpassed in America” (Biographical Record of Bartholomew County Indiana, 1904). Wright married Adelia Irwin in 1857 and, after her death, married Eugenia Mayfield in 1875.

Possible Connection to the Bishop Family Dispute

In 1908, after Wright’s death, a legal battle over his estate began. A woman named May B. Bishop claimed to be his granddaughter and contested his will, which left the estate to his second wife, Eugenia, and niece, Zoe Cook. Though her claim was dismissed, Bishop settled for a cash payment of $5,000. Intriguingly, the name “Bishop” surfaced multiple times during our EchoVox session (an experimental electronic voice phenomenon method), hinting at a possible connection between this unresolved family drama and lingering spirits.

Paranormal Encounters: What We Experienced

The night began with typical sounds but escalated when an interior door—a sealed door with no draft or vacuum pressure—moved on its own before our eyes. Later, my infrared camera captured a movement across the ceiling that resembled someone walking upside down. Initially, I thought it might be a reflection from passing vehicle lights, but reviewing the entire video, I saw the sequence never repeated. While reflections remain a possibility, further visits haven’t replicated what I captured.

At the same time, our EMF (electromagnetic field) meters lit up, and our audio recorders captured odd noises that we couldn’t hear with our own ears. Moments later, the door moved again—this time, creaking and dragging across the floor with significant force. This experience exemplifies the corroborative evidence I often emphasize when documenting paranormal activity. We cannot prove ghosts exist, but capturing strange and compelling moments—like this one—is undeniable.

Adding another layer of mystery, the EchoVox repeated the name “Bishop” throughout the night. Research into Dr. Wright’s estate dispute gave new weight to this name’s appearance.

Final Thoughts on 410 1/2 Washington Street

The investigation at 410 1/2 Washington Street was an eye-opener, intensifying my questions rather than providing answers. Whether the phenomena stem from past residents like Dr. Wright or unresolved family tensions, something seems to echo through this old building. From unexplained noises to mysterious door movements, one thing is certain—this location is far from empty.

What do you think? Could these echoes be remnants of past lives, or is there something else at work in 410 1/2 Washington Street?

Thanks for reading and watching! If you enjoyed this post, please share it with others and don’t forget to like and subscribe to my YouTube channel. Follow my social media for healthier perspectives from the world of the paranormal.

— Evel Ogilville

Share

All historical research was compiled by Paraholics.com researcher, Eunice Specter. Sources include the Biographical Record of Bartholomew County Indiana (1904), The Evening Republican archives, and city directories.

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 depth of this former medical facility. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t. But that feeling of being in over my head didn’t stop me from diving in. From the very beginning, I knew I’d be coming back for a deeper paranormal investigation.

The Indiana State Sanatorium—formerly the Indiana State Tuberculosis Hospital, later a nursing home, and eventually a psychiatric facility—holds layers upon layers of history within its walls. Each room, hallway, and floor seemed to echo with stories of its past lives. Naturally, I wondered how hauntings might vary between different parts of the building. Would a ghost in the psychiatric wing communicate differently than one from the nursing home? Do spirits from different eras and purposes interact, or are they trapped in the time periods they once inhabited? These thoughts swirled around me as I explored the dark, empty corridors of this extraordinary haunted location.

While a few other investigators, including ol’ Mike Culwell, and I captured some EVPs (Electronic Voice Phenomena) on that first visit, none of them reached the clarity of a Class A EVP. Honestly, that’s almost an impossibility—especially when using the controversial Panasonic RR-DR60 recorder, notorious for producing anomalous sounds that some swear by and others debunk. Still, the EVPs we caught, though faint and often unclear, hinted at something more. It was during that initial visit that we believed we received messages about a spirit named Mary—a discovery that would become the foundation for our return.

From the beginning, I made a deliberate choice not to rely heavily on ITC (Instrumental Trans-Communication) devices during this paranormal investigation. I’ve been refining my methods and protocols for a while now, especially when investigating sites steeped in history. The goal is to avoid false positives and only rely on tools when necessary. For example, if I can’t capture a near Class A EVP in the environment itself, I hesitate to introduce other types of ITC devices that might pick up stray signals (ghost box, app, etc..), which could be misconstrued as paranormal communication. It’s a strategy meant to keep myself grounded in what we’re actually experiencing in the location versus being caught up in the instant gratification of perceived responses.

Though the first visit didn’t yield a perfect EVP, it did produce a few that fit the atmosphere of the sanatorium—which is palpable with potential. That reconnaissance mission left me intrigued, curious, and determined to return.

The Search for Mary: An Emotional Return to Indiana’s Most Haunted Sanatorium

Several months later, on February 12, 2023, I found myself back at the Indiana State Sanatorium, this time with a mission and a clearer sense of purpose. I wasn’t alone, either. I was joined by my good friend and fellow investigator, Mike Culwell, as well as Colin Bonnell and Bridget Howell from Paranormal Cases. But this wasn’t just a typical ghost hunt. For Mike, it was personal.

During our first visit, Mike had an unexpected and emotional encounter with a spirit named Mary—or at least, that’s what the faint EVP suggested. We had been exploring the nursing home section of the sanatorium, an area that carries a heavy sense of sadness and abandonment, where time itself seems to stretch and warp. It was here that Mary made her presence known. In that session, she expressed frustration—almost like a cry for help from the other side—and mentioned Room 120. While we don’t have solid historical proof that a woman named Mary lived, died, or even haunted that room, the nature of the sanatorium’s history suggests that it’s possible. With thousands of patients passing through its doors over the years, it’s not hard to believe that one of them could have been named Mary.

What really struck Mike, though, wasn’t just the name or the room number—it was the feeling of unrest that seemed to cling to her presence. You can’t help but feel something when you connect with a spirit like that, whether they’re communicating from the other side or they’re a projection of something deeper within our own psyche. Mike left that first visit genuinely concerned for Mary, and it was her elusive presence that prompted him to return with the hope of reconnecting and possibly offering her peace.

Subscribe now

The Reality of Paranormal Investigations: A Skeptical Take

So, is the Indiana State Sanatorium haunted? In my gut, I believe it is. But proving that scientifically? That’s where things get tricky—and laughable, especially when you look at how most paranormal investigations are presented today. The idea of applying the scientific method—hypothesis, theory, observation, and fact—to ghost hunting is almost absurd, particularly when you consider what passes for “research” on YouTube and in most ghost-hunting groups.

Most paranormal teams, or para-influencers—you know who I mean, the YouTubers and TikTokers—follow a formula: spooky thumbnails, catchy clickbait titles like I Stared Into Satan’s Butthole, dramatized reactions, and a lot of pseudo-scientific and demonic buzzwords to make viewers feel like something profound is happening. Don’t get me wrong—there’s entertainment value in it, and I watch some of these shows myself—but it’s a far cry from any real attempt to prove the paranormal.

For me, ghost hunting is not about making disingenuous claims or chasing down the supernatural for bragging rights and views. It’s about understanding—or at least, trying to. It’s about empathy—for both the living and the potential of the after-living. It’s about those human connections we stumble upon in the strangest places. Mike’s search for Mary wasn’t just a ghost hunt; it was an attempt to help, to offer some kind of peace to a spirit that may or may not have been trapped between worlds.

As paranormal investigators, we’re emotional archaeologists, sifting through layers of time and memory to make sense of these experiences. We dig into the unknown, not just to document eerie moments but to explore deeper existential questions about life, death, and what might lie beyond.

On this second visit, we spent hours in the nursing home wing, calling out for Mary, trying to pick up where we left off. The air was thick with heavy anticipation. In moments like these, you start questioning everything. Does she remember us? Does she want to be found? Was she even real? We waited, we listened, but as is often the case in this field, the answers were elusive. Haunting is a tricky business, after all.

A Haunting Legacy at Indiana’s Most Haunted Location

In the end, we didn’t leave the sanatorium with all the answers. But we did leave with more questions—and sometimes, that’s enough. The Indiana State Sanatorium is haunted—of that, I’m certain. But whether the spirits are truly stuck here or are simply echoes of the past is a mystery we’ll continue to chase.

As I reflect on my experiences at the Indiana State Sanatorium, one thing is clear: this place is eerily reminiscent of every similar location I’ve ever explored. Its vast corridors hold countless stories—some lost to time, others still hanging in the air, waiting to be told. Whether you believe in ghosts or not, the experience of investigating a haunted location like this leaves a mark on you. And that, in itself, is haunting enough.

So, once again, throw on your headphones, sit back, and enjoy our journey through this labyrinth of history and mystery. Whether it’s science or spirit influencing us—or if this is just me staring into Satan’s butthole—that’s for you to decide. Nevertheless, the truth is still out there, waiting in the dark halls of the Indiana State Sanatorium.

Cheers once more,

— Evel Ogilville

P.S. What do you think—Was Mary reaching out for help, or was it something else entirely? Share your thoughts, and stay tuned for more explorations into the unknown.

Subscribe now

Videos:

Part One:

Part Two:

Historic Timeline:

Indiana State Sanatorium

3838 East Old 36 Road, Rockville, IN

Originally Indiana State Tuberculosis Hospital (Old Indiana State Chest Disease Sanatorium) constructed in 1909-10 after state approved purchase of 504-acre property east of nearby Rockville for institution for treatment of the disease. Opened to patients in 1911, quickly exceeding capacity.

During construction, site known as Camp Trudeau after New York physician who established the first laboratory for study of the tuberculosis. Hospital grounds eventually included men’s, women’s and children’s wards, administration building, staff housing, farm and dairy, school, greenhouse and tunnel system. In 1913, State Sanatorium Covered Bridge built to transport coal across Little Raccoon Creek.

Became known as Indiana State Sanatorium (also later as Parke County Sanitarium) in 1919.

Adams Hall staff residence constructed in 1950s with later conversion to psychiatric hospital after development of successful tuberculosis treatment and decline in patients precipitated repurposing of facility.

After conversion to mental health facility, facility closed in 1968-9 and land and buildings sold by state. Later reopened in 1978-80 as privately owned assisted living facility Lee Alan Bryant Health Care Center. State also transferred patients from other mental institutions, resulting in mixed mental health/nursing home patient/resident population.

A history of more than 4,000 deaths and many tragedies as the health care center were said to have contributed to the poor reputation/decline of the facility – including many allegations of resident abuse and deaths. In 2002, a woman found outside dead of hypothermia, and months later a man hanged himself less than quarter-mile away. Residents again wandered away and died in separate 2006 incidents, one struck by a car and the other found in creek; 2009 murder-suicide of two employees.

Facility closed in 2011 after loss of funding. Property abandoned. Purchased in 2020 by Gregg Larson, founder of the Sanatorium Project property restoration effort.

Today’s Indiana State Sanatorium rests on over 200 acres, and offers complete access to more than 120,000 square feet of the historic tuberculosis hospital, a nursing home, a mental hospital, and supporting buildings, including thousands of feet of steam tunnels, and is available for tours and paranormal investigations.

All historical info graciously harvested by the voracious Eunice Specter.

Share

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…

Read more

Please watch the video below before reading the article. Thanks!

Video:

Read more

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…

Read more

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…

Read more

Exploring the Mysteries of Browning Hill: Indiana’s Stonehenge

There’s something to be said about stopping and looking right under your nose. We’ve gotten so distracted by our phones and the Internet that our immediate spatial presence feels wholly corrupted. I’m guilty of this. I’m guilty of looking under my nose but only …

Read more

Investigating Paranormal Activity at Bartholomew County Public Library

When I was first asked to investigate the possibility of the Bartholomew County Public Library being haunted, I have to admit I was a bit caught off guard. I had never heard any specific paranormal claims regarding this library before. However, the two intriguing incidents that were b…

Read more

Introduction to The Crump Theatre’s Haunted History

Columbus, Indiana, is truly a fantastic city. Nestled alongside the White River, Columbus, also called Athens of the Prairie, is known globally for its architectural significance and as the home of Cummins Engine Company. In 2008, National Geographic Traveler ranked C…

Read more

A Long-Awaited Update: Substack, Obscura Vox and Beyond

After 10 years of posting on PARAHOLICS via WordPress, I’ve decided it’s time to move the blog. Why? Well, WordPress has become cumbersome, and my frustration with the platform has only grown. I’ve recently developed a strong preference for Substack. It offers features and benefits that appeal to th…

Read more