It is indeed a special date, one that we will never see again in this life, 12-12-12.
Is it a lucky date? It is if you make it so! I am hearing it called "sound check" day by my friends and others in the entertainment industry for the words so commonly heard when preparing the sound system, "1-2, 1-2, 1-2, is that good?"
I also know that it is referred to as a "bonzer" date which happens every time the month and day match 11-11, 12-12, 03-03, etc. and is used as an excuse to party (as if we need an excuse, right?) Or Alliteration day for the obvious repetition of numbers. To me... it's Wednesday.
Living in the lifestyle of seven day weekends (retirement), the day or date takes on much less significance, except for possibly the 1st of the month when we have to remember to do all of the usual bill paying chores, etc., otherwise, who cares... when do we eat?
The story you are about to read is probably the last one that I can squeeze out of my experiences at mental hospitals. Which doesn't mean that there aren't a nearly unlimited supply of interesting and amazing tales to be told about them; I just don't know them.
My brief dalliance with considering a career as a mental health professional, was erased by the sadness that I felt every time I went to one of these facilities. When I looked into the haunted eyes of the patients I could feel their pain and suffering and it nearly drove me mad.
The tale before you is true and what you will read may leave you scratching your head, as indeed I still am. Here we go. Enjoy!
Ghosts in the Hall
I recommend that anyone reading this story first read the
previous one titled “Herbert”, and ideally all three of the “Looney Bin”
stories to give you better understanding of this one.
It was a lot for a high school psychology student to
grasp, even one as intelligent and sophisticated as I thought that I was. If
only youth included the wisdom and experience of past generations in our DNA.
Experience really is the best teacher, but I wish that she wouldn’t slap me
around quite as much.
I had been drawn into the story of a schizophrenic
individual and found myself more qualified to be admitted, than to help treat
him.
I was a bundle of mixed emotions after the incident with
Joshua and nearly didn’t write my report, which would have been catastrophic to
my semester grade. My teacher, Mrs. B., ever the cool lady, convinced me that I
had something valuable to contribute and I did it, gaining another “A” for my
efforts.
We had a long talk about what Joshua had said was going on
in the hospital regarding electroshock and other scary types of treatments and
to my horror Mrs. B. confirmed that it was true. It was 1971 and I felt like I
had just glimpsed the methods of the Spanish Inquisition in 1480. I really,
really didn’t like it.
With approximately twelve thousand patients of many
different categories and ailments and a doctor to patient ratio of more than
100:1, it was nearly beyond human capability to treat anyone. They appeared to
be doing their best to take care of everyone’s physical needs, but as far as
effective treatment for mentally ill people; I had my doubts.
My fellow student Barbara and I had only been to two of the
nearly one hundred buildings on that sprawling property. It more resembled a
college campus with grand red brick buildings surrounding a domed majestic
white main building that looked like a government capitol office. The grounds
were covered with pecan trees and farmed areas that once independently
supported the huge hospital’s needs.
I was hesitant to go back to the hospital for the last
project available for the school year, but I wanted to pursue something that I
had heard about from staffers in the cafeteria there. I just couldn’t let it go
for some reason.
The Inspiration
Some people would talk about the many sightings of “the
people who aren’t there,” as they were called in whispered conversations, and
many would not. Ghosts are not something lightly discussed among the largely under-educated
and highly religious population that makes up the work force at this huge
mental hospital. Some even fear being admitted as patients if they admit to
seeing those that still inhabit the old buildings that are shuttered and
abandoned.
While visiting the staff cafeteria I happened to sit close
to the kitchen door and serving line, thereby being in a position to overhear a
conversation between two employees.
The language is as accurate as I can recall it, and took
place between two middle aged African-American women as they worked.
“I saw her again last night when I was walking home past
that building,” said one lady to her friend.
“You can’t be talking about that or they will lock you up,”
replied her co-worker. “We daren’t talk about haints (ghosts) or Mr. Jim (their
white supervisor) will do something bad. He don’t believe in them and gets mad
when anyone speaks of them who ain’t there!”
I was curious about the woman seeing a ghost on more than
one occasion, and about why they were so afraid of reprisal for speaking about
it. I also knew that as a young white boy outsider, they would never open up to
me when they were already afraid of speaking about the subject.
It was indeed fortunate that I had made friends with an
older black man named Leone who not only worked there, but was a fourth generation
employee. He seemed elderly to me at the time, but thinking back, he was
probably in his fifties. His gray hair and dignified manner gave him the air of
a man of wisdom and years.
His wife Sarah, and now his son Joseph, who, thanks to his
parents saving their wages and helping him, had just graduated from medical
school, also worked there.
Leone was in a great position to know things about the
hospital having lived his entire life there, and being the keeper of the keys
for the main building. He was responsible for other buildings too, but the main
building was the most important and was where you could find him most of the
time.
Sarah was in charge of the cleaning staff for the main
building after having spent twenty years responsible for the same thing in the
women’s dormitory building, which was considered a less important job and not
as “visible.”
She was not bitter about anything, but Joseph and I had more
than one conversation about how white women would be hired for the management
jobs right out of high school if they were a daughter or niece of a board
member, etc., but it took twenty years or more for any of the black staff to
reach such a position.
Joseph was doing his internship in a very rough spot; the
maximum security wing. This set of buildings occupies what used to be the
African-American dormitories and treatment facilities during the not so distant
past period when the hospital was segregated by race, as well as gender and
type of medical problem. Now it was full of often violent and always
unpredictable patients who frequently assaulted the staff and each other. It
was the hospital prison essentially.
Even with him being six feet tall and looking like the
athlete that he was, Joseph still had problems. The young, white female doctor
who preceded him only lasted two weeks before she asked for either reassignment
or termination. It seemed like getting rid of new doctors was sport for the
inmates.
The Project
It must seem odd to most people that we even had this
opportunity to visit the mental hospital, being high school students. I can
only offer two bits of explanation: five students in this class scored higher
than first year college students on course specific tests, and our teacher was
either a former colleague or fellow college alumni of several staff doctors
there. Additionally, two of us scored “off the charts” (teacher’s words) on
aptitude tests for the field of psychology. We were her pet freaks.
For my last project of the school year, (and my senior
year), I again faced the options: a chance to write another report from a visit
to the state mental hospital, or spend hours in the library either at school or
downtown researching some mental health ailment or issue to attempt to write
about. It only took one prompt from Mrs. B. and I went for the field trip
again. She really knew how to push my buttons! I was also going alone this time
as Barbara was at a music competition playing her cello.
My challenge was how to relate ghost stories to psychology
more than to prove or disprove their existence. I was glad of that, because I
didn’t think that I could get an interview with a ghost!
Getting to the source
Making good time on my trip I arrived a little bit earlier
than planned and went directly to the main building (after checking in) and
walked what seemed to me to be miles hunting for Leone. You have to remember
that this was before cell phones existed and the administration seriously
frowned upon paging anyone below the rank of doctor.
I wondered in my own mind if that was only for white doctors
or would they page Joseph for me. It might have been 1971 but it still felt
like 1950 to me most of the time that I was at that hospital.
Trying to keep my worst enemy, my own mouth, in check, I
elected to just go back to the reception desk to wait for my appointment time.
It was the right thing to do as I spotted Leone at the desk as I rounded the
corner. I should have just waited there instead of chasing my own tail around
the property.
I had made the appointment under the guise of talking to him
about the history of the hospital grounds. The administrative staff was happy
to not have to bother with that, as let’s face it; I was a “nobody.” To them, any
“underling” employee was good enough for me. I was completely happy with
talking to Leone, as I didn’t think that I would get a straight answer out of
any of the rest of them.
Previous conversations had taught me not to bring up the
subject of ghosts or “the people who aren’t there” in the presence of the
bosses, so I waited until we were all the way outside in the fresh air before I
told Leone what I really wanted. This is what I learned from him.
The History
Over the history of the hospital, which was originally
called a Lunatic, Idiot and Epileptic Asylum, between twenty and thirty
thousand people had died there (1842-1971).
Many of the original patients were Confederate soldiers or
slaves with either mental or physical problems, or in some cases, just nowhere
else to go. A large percentage of patients were people with no families or
means of support. Many were simply dropped off and abandoned there. The end
result in almost all of these cases was the same, a grave marked with a metal
post and a numbered tag.
In one burial spot some two thousand African-Americans were
interred over the years, until the board of directors decided to build a new dormitory
building on the very spot where they were resting. They unceremoniously dug
them all up and buried them all together in a pit grave. A horrific deed that
even today, is still trying to be rectified and the bones identified and
reburied.
It is that building which was erected over these violated
resting places that is the first specific location of this tale.
The Ghosts in the Hall
This story is just one dandelion seed floating on the wind,
compared to the thousands of untold tales of woe that live in this old place.
Leone told me of many sightings in buildings both occupied
and not, with more in the abandoned ones. Some had been investigated in those
days before “ghost hunting” was a popular past-time, with the hopes of finding
a squatter or vagrant as the culprit.
Only once did they find someone; a poor old man sleeping in
the very building which was built over the souls of those who had passed on. He
claimed that he wanted to be close to his beloved Mary Rose, who had been a
nurse there. The old man insisted that he spoke with her on many occasions.
A few days after the man was quietly removed and taken away
by the police, a worker passing by that same building after their shift spotted
a figure carrying a candle walking past an upstairs window. They were not part
of the investigation and had no way of knowing that they had just reported
activity in the same room where Mary Rose “lives.”
This report was checked out the next day, (after it got
light outside), and no evidence was found of anyone being there. After two more
reports in the same exact location, Leone was ordered to board and nail the
door to that room; but the sightings continued.
During the day there were reports of laughter heard by those
who got near the building and the sheriff from town was called to investigate.
He drove up in his car along with two deputies carrying shotguns and acting
very brave. The three of them went inside the old structure to check it out.
The lawmen ordered two of the hospital maintenance crew to
go inside with them to remove the boards over the door to Mary Rose’s room, but
they refused to even enter the building. The exact expression from Leone was
“those two black men turned nearly white and ran away as fast as their legs
would carry them.”
By the time the police officers came back out they were no
longer swaggering and quickly climbed into the car and sped off.
When questioned by the hospital administrator later in town
they said that they found no one inside, but felt like they were being watched
and followed everywhere they walked. The sheriff declared this to be a state
problem and would not have anything more to do with it. Leone said that they
(the three lawmen) refused to ever speak of it again. Everyone knew that they
were scared, but didn’t dare say so to them.
The man who wanted to be close to Mary Rose was brought back
to the hospital as a patient because the judge didn’t know what else to do with
him, and thought that he was crazy. He was assigned a locked room (cell) in the
main building dormitory wing.
We joined Sarah for lunch in a small, quiet dining room at
the back of the main building which used to be a “blacks only” (the sign was
still there but painted over with white paint) eating facility and largely
still was, although not “officially”. I got some strange looks from
African-American employees who were leaving as we came in.
Smiling at me and nodding his head towards his wife, Leone asked
Sarah to tell me what she had seen and heard. It took some convincing as Sarah
was very reluctant to speak and pulled the cross hanging around her neck out to
hold as she began the story.
The man who loved Mary Rose was named Abraham and was in his
eighties, possibly nineties, he wasn’t sure himself. They guessed at the time
that he was born in the late 1880’s from what he described, when he bothered to
talk at all.
He would quite often sit for hours and not speak a word,
regardless of whether anyone spoke to him or not. Without any outward warning
sign, he would turn his head as if to look at someone speaking to him and nod
his head and reply to this unseen person.
It scared the life out of the young black orderlies and
cleaning staff assigned to his section as they tried to see or hear who he was
conversing with. Finally one of the braver girls approached Sarah to ask what
to do as they were afraid that “haints” were among them and would do them harm.
Sarah said that she
chastised the girl and quoted scriptures to her and told her that there were no
haints or ghosts in that building.
She hung her head a
little and said that even then she wasn’t sure about the building where Mary
Rose lived. Leone spoke up and said, “You wouldn’t go near that building in the
daylight!” Sarah admitted that what he said was true and that it wasn’t right
to build on that graveyard and disturb all those souls like that.
One night when a girl
(employee) was out sick and she had to fill in, Sarah herself was working near
Abraham’s door and heard him speaking in his room. As she opened the flap on
his door to look in she thought that she saw candle light and smelled hot wax.
Looking me in the
eyes Sarah said,“Mister Ken, I know what candle wax smells like!” She was
visibly shaking a little as she watched me for a reaction. I just sat there
with my mouth hanging open, entranced as I almost smelled it (hot wax) myself.
“What did you do
then,” I asked getting a strange feeling in my stomach.
“I opened his door to
make sure that he didn’t have a candle as they were not allowed. Patients could
catch their clothes or bedding on fire. I went inside, watching him as he sat
on his bed, ready to run for my life if he moved. Mister Ken, I smelled candle
wax like it was under my nose in my own hand! But there was no candle there,
anywhere!” She said, still obviously very disturbed.
“But that wasn’t the
worst thing,” she continued. “I took his water pitcher out because it wasn’t
supposed to be left in the room overnight. The male patients would sometimes
pee in them and the bosses got really upset if they did that. As I backed out
of the room, keeping my eyes on Mister Abraham, I felt like I was backing into
an icehouse it was so cold on my back!” said the woman with sweat rolling down
her face as she told me this.
“Mister Ken, I locked
that door with the keys I carried hooked to my belt with a chain and put that
pitcher down on a table across the hall and two doors down. When the morning
girl came to relieve me that pitcher was gone! I ran to Mister Abraham’s door
and opened the flap and that pitcher was in his room again on his table.” She
said shaking her head in disbelief as she relived that troubling event.
Sarah raised the
cross to her lips and kissed it and said that she couldn’t talk about it
anymore. Leone patted her on the back as he too, remembered that morning.
When we went back
outside Leone said that a woman in what appeared to be a Victorian period
nurses uniform, like in some of the old photos hanging on the wall in the
administrative offices, had been sighted in the hall outside of Abraham’s room
several times by different people, both white and black. When the staff
attempted to catch up with her she was nowhere to be found.
The worst was yet to
come: the sightings in the shuttered building continued and a wheel came off of
the car of a white staff member who made fun of the story of Mary Rose and
Abraham; right in front of the hall where Mary Rose “lived.” Try as they might,
no one was able to assign blame for that event to any particular cause.
The crushing blow
came when after yet another nighttime sighting of the Victorian nurse in the
hallway, the following morning Abraham was not in his locked room. All three
sets of keys were accounted for and each key holder had witnesses as to their
whereabouts all night.
It was obvious that
the man was not in his room, yet no one could account for his physical
location. The grounds were searched as a matter of routine, but they kept
coming back to the fact that the door could not be opened from the inside when
locked and it had not been unlocked from the outside until the morning bed
check.
There was also the
matter of the odor of candle wax in his room, smelled by everyone who checked
(including Sarah and Leone). It is worth noting that there were no candles used
there, the building was fully equipped with electric lights.
The very next day the
remaining few patients in the main building were relocated to other buildings, away
from the administrative offices. No patients were ever housed there again.
Abraham was
“discharged” (in absentia), dated the day before his disappearance and the case
was closed. Having no relatives or anyone else to notify, there was no one to
say a word in protest. He was never seen again.
The main building was
shut down and abandoned in 1974 and lies in ruin, but like the fated building
built upon a graveyard full of troubled souls, still has those who aren’t there
walking the halls.
Ghost hunters now
call that hospital and especially those two buildings, the most haunted place
in America.
Epilogue
A new Administration
building was built far away from the original one and people rarely go near the
old crumbling halls. Sightings of the “people who aren’t there” occur
frequently in many of the abandoned structures and ghost hunters all now agree
that the place is haunted by the souls of the departed.
I wrote my report on
the power of pain and suffering to influence belief in what we want to believe
is true, like ghosts. I got my “A” grade and concluded that I had enough of
psychology and didn’t want to immerse myself in the suffering of others full
time. I found that it was just too hard to deal with as I felt what they felt
and it distressed me greatly.
Mary Rose, Abraham,
if you are listening; I never said that I didn’t believe in you. Does anyone
smell something burning, like… candle wax?
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