Dollopween 23: Unable to Take a Deep Breath

Okay, here’s where I come out of the haunted closet.


I am an adjunct member of the Center for Paranormal Research and Investigation. I don’t regularly go to meetings anymore or to investigations due to my health. You know, when you can’t even kneel or sit on the floor, or lift above a certain weight, investigations are right out. But I follow their work still, and try to help as a background researcher and cheerleader.

The one large investigation I was able to attend before my body said the Big Nope was, thankfully, one of the gold star goals for investigators: Waverly Hills Santatorium, Louisville, Kentucky.

And, if I do say so myself, I took some rather nice photographs.

Did I experience anything? Yes, I did. But first…
Spooked: The Ghosts Of Waverly Hills Sanatorium

With Their Dying Breaths: A History of Waverly Hills Tuberculosis Sanatorium * C. C. Thomas

Every Breath You Take: The History of Tuberculosis Treatment UVA Exhibit


Interested in CPRI?

The head and founder, Bobbie Atristain, one sweet and smart cookie, has written a book about her years of experience and research: Haunted People, Haunted Minds, and I highly recommend it. Bobbie is not playing around, either:

The book begins by describing why the paranormal is worthy of scientific investigation and why belief in the paranormal has increased over the last 10 years. Next it reviews the areas of neuroscience, neurotheology, and quantum physics.



Oh, and my experiences?

All in the basement. I sat very still and quiet in the holding morgue, which was only large enough for two gurneys and an examination table (which yes, were still present) with a friend and colleague for about twenty minutes. I unfortunately experienced what many have reported in the holding morgue: an outrageous migraine. Mine, most likely due to my autoimmune issues, was through the roof and over the moon, and I spent the rest of the night hunched down among equipment, seeing migraine auras and praying for unconsciousness. So, that was fun. Do I know it was supernatural in induction? No, of course not. I’m just documenting it.

The other event, also in the basement, was more tangible, and therefore witnessed. Before the Explosive Migraine, we switched partners, and another colleague and I walked around in one of the treatment rooms. You know, hydrotherapy, massage, exercise of a sort…

Nothing was happening. We turned to each other, just about to check in to see if the other wanted to move on…and I saw his eyes widen just as I felt that weird tingly feeling you get when someone plays with your hair. I reached out my left hand carefully–to feel tendrils of my hair both extended in space and gently falling back to my shoulder. Then it happened once more, and then the sensation was gone, and my hair stopped moving. And all was still, and nothing else happened.

At that time, my hair was beginning to turn gray, but only underneath; I liked to joke that I had a silver undercarriage. Maybe whoever was playing with my hair had just never seen such a thing. 🙂

My reaction to the migraine was numbness and shock; my reaction to the hair event was amazement. So what frightened me about Waverly Hills?

Good old-fashioned agoraphobia.

One more lean-out, endangering my life for a good shot.
One more lean-out, endangering my life for a good shot.

What I mean: My photos don’t even begin to depict how loooooong the hallways are, and how intimidating they are in the dark. So, however far you have to walk down the hall to retrieve equipment, to go through the office to the one useable bathroom, that is the same long, dark, empty distance you have to transverse, by yourself, to reach safety–defined by other people, other flashlights, other humans’ noises and activities. A good ten or fifteen minute walk, in blackout dark, with your one little Maglite, and nothing you can do can make that walk faster or that hallway shorter.

Just typing that out gave me a little chill, no lie.

Sleep tight, Rubes. Take a deep breath, and close your eyes.

Can’t sleep yet? Here’s more of my very own true ghost stories. Boo.



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