When I was twenty one years old, my new husband’s family offered to sell us a house that had been in his family for generations at an incredibly cheap price. They had a difficult time keeping it rented and did not want to hassle with it anymore. We jumped at the opportunity and moved in almost immediately.

It was only a matter of hours before strange things began to happen. It did not take me long to decide there was something or someone else other than us in that house. Almost every night we would hear something coming up the staircase. The steps were old so you could hear every creak. Nick, my husband would jump up out of bed whenever he heard it to go make sure that someone hadn’t broken in. It would always end the same, no one was there. The ghost appeared to get braver as time went on. We could hear the steps eventually come down the hall; they were getting a little closer to our bedroom door with each visit.

Finally, the night came that we had both been dreading. Nick was sound asleep, exhausted from working hours of overtime. I heard the steps dare to pass the doorway of our bedroom and enter our room. I felt slightly aware of something or someone approach the side of the bed I had my back turned to, but I was afraid to look. I just kept my face in Nick’s chest and closed my eyes tightly. I felt as though there was someone right behind me, right behind my head just staring at me. I knew one thing for sure; I was not going to turn around to check. I just wanted to fall back to sleep as soon as possible. My hand searched under the covers for Nick’s hand. I very softly and quietly moved my hand beneath his big palm. I did not want to disturb him; I just knew it would make me feel better if his hand was lying on top of mine. My back felt ice cold; I tried to bring the covers up tighter around my neck and back. That’s when I felt it.

Something moved briefly on the bed behind me. I did not acknowledge it. I forced myself to stay still as if I were still asleep. I felt that if I suddenly reacted, I would see something horrible, so I did not turn around, I did not move. That seemed to upset whatever was behind me. I felt the bed move again, but just ever so slightly. I felt that whatever was behind me was so close to me it was almost touching my hair. I had the feeling on my scalp similar to when you have static electricity in your hair. I was sure it must almost be standing on end. I rubbed Nick’s palm with the back of my hand. I think I was actually trying to wake him, but trying to do it quietly, so whatever was behind me would not notice. It didn’t work. Nick just grunted a moment and then took another deep breath, he was still sound asleep.

I felt another movement on the bed directly behind me again. I actually could feel the blanket I had wrapped so tightly around me tug on me a bit as if someone had laid some weight on it behind me, I was sure that something was trying to get even closer to me. Suddenly I felt air blow on my cheek. It was just the same as if someone had breathed on me, except it was a lot colder, ice cold. I tried rubbing Nick’s hand again only I did it more aggressively this time. He moaned a little and turned to face me laying his arm across my side. That made me feel a little better, if there was someone or something directly behind me he would have struck them with his hand when he put his arm around me.

I no sooner had the thought when Nick’s arm went flying off of me and back towards him. It was as if someone had picked up his arm and flung it off of me. At that same exact moment, I felt a very strong tug on my hair, and heard a whisper in my ear. “Get out of my room,” the words struck me like a knife in my stomach. It was a very raspy mean voice. I woke Nick instantly, but once again there was no one there.

Many things happened in that house. We only lived there for thirty six days, thirty six days of pure mental hell. That was when I started to believe in ghosts and spirit hauntings. It forever changed how I view things. I wrote a book about the whole experience, “The Lennox Haunting”… It is on Amazon. It will have the “Look inside” in a few days if you are interested in reading the first three chapters. It is a true story, also is on the Nook at Barnes and Noble… Jules

This story took place near Parkersburg WV, years ago when my dad was a young teenager. He is now 54.

My dad, one of his cousins, and a few friends often went camping in the woods located behind a house my dad grew up in. My dad knew these woods like the back of his hand. They wanted to go a little farther this time and check out what lay beyond what he was already familiar with. While deep in the woods, it started raining very hard, and they ended up getting lost. They came upon an old abandoned house sitting in the middle of the woods, so they decided to go in and take shelter from the rain. By this time, it was dark, so the only light they had were flashlights. My dad told me he hesitated on going in, because it looked like there were bullet holes in the door, but they ended up going in anyway. They explored the house, as boys do. It had an upstairs with a very narrow hallway, 3 small rooms upstairs, a living room down stairs, and a small kitchen. He said there was what appeared to be a dirt cellar, and the entrance was through the kitchen. They were not brave enough to go down there.

When the boys took their camping gear off and went upstairs to explore, they heard what sounded like heavy footsteps and the front door slam downstairs. They ran down the steps, only to find that all of their gear had been pushed into a pile in the middle of the living room floor. They were terrified, but by this time it was storming so hard that they could not possible trudge through the woods, so they decided against their better judgement to stay. They positioned themselves in a circle, feet on the middle, so they could see around them. When they were all settled, they heard footsteps upstairs, the same heavy footsteps, so they grabbed their flashlights and headed up the steps. Halfway up, they heard a door up there slam, yet they continued up, forgetting that none of the rooms had any doors. Once upstairs, they heard he door downstairs slam, so again they ran down, only to find their things piled high and shoved against the front door. This was enough to make the boys run out the door leaving everything behind. Dad told me they had blindly stumbled upon a small rock shelter, that allowed them shelter from the rain. The next morning they went back to get their belongings, and he holes in the door were gone, their things were gone, the entrance to the cellar was gone, and there were doors on the rooms upstairs. They tried to find that place, several years later, and could not find the house. My dad still gets goose bumps, and his hair still stands on end when he talks about it.

In early 1983, my then husband and I moved into our first house off Mud River Road, in Barboursville, WV.

We had to do some painting and such, but we thought we’d be able to have a comfortable home, along with a nice yard…wrong. From the moment I entered the house, it seemed that something was just not right. I was afraid to go into the bedroom closet, and I felt eyes upon me wherever I was. At times I would sit out on the porch until 2:00 a.m. waiting on my husband to come home, because I was terrified to be in the house alone. I would even feel someone lying on me in bed at night, when nobody was there but me. Sometimes it sounded like a 300-pound man walking in the attic over our bed, and my husband on many occasions took a gun upstairs to see who had invaded the house. Nothing was moved, and nobody was there.

I would feel breath on my neck, and when I would be in the shower, something would pound on the ceiling over me (nobody was there but me).

We had a psychic come to our house, and he indicated that the spirit was not malevolent, and not a threat to anyone. Evidently it was a man who had lived on the land in the 1800’s, and I reminded him of someone he once loved. I guess he followed me around trying to get my attention, and believe me, he did.

I survived 3 years in that house, and left when my marriage broke up. Since I was not comfortable in the house anyway, I made the decision to be the one to leave. My husband said that the day I left, all noises stopped. The ghost was gone. Of course, this has had me looking over my shoulder ever since then, and when something weird happens, I still wonder if I don’t have a spirit as a secret admirer…

The fall air was breezy and as I became fully exposed to the chilly West Virginia wind, I felt an overwhelming sense of autumn nostalgia. October was more than halfway through, and I was quickly running out of daylight. I had reached my destination; the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum, formerly known as the Weston State Hospital. Now simply a hollowed-out shell turned tourist attraction, at one time this extraordinary landmark served as a fortress that housed the mentally ill. All that remains now are the tragic tales of depression and desperation, violence and lunacy that were hidden behind the hand-cut stone exterior.

In the early 1850s, the hospital was authorized by the Virginia General Assembly under its original name, the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum. It was designed in the Gothic Revival and Tudor Revival styles and in late 1858, construction began. Initially, prison laborers were used to begin the creation but soon, skilled stonemasons took over. In 1861, the construction of the hospital was interrupted by the onset of the American Civil War. Once West Virginia became a state, ownership of the property was retained and the name of the hospital was changed to “The West Virginia Hospital for the Insane.” Although patients were first admitted in 1864, the structure wasn’t completed until 1881.

Over the course of the following century, the hospital experienced many changes in terms of patients, staff, amenities, and policies. The facility ultimately became over-crowded and some treatments were deemed cruel. In 1986 under the Arch Moore administration, plans were announced to convert the Weston Hospital into a prison and build a new psychiatric unit somewhere else in the state. Those plans never developed fully. Instead, the William R. Sharpe Jr. The hospital was erected in Weston and in 1994, Weston State Hospital was closed. In 2007, the property was purchased by Joe Jordan, a demolition contractor for the sum of 1.5 million dollars. These days, the building is kept open as a site of heritage and tours of the grounds are offered. The focus of this National Historic Landmark’s (1990) continuity seems to be on the supernatural aspect. Personal accounts of ghostly encounters have poured out of the mouths of many who have visited the asylum in the past decades.

I traveled north on I-79 to Weston to experience firsthand the splendor and mystery of one of West Virginia’s most prized and nationally known landmarks. Not only do I enjoy stunning architecture, but I am truly fascinated by supernatural locations. The Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Hospital is often at the top of every list about paranormal hotspots in West Virginia. It has a well-deserved reputation for being a creepy place with a haunted history. As I entered Weston, I proceeded to 71 Asylum Drive and it took only a glance at the building to realize I was in for an incredible experience.

My first reaction to the old hospital was sheer awe. From a distance, the immense structure casts a gothic shadow over its grounds. As I approached, it felt as if the looming edifice was gazing down on me. An ominous sky further set the mood and provided the perfect backdrop. An aged fountain rested peacefully at the end of the long driveway that connected the hospital to the outside world.

As I approached the entrance, I couldn’t help but notice the sensational views of the asylum grounds. Originally, the hospital was built to be completely self-sufficient. On the 666 acres of property were a dairy, gardens, waterworks, and even a cemetery for the bodies of unclaimed patients. I pondered what other secrets this distinctive place might hold. Standing on the outer steps, I gazed up at the white clock tower which vaguely resembles the steeple of an old country church. Admiring the stone structure in all its splendor, I took a deep breath and prepared to embark on a journey that would reach into the depths of my consciousness, then I walked inside.

The overwhelming sense of history and the acute smell of mustiness flooded me as I entered the lobby area, where tour tickets are now sold. While I waited for the next tour to begin, I wandered off into a small room on the right side of the lobby. A couple of hospital relics captured my eye immediately. An old wooden wheelchair and antique metal gurney brought forth images of former patients being rushed back and forth through the wings and corridors of the asylum. It was then that I questioned, “Have the patents ever really left at all?”

Soon it was time for our tour and a guide shuttled our small group through a set of rickety doors. We quietly walked behind the guide who enlightened us about some of the history and mystery of the asylum. As we entered the Civil War section we heard some interesting details about the construction of the building. The property sparked early controversy due to the state ownership disputes when Virginia seceded from the Union. When West Virginia became a state, the quarrel was settled. West Virginia retained ownership of the property and the construction was completed. Focusing on the cracked windows with weathered panes, and bracing against the time-beaten walls, it wasn’t difficult to picture the days and nights when soldiers moved through the area, taking up lodging in the hospital.

As we continued on through the empty halls, it became clear that while much of the building looked the same, each room had a different unsettling story. Tales of insanity, torture, and other wicked behavior plagued every square inch. For example, in one of the rooms, upon the cold concrete floor, a vicious murder had taken place directly where we stood. As the tour guide relayed the vividly detailed story, my mind became filled with the sights and sounds of such a brutal attack. Inhumane procedures were commonplace such as lobotomies and electric-shock therapy. It was unnerving to hear such horrendous stories.

To say that the asylum was overcrowded would be an understatement. The building was designed to comfortably hold 250 patients, and at its peak, it housed over 2,400 patients. Daily incidents and activities in the overpopulated hospital were religiously recorded by staff and state inspectors and many of those stories became legendary. In 1935, a blazing fire was started by a patient and one wing of the building had to be reconstructed. Although the hospital is now empty, the tour guide’s disturbing accounts of past occurrences and practices were ghastly reminders of the Asylum’s troubled living souls.

For me, one of the worst aspects of institutionalization is extreme isolation. Nothing evokes loneliness and solitude the same way as being locked inside of a compact square room, isolated from one’s world, self, and spirit. On the inside, I felt only a small fragment of what it must have been like to be a patient. Being kept from friends and family was a common practice during a patient’s stay at the hospital. They were isolated for different reasons; some were considered dangerous, others were thought to be carrying contagious illnesses and many were simply defiant. It was the quintessential paradox: those who suffered no mental illness could not get anyone to believe them because one of the leading symptoms of insanity was denial. Taking into consideration some of the “causes” for committal provides a disturbing feeling: feebleness of intellect, parents were cousins, political excitement, laziness, egotism, and women, among other things. Most patients rejected the theory they were ill, but according to the experts, that only confirmed those conclusions.

The tour proceeded outside for the opportunity to experience some of the property’s stunning landscape. There were just as many sobering sights on the outside as on the inside. Many of the other buildings on the grounds possessed haunted histories and stories that were somberly recalled by our knowledgeable tour guide. We learned of a patient who was reported missing and whose body was finally found hanging in the greenhouse. We strolled by the brick-layered psychiatric unit which formerly housed patients suffering from Tuberculosis. Also, this was the section of the asylum where most of the “up-to-date” treatment methods were practiced, including electroshock therapy and lobotomies. Sadness flooded through me as I imagined just how dire the situation was for many of the patients at the Weston State Hospital.

On the inside, the asylum was broken down and decrepit, revealing peeled wall paint, cracked window glass, destructed floor tiles, water stains, as well as slithering weeds overtaking the walls and corners of the rooms. In contrast, the outside was nothing short of immaculate. The structure, one of the largest hand-cut stone masonry buildings in the country (242,000 sq. ft.), boasts beautiful gothic architecture. Several gargoyles overlook the grounds as we followed the trail around to the anterior side of the hospital. It was as if they watched us carefully, protecting the sacred hallowed grounds on which we were treading, commanding our respect. One more look up at the setting sun behind a dark sky told me that, like many of the former patients at Weston, the day was slowly dying. This thought led me back through the large exterior doors at the rear of the hospital, back to the inside.

The final part of the tour was the infamous “third floor.” Having previously heard accounts and rumors about the old place from others, I was already aware of the site’s “haunted reputation.” As I wound my way up the spiral staircase, I recollected some of these paranormal experiences. Whispering voices, childish laughter, and phantom footsteps are often documented and witnesses are more than willing to go on record with the details.

In 2008, the television series, “Ghost Hunters,” shot an entire episode in the empty asylum. At the time of my afternoon spent there, I had not seen this particular episode. Therefore, all of my experiences were free of biased commentary from ghost hunters, paranormal enthusiasts, and highly creative attention seekers. In October of 2009, the producers went back for a second time and filmed six hours of live-action during the late hours of the night. One thing I knew for certain: ghosts or no ghosts, the old Weston State Hospital was the creepiest place on which I had ever set foot. Something told me that my experience was only going to get stranger with each walking step. As I topped the last stair leading onto the landing, I wondered if I might leave that night with a paranormal story of my own.

The floors were solid stone and the echo of each footstep made it sound as though I wasn’t treading there alone. The halls were dark and silent. Sometimes knowledge of tragic “real life” events is far more frightening than anything supernatural. I ambled on, a little uneasy, wondering if every stain I encountered was simply age and rust, or much worse; evidence of something terrible that happened so many years ago.

Most of the tour group pulled an early exit following the outside portion. By this time, only a couple of individuals remained. At that point, we were allowed to split up. I was by myself, free to roam the quiet halls as I pleased. Certainly, this made my experience on the third floor all the more personal, and all the edgier. I walked into a deserted room and remember thinking that although the room appeared vacant it somehow didn’t feel empty at all. It was as though the room was alive with whispers of long-gone voices and energetic sensations from past events. I peered out the only window in the room, gazing at the sleepy town of Weston. Looking out at the real world, I felt as though I might as well have looked down from an airplane high above the Earth. It seemed impossible to think I could easily walk down the stairs and out the door. Instead, I felt alone, trapped on the inside, isolated. Eventually, I turned and walked out, only to discover later that a brutal murder had taken place in that very room, many years before.

When thinking of an asylum, I always envisioned everything to be white and bright, with many lights and padded walls. The cliché objects like padded walls and straight jackets had been long since removed from the Weston State Hospital. However, instead of being solid white, the upstairs walls had been painted a very odd combination of two-toned white and pink. I found this striking as I headed down one of the long corridors, back towards the stairs. Next, faint sounds began echoing behind me. It was the resonance of pattering feet and whispering voices. I couldn’t distinguish any real words, but the sounds were clear. I turned around only to find emptiness. Quickly, I snapped a photograph on my digital camera. A cropped image of that particular photograph later revealed that I had captured the image of what appeared to be a young girl dressed in black, cast upon the wall. Was it simply a shadow? Or was it something more, something not of this world? I’ll never be sure, but I have an opinion. Although I wasn’t aware I had possibly captured an asylum ghost on camera, the three hours I spent at the hospital provided me with enough experiences and memories to last for quite some time. At that point, I decided it was time to leave the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum.

Going back downstairs, I tipped my tour guide at the bottom, and then walked outside, back into the world. The memories and experiences I took away from the asylum are unforgettable. The pain of its history shines in the darkness there. It is evident by scars on the walls, names in the record book, and in the hallowed grounds themselves. The day had grown late, and as I drove away from the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum, I was reminded insanity doesn’t always exist in the human mind, but sometimes within the stone walls, concrete floors, and broken windows of an extraordinary building.

I just became settled into my first apartment alone, a little over my head with the amount of rent but figured I could make it. I came home one night tired from working 13 hours and decided to sleep in the living room. I turn on the radio, nothing unusual about this  old house, and recently renovated. I start falling asleep and I hear the floor board creak but that only happens when I step on it. So I sum it up to being alone in an old creaky house. But the night, I was listening over music and I heard someone make their way around my kitchen. For two nights I was invaded. It felt terrible my nerves was shattered by no sleep and the third night I fell asleep and I had an out-of-body experience and a heavy weight on my body.

I finally woke up from the dream and found my door in the middle of winter wide open. I have since found another place to live due to the strange things happening. But even after leaving, sleep has never been the same. I see the dark angelic face smirking at me when I say the lords prayer at night. Colorless and cold, no life in its eyes.

I’m haunted and continuously threaten with this energy. Things have moved in my new house, doors open and slam, and pecking on the doors. The sense of it wanting to reach out and do something to you is always there. This journey is far from over.