Paranormal research is a pop-culture explosion. Growing up, we didn’t know much about it. You basically knew about the group of people who came in to find out what the $%^ happened to Carol-Ann in “Poltergeist”. They weren’t much help. One guys face melts off, and all they really do is anger the ghosts until that little lady with the creepy voice steps in and throws a rope in the closet. It would have been nice of her to show up at the beginning of “The Ring” and let everyone know that all they have to do is (spoiler alert!) close the &^*$#@ hole! Either way, television is now bombarded with…two plumbers, who spend their nights searching through abandoned buildings for paranormal evidence. (Has anyone else noticed that connection?) Most of the shows consist of whispering “Did you hear that?” while whatever they “heard” is being masked by the shows eerie audio additions. This leaves the audience with much to be desired. They take shots at fulfilling this want during the evidence reveals. The way that scenario is plotted out, the team heads back to the local Holiday Inn, spends the night diligently combing through the evidence, comes back the next day to show the spooked customers the goods. In reality, weeks, even months pass before they head back to the location with their “evidence”. The skeptic in me says this gives them plenty of time to whip up some ghosts. Other shows have their reveals mixed right into the action. Adding dynamic characters that spend less time asking “did you hear that?” and more time yelling and belittling these lost souls into revealing their presence. In between the screaming, there are careful edits playing back the EVP’s (Electronic Voice Phenomenon) or DVR (Digital Video Recorder) clips that were caught. The key words are: “careful edits”. Ratings are top priorities. It’s hard for me to imagine a cable network paying salaries based on a program that sends an entire crew across the country, just to have them come back with nothing. They have to beef it up somehow, right?
Maybe not. Maybe they actually have paranormal evidence. My first question is if they really found proof of an afterlife, why isn’t this bigger news? I mean, we are watching these guys reveal alleged pictures, videos and sounds of real ghosts and no one from CNN is jumping in to help announce this to the world. Where is Anderson Cooper with breaking news? “Ladies and Gentlemen, there is now proof, GHOSTS EXIST!” Why isn’t Nancy Grace all over this somehow spinning it into a new twist in the Casey Anthony saga?
The problem lies in the subjectivity of the evidence. No matter what they have, a short EVP, a shadowy figure in a picture, a shape formed in a thermal camera shot, there is always a plausible argument against the value of the evidence. Some believe that when searching for EVP’s humans tend to find patterns in static, almost the same way we find shapes in clouds. Or, they are equipment artifacts, parts of the tape that didn’t erase properly from the last recording. They could also be radio transmissions that somehow leaked into the machine. I can name a specific example of a black form caught on video at Grand Central Terminal in Buffalo, NY. An unnamed source exposed that the black form was one of the show’s producers who accidentally walked into the shot. It was revealed to the owners as what could be paranormal phenomenon. K2 meters (measures electro-magnetic fields, which are said to occur when paranormal activity is present) can be triggered by simply pressing the talk button on a walkie-talkie. Doesn’t leave them with too much credibility does it? I can say this, I was not a believer. I called bull at every moment.
But Jimmy, you are talking in past tense…
You’re damn right I’m talking in past tense!
I was intrigued. I couldn’t help it. As much as I put up a fight against believing in what I was seeing, I needed to understand the draw. I grew up in a household where my Mom claimed to see a ghost standing at the end of her bed at night, wearing a checkered robe no less. She bought right into these shows. There were perfectly relatable. In the same way hearing Nirvana’s “Nevermind“, Green Day’s “Dookie“, and Weezer’s “Blue Album” made me go out, buy a guitar and start a band. She went out, bought some cameras, recorders, and flashlights, and began her paranormal investigator era. Naturally, my knowledge of a recording studio somehow licensed me for knowledge of digital video recording equipment and I was recruited to help her learn how to run all of this. I could have said no and went on living a ghost free life, but like I said, I was intrigued. As natural as I was recruited to help learn the equipment, I was asked to attend one of these h(a)unts. See what I did there?
The first h(a)unt took place at Iron Island Museum, in Buffalo, NY. After having this place hyped to me not only by a couple of TV shows, but other family members whom attended previous hunts, I left disappointed. Besides sitting in the attic with my brother and cracking jokes about manifesting farts, the only highlight of the night was that of a flashlight turning on, upon voice command, while it was sitting on the altar in the chapel room. It was my first paranormal moment, and it did catch me off guard. However, after further investigation, the altar seemed to move slightly as the heating system kicked on, which could easily roll the Mag-Lite just enough to complete the circuit, thus illuminating the room. It was a fantastic coincidence, which seemed to be a trending theme throughout the night. This furthered my growing skepticism on the subject. I could easily say “I ain’t afraid of no ghost” because, truly, there weren’t any to be afraid of.
The next h(a)unt took place at a residence. The unfortunate inhabitants of this home seemed to be bothered by phantom noises and relocated trinkets. Most of the activity took place in the upper area of the house, while most of the family was gathered together in the downstairs living room. I immediately dismissed every story the family handed over. They had two dogs, and three cats, all of which were running around upstairs causing all sorts of ruckus while we were briefed on the ghostly high jinks in the living room. I tried to keep an open mind. We went room to room, trying to discover just one tiny piece of evidence, and I thought we struck gold with one photo from my Blackberry’s camera. In what could have been one of the biggest “what-the?” moments of my life, I thought I captured a ghost. Take a look at these:
What in the hell is that figure on the left side of Picture B?!
These are two identical shots. One has a figure, one does not. Did I just miss capturing and entire entity on my Blackberry?! We had a room full of high-tech equipment and there I was, snapping shots with my cell phone, and POW! “We got oooonnnnneee”! I spent the next hour being a pretentious ass, telling everyone how useless their equipment was. I captured the team’s first ghost on my cell phone. I showed my evidence to the family. They were waiting patiently in their make-shift living room in the back garage. I think they felt some closure. I felt some accomplishment and a new hope that maybe there is something else out there. That is until I investigated of the photo. I wanted to know what I captured. It didn’t take a great deal investigating. I threw it into MS Paint, inverted the colors, and bickity-bam, we got ourselves the sleeve of a t-shirt! Someone walked into the shot. Take a glance at those threads, not so paranormal after all.
I now had even further proof of the pile of crap that is tossed upon the viewers of these programs. I was more skeptical than ever. Either that or I was a horrible investigator.
My streak as a ghost hunter could not end on a false claim. The next opportunity: the now legendary Ohio State Reformatory in Mansfield, Ohio, otherwise known as Shawshank Penitentiary. How could anyone pass up a private all-night tour? Ghosts, or no ghosts, this was going to be an event. The Reformatory is no joke. It is a massive, castle-like structure, built in the Victorian Gothic and Richardsonian Romanesque style. It houses the world’s tallest free-standing steel cell block. Each wing (East & West) has six tiers of cells, totaling six-hundred. Two-hundred and fifty thousand square feet was ours to explore. I will admit it was a bit intimidating. We went from Bobby and Betty McGee’s rooms that go bump in the night to a prison that could house some severely pissed-off souls. These people were murderers, rapists and thieves, not Grandma Jane who decided to stop in and visit in between heavenly bridge games.
I was excited to be able to explore, especially wandering around the abandoned movie sets. Seeing “Brooks was here, so was Red” carved into a beam, in person, was pretty surreal. I could only compare it to the moment I stood on stage at a sold out Metropolis in Montreal opening for “No Use for a Name“, you feel like you have arrived. This time there were a few unexplainable events. Phantom smells of cigars, strange sounds of rattling, creaking, and footsteps showed up to let us know, this isn’t going to be an ordinary night. Well not ordinary by any means, but not too active either. Once again, we were edging on 2AM and I didn’t feel like we had one piece of credible evidence.
Scott, a tour guide and caretaker at the Reformatory let us know he had some plans to change the night’s fortune. We were told to meet in the buildings former “mess hall” at precisely 3AM, the most “active” time of the night. We were given a simple task. Walk the third tier catwalk on the west wing, all alone, no equipment, no camera, no recorder, no flashlight, just you and the building. Apparently when equipment is being used, it takes hold of your attention and diverts you from the happenings. Without it, you leave yourself open to experience what the building has to offer. Fair enough. My mind went to the same place all of yours just did. “%$#@ that, it’s just going to be a bunch of haunted house pranks and now I have no way to record it…tricky bastards.” Whatever, I was game. Bring it on.
My brother Marc, went first. We watched the DVR monitor showing him cautiously head down the catwalk and disappear into the darkness. The cell block was about a quarter mile. It took him about four minutes to return. And excuse the pun, but he came back white as a ghost, shaking, and on the verge of tears. One of the catches of this experiment was that we were not allowed to share what happened until everyone in the group completed the mission. Show and tell would be held at the end. My Mom went second. Again, she came back looking terrified. She came back looking terrified and she is the one who is into this crap, and I’m next. [insert expletive].
I walked through the glass doors and into the cement-dust laden air. The catwalk was decrepit and creepy looking with the lights on, and now alone in the dark it had a sinister look to it. I turned the corner to get to the walkway where my journey would begin and stared down the long corridor. On my left is a cage that travels down the length of the walkway, walling off the three story drop and providing a view of the immense space of the wing. On my right is the entire cell block, each cell door open. I stood there contemplating turning back, thinking about what I would see sitting in each cell. I looked at the large frosted windows that led to the courtyard; they barely provided enough light to see. I began to kung-fu kick and punch the air. I don’t know why, but it’s the only reaction I could muster up to get myself to move. My mind went to memories of watching the well known ghost hunters lock themselves in cells and lie in morgue refrigeration units. I spit out a stream of obscenities, cursed the building, put my hood up and walked. Each step blasted an echo throughout the building, a crunching sound of my feet digging through the dust of decay. I didn’t look left or right, I stared ahead hoping to see the first turn. My fear at this point was barreling through the bars, falling three stories and becoming part of the building. I slowed up, found the turn, took it and trucked through the short part of the block. I was now on the opposite side, the farthest point from being back in the safe room. I found the other corner, turned and once again was head-on with another long corridor of bars and cells. I looked into a few cells this time, greeted with old bunk frames and moldy sinks. I had the feeling of being followed. Towards the end of the corridor I saw what looked to be smoke billowing from an empty cell, no light, just a mist like formation slowly leaving a cell. As I approached at full panic-walk speed, the entire apparition was sucked back in. I almost vomited. I sped back into the room to an eruption of laughter. I was shaking, clammy and only gone for about forty-five seconds.
One by one the group took their turns and we all patiently waited to tell our stories.
Both my brother Marc and my Mom saw a prisoner sitting in a cell, turning his head to look at them. It was as if he never left. He may have thought they were the guards on their nightly walk-through. Marc felt someone grab his shoulder and yell “Hey!” A few others had the same sense of being followed. My mist story was confirmed to be a common event as Scott held a photograph of a similar situation. But alas, not one piece of hard evidence was recovered from the night by our group. We went through over twenty-eight hours of video, even more audio, and piles of photos. Not one had a single piece of proof.
I am a product of four. I am one of four brothers. Both my mother and father are one of four siblings. So maybe it is fitting that on my forth trip into the realm of the unknown, I ventured back with something substantial to talk about. This one took place almost a year to the day of the Mansfield experience. I had a year to stew on what happened in that building, and the fact that we had nothing to back it up. If anything, I gained a new found respect for the television groups. The circumstances they put themselves into and the question the viewers should ask. “If I was given that opportunity, would I take it?” Well once again, I was given the opportunity, and with reluctance this time, I took it. Reluctance not because I was scared, but because it was becoming frustrating spending nights in old buildings trying to find proof of the afterlife and coming up empty. The imagination is a powerful tool and I was beginning to believe that that is what all of this was. In an intense situation the mind could play some serious tricks on you.
The location of this h(a)unt was Hill View Manor, in New Castle, Pennsylvania. Its history notes that it was created to be a home for the county’s helpless, aged, chronically and mentally ill citizens. The building sizes in at about sixty-three thousand square feet, and the interior is maze-like. Even after spending an entire night inside the beast, I couldn’t walk you through it. The stories that were given out on this tour were nothing of which I have ever encountered before. In Mansfield, there were some deaths, and the thoughts of murderous lost souls were intimidating to say the least. At Hill View, the death count was well over ten thousand. Thousands died of a tuberculosis outbreak and many were buried in the backyard, wrapped only in a blanket and buried at the depth of about three feet. It was not uncommon to see an arm or leg sticking up through the grass. We were given names of popular individuals who still remain, and make appearances from time to time. One individual was a boy named Jeffery. He inhabits part of the East wing of the building, which is allegedly the most haunted. From the story, if a resident happen to catch a glimpse of the Jeffery ghost, they would die within a week’s time. Jeffery’s room was littered with toys. I wanted to avoid Jeffery’s room. Each floor had a story, each room had a story. With so many residents it was hard not to hold a rich history. The story that I held onto was the story of a man simply known to us as Jim. Jim was a longtime resident with a mild mental handicap. He called the third floor home. Jim spent most of his days holding onto a Polaroid camera, and taking countless photos of his friends and neighbors. He loved to smoke and would often trade photos for cigarettes. He would even trick some folks into handing over cigarettes knowing he had run out of film. Some of the photos Jim took still remain throughout the building. I was once again intrigued and ready to start our research.
My girlfriend and team photographer Leah dropped out first. We spent a good part of the evening exploring the basement and lower floor. She had an interest in talking to this Jim character, maybe share some photography tips. We ventured to the third floor. In an under three minute trip, she had a large black mass block her view of the hallway. The mass was inches from her face. This was enough for her to call it quits and retire to the safe room. This was enough for me to take the place seriously. I had a lot of close calls throughout the night. Brian, another brother of mine on his first hunt, tried to retreat also, as he thought he heard high heels stomping through the hallway of the first floor. Even though we debunked this as a serious water leak in room 128, he was in the safe room with Leah before 2AM. We were told this place was a haven for EVP’s. It lived up to the hype. Before his retirement, Brian had some luck when he was with a group using a device called a “Frank’s Box” “or even simpler a “Spirit Box”. This device scans quickly through a series of radio frequencies, creating quick snippets of white noise. It supposedly is able to let spirits come in and talk through the box. Brian, Mom and Marc all allegedly spoke to a spirit named Elisha. Elisha wanted help and wanted her Mommy and said it many times. Brian was a killer linebacker in high school but on this night he hid his head in his arms in the corner of a “safe room”.
The problem with the “Frank’s Box” is, you are scanning through radio channels. A quick snippet of a voice could easily be misinterpreted as an answer. Like I said, the imagination is a powerful tool. But, what if the voice you hear happens to show up in between the radio snippets, loud and clear, and a direct response to your question, in the proper amount of time in which a question should be answered? I came away with two EVP’s on this night. One was simply taken when Marc and I were walking down the hallway on the first floor. We heard nothing during our walk, just had a conversation about how messed up this place is, but when listening back, I was very surprised to find we had a pal with us. As we were talking, over the top of our voices, a disembodied moan appears. I have no explanation for this.
The second was near the same walkway, with the Frank’s Box. We were standing in the middle of what used to be large community room/atrium. We seemed to be communicating with the Jim as the, what-could-have-been-a-misinterpreted-radio-signal, told us. One point in the conversation changed everything. Marc calls out, “Jim, what kind of cigarettes do you like?” And at this moment, the unthinkable happened. We received a response. Not some static-filled-could-be response; a clear as day, loud, conversational response that cut through everyone of us in the room. The voice called out “Winston” without missing a beat. Now there is a man who knows what he wants. I checked the recorder over and over, thinking maybe this was all my imagination playing tricks again. It was not. It was there, a voice in the night with no physical presence, caught by a simple digital voice recorder. One easy question and one clear answer that without doubt opened up a whole new realm of answers.
I used to smoke, and not a day goes by without thinking about wanting another one. Jim, you give me no hope that the feeling goes away. I went into this adventure a skeptic. If anyone from here on out asks me if I believe in ghosts, I’m going to send them to Hill View. When you get there, light one up, and go talk to my new friend Jim.