The Haunting of Central State Hospital

Note: Central State Hospital is not open to the public. I do not endorse trespassing.

There are things in this world we shouldn’t mess with.

My interest in Central State started with ghost stories. Growing up in Indianapolis, those stories were a common occurrence. Opened in 1848, the Central Indiana Hospital for the Insane served patients – many of whom suffered from late-stage syphilis – until its forced closure in 1994. The closure came after several patients died due to neglect.

 As the grounds were being revamped throughout the following decade, it was rumored that the new soccer field was being built over a mass grave of patients.  Construction brought back horror stories of violent patients being chained in the basements of hospital buildings, left to suffer in the dark, damp conditions. Long-time Indianapolis residents told stories of horrific abuse of patients at the hands of doctors and patients murdering other patients.

While some of this – such as the mass grave and patients being chained in basements – may or may not be true, life in an asylum would certainly not be ideal, especially without modern medical knowledge. Electroshock therapy, restraints and lobotomies were all common occurrences at Central State and other asylums across the country.

If you mix this dark history with teenage curiosity, bad things are bound to happen.

The forgotten people

While I was intrigued by the ghost stories attached to Central State, my attraction to the grounds was somewhat personal. While some of the patients there were violent, many were just victims of the time. Doctors didn’t know how to properly treat disorders such as depression, bipolar disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, leading many people to be locked away in an asylum, abandoned by their families.

Many Central State patients are buried in unmarked graves outside a cemetery across the street from the hospital. If you go looking, you’ll find grass growing over red plaques, marked with only a number.

So many people — their lives, stories and traumas — were reduced to just a number marked on a piece of rotting wood. Purposefully forgotten in death by those who shunned them in life.

With seemingly no decency, the patients were not even buried within the gates of the cemetery. Instead, rows of markers are found just outside the perimeter. Even in their death, these people were not given enough decency — enough mercy — to receive a proper burial.

As someone who grew up with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, I’ve always wondered if, had I been born in a different time to a less loving family, if that would have been my fate, as well.

Reduced to just a number.

The warning

My first visit to the Central State grounds was a few years ago. (Three years, to be exact. I’m only sharing this story because the statute of limitations for trespassing has expired.) Looking for thrills around Halloween, my friend K* and I hopped in her car after a beer or two at the Slippery Noodle Inn and headed toward the grounds.

As darkness was enveloping the well-manicured lawns of the houses that lined the street leading up to the old powerhouse of the asylum, I started wondering if the people settling in for the night were aware of the horrors that people endured on their property.

Much of the old asylum has been torn down or reappropriated. The old dining hall is now a cushy little café, the administration building is now an apartment complex, and the old pathology building – now a Medical History Museum – is well-kept for tours.

But the powerhouse has seen better days. Most of the glass windows have been shattered, grass and moss are growing up the right side of the building, and the perimeter is littered with empty liquor bottles and cigarette butts. The back of the powerhouse includes a short stairwell leading to what I presume to be a basement. A long stretch of grass leads toward a patch of trees.

K parked near the café, which is across the way from the powerhouse. The decaying ruins of the building seemed a stark contrast from the surrounding structures. The warmth of the café and adjacent event center felt out of place compared to the cold drabness of the powerhouse.

Armed with our phone flashlights, we headed toward the building, ever cautious of the broken glass and god knows what else at our feet. We opted to investigate the right side of the building first, with me just a few paces ahead of K.

As I panned my flashlight across the foliage and weeds that had taken over much of the building, a slight figure darted across my vision, stopping – out of sight – behind a thick set of vines that seemed to be growing out of the building.

I froze. The only thing I can remember doing in that moment was silently gesturing to K not to move. Along with the ghosts, some of the most prominent Central State stories I heard growing up were about the squatters — some of whom were supposedly patients who didn’t have anywhere to go after the facility closed. Not exactly who I’d want to run into in the dead of night.

Before I could figure out my game plan, the person I saw moved slightly out from the vines and shadows. She didn’t make a sound — the only thing I could hear was my heart pounding. Her shoulder-length black hair framed the gentle features of her face, her ankle-length dress flowing in the chilly October wind.

After staring for a few moments, I turned to run back to the car. Being the great friend that I am, I didn’t say anything to K before taking off, but she quickly followed.

In the safety of the car, I told myself I was crazy. I couldn’t have seen what I thought I had, and I took K’s momentary silence to mean she hadn’t seen anything; she just ran off when she saw me running. It wasn’t until we made it back to a main road that she spoke.

“She didn’t have eyes.”

I couldn’t deny what I had seen any more. K saw it, too. In place of eyes, the woman we saw had black orbs. If memory serves, it was the only indication that something was off. She wasn’t translucent, like you see in the movies. She wasn’t floating. And after the initial shock wore off, I don’t think she was malicious. It almost felt like she was pleading with us, but we didn’t understand it.

Until we ventured back to Central State.

The powerhouse of Central State Hospital in 2014.

The return

In the week between our first and second visit to the asylum, K and I were obsessed with finding answers.

Who did we see? Why was she there?

We spent our days researching as much as we could about the hospital, though that was made difficult by a lack of record keeping. We tried asking around to see if someone else had a similar experience, while simultaneously trying to avoid seeming delusional.

By the end of the week, we had no useful information. Google searches of “Central State ghost with no eyes” was unsurprisingly futile. The only option, we thought, was to go back to the grounds to try and find the ghost – who we affectionately named Beth – again.

When we pulled up to Central State late on a Friday night, there was an event being held in one of the buildings near the powerhouse. We parked in a somewhat secluded spot across the way of the left side of the powerhouse, where the basement door was.

Walking toward the cement stairwell that led to the basement, you could feel the energy shift. I chalked it up to anxiety – not only were we searching for a ghost, we were trespassing while an event was going on  -- but the air just felt … heavy.

When we approached the stairwell, K shined her flashlight on the door leading to the basement. A thick piece of plywood completely covered the door frame, most likely, I thought, to keep squatters or teenagers looking for trouble out.

Though I wanted to – out of sheer curiosity – I couldn’t bring myself to go down the stairs. I felt a sense of dread deep in my stomach, and an anger brewing inside me that I couldn’t explain.

A car coming down the path from a main road broke my focus on the basement door, and K and I quickly walked back to her car to make it seem like we were just going on a stroll. Not trespassing, just walking around an abandoned insane asylum late at night. Totally normal.

In the roughly 45 seconds we were away from the powerhouse, the stairwell was in our sight the entire time. After the car passed, we walked back to the building and K once again shined her light down the stairs.

The plywood was splintered down the middle.

Not slightly ajar. Splintered.

“Was it like that a minute ago?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

K shook her head, eyes glued to the door.

My chest felt like it was in a vice. As I tried to rationalize the irrational, we heard a growl like I had never heard before, and never want to hear again.  

It didn’t sound like any animal I’ve ever heard, and it certainly didn’t sound human.

It sounded evil.

We ran – sprinted – back to the car, said a quick prayer and got the fuck out of there.

The ride was mostly silent. We decided, as we usually do, to grab a drink to shake off whatever the hell we just saw. After a few hours in Broad Ripple, we felt a little better. We both felt “Beth” was trying to protect us the night she appeared to us, to keep us from the evil lurking on the grounds.

Sometimes if I think too much about that night, I get freaked out. I can vividly remember the goosebumps I felt, the overwhelming anger that I couldn’t figure out. The unmitigated fear that I felt looking down the stairwell of Central State’s powerhouse.

If I had to guess, I don’t think the dark energy we encountered on our second adventure to Central State had been a patient there. I don’t think it had ever been human. I think people – curious people like myself and K – brought that energy to the ground that was already haunted by tragedy. The use of Ouija boards, unqualified ghost hunters hosting “seances,” I think, opened a portal, so to speak, allowing this malicious entity onto the grounds of Central State.

Those who seek darkness will find it. And when it’s found, it’s a darkness we can’t control, a darkness we’re not capable and handling.

A darkness we have no business messing with.