Fortress Of Fright

It was alive with death. Its bedridden and enfeebled patients, often beyond saving, hissed and wheezed as they gasped for air through diseased lungs. It is uncertain how many people ultimately died under its roof, but the numbers were considerable, and many sufferers must have been glad when the reaper came calling for them, ending the very real nightmares they were living.

Today, like the patients it used to house, the old Waverly Hills Tuberculosis Sanatorium breathes faintly -- ravaged by nature, neglect and vandalism -- as it rests quietly in secluded woods, hidden from the traffic below on Dixie Highway.

Inside its massive gothic skeleton, thick concrete walls are scratched, scraped and bruised, as if clawed and beaten by a giant who was trapped inside and trying to escape, and littered with multi-colored graffiti: pentagrams, upside-down crosses and other symbols of the occult. The smell of mildew and decay floats heavily through its long, wide, shadowy corridors and desolate dusty rooms.

My search for the Louisville area's scariest place lured me to its doorstep. As I drove up a hill through a dark tunnel of trees, with its red-brick back stretched ominously wide and tall before me, I realized the search was over.

My journey to the core of the paranormal began with a trip to Cry Baby Bridge in the woods of Oldham County, where the spirits of unwanted infants -- rumored to have been cast into the creek below by women not ready to be mothers during settlement times -- can allegedly be heard at night. From there, it was off to the Howard Steamboat Museum in Jeffersonville, where the ghost of James Howard was supposedly seen standing in the basement, wearing his signature top hat. Next was the 19th-century Brennan House, the last Victorian home in downtown Louisville, where a large wooden baby cradle has reportedly been seen rocking steadily on its own. And finally, Hotrod Haven near Jefferson Memorial Forest, said to be haunted by the ghost of a teenage girl who was killed in a car wreck while on her way to prom with her boyfriend. But these places paled in comparison to what I found here.

Was that plaster falling or a tap on the shoulder?: Waverly’s once-busy main stairwell.

To understand Waverly's allure, you must go back to the early 1900s, when an extremely contagious and lethal bacterial disease known as the "White Death" sliced through Jefferson County, leaving its victims struggling for life and praying for a cure.

As TB threatened the world, and Jefferson County's incidence rate skyrocketed to become one of the top in the nation, a group of wealthy Louisvillians joined together as the Anti-Tuberculosis Association and spearheaded a movement that resulted in the construction of Waverly. Opened in 1911, it was a place for TB patients to rest and recuperate in the clean country air, the standard treatment of the time.

Tuberculosis is a particularly cruel disease, most often invading the lungs, accompanied by shortness of breath, fever, dramatic weight loss, internal bleeding and persistent coughing.

An early historical account describing a person in the late stages of TB paints a portrait of abject misery: "Voice hoarse; neck slightly bent, tender and stiff; (fingernails) crooked or flat and brittle without their normal rotundity. . . . The eyes are deeply sunk in their hollows. . . .
The slender parts of the jaws rest on the teeth as if smiling, but it is the smile of cadavers. . . . One may not only count the ribs but also easily trace them to their terminations, for even the articulations of the vertebrae are quite visible, as are the connections with the sternum. . . . The shoulder blades are like the wings of the birds."

A spine-tingling view down the long Death Tunnel.

Compared to today, treatments were often horrific and varied from hospital to hospital and doctor to doctor. One such treatment quite possibly performed by Waverly doctors -- based on a description by a former employee -- was a surgery that gained prominence in the 1930s called thoracoplasty. Ribs and sections of chest muscle were removed to "relax" the underlying lung and allow for easier breathing. One historian described the procedure as "one of the bloodiest operations in the operative canon. (Even in expert hands blood loss and shock were common causes of post-operative death.)"

"We lost a good number of patients," said Dr. Alvin Mullen, former medical director, in a 1986 Courier-Journal article. "Sometimes they were too far gone for us to help them."

After reading about Waverly's history, looking at photos (displayed online at www.waverlyhillstbsanatorium.com) and speaking with property owners Charles and Tina Mattingly about some of the unusual incidents that have been reported to them, the thought of entering Waverly at night, not to mention alone, was a bit discomforting. (The Mattinglys purchased the place this past summer and have been cleaning it up in hopes of opening it for tours later this month. Unfortunately, since the 1980 demise of a nursing home that had operated there after the sanatorium closed in 1962, the property has been severely vandalized.)

A team of security guards, predominantly males in their 20s, patrol the perimeter and walk the halls, warding off and apprehending trespassers -- usually curious teenagers who have heard about Waverly's notoriety. Most of the guards know the building inside and out and can move in the darkness like cats. They do not scare easily -- despite what some may have seen.

According to Charles Mattingly, around dusk one night, one of the guards "swears he saw a lady (dressed in a nightgown) walk out into the hall and jump out of a (third-floor) window." After the guard rushed to the window, looked down and didn't see a body on the ground, he ran downstairs and told the other guards. They searched the area, but found nothing.

Perhaps more chilling is the story about the guard who was waiting in the parking lot behind the building for a couple of the other guards to return with food. As twilight faded into night, an old, black hearse is said to have pulled up the drive, passed the guard and stopped next to the morgue on the first floor. Thinking he was the target of a practical joke, the guard watched as two men in white suits got out of the car, walked into the building and came out carrying a casket. The men loaded the casket into the hearse and, as they drove away, the hearse vanished into thin air.

Stories like these have thrust Waverly into the national spotlight. The Fox Family Channel recently filmed an episode of its Scariest Places On Earth program in the building to air later this month, and MTV has also expressed interest in filming an episode of its Fear program on-site.

The Mattinglys' daughter and a group of her 20-something friends participated in the Fox program by attempting to stay all night on the first floor. Near morning, one of the sleep-deprived women claimed to have felt a shove in the back and heard an angry male voice utter, "Get out!" in her ear as she was trailing the pack down a hallway. According to Mattingly, it's not the first time that someone has reported hearing those exact words.

Thankfully, Louisville Magazine photographer John Nation needed to get some shots for the story and decided to join me. Our un-expected escorts that night were Keith Age, the Kentucky-area representative of the American Ghost Society and founder of the Louisville Ghost Hunters Society, and society members Greg Crawford and Debby Dyer. Leave your stereotypes at the door: They were very nice and, for lack of a better word, normal. They are not quick to accept the supernatural, according to Age. In fact, he said that "99 percent of the time" he finds a logical explanation during his investigations.

Age, a Louisville native who travels across the country investigating paranormal activity, knew the layout of Waverly (which he considers the "Holy Grail of the Paranormal") quite well, and was able to show us the spots where his electromagnetic field (EMF) meter, used to measure paranormal activity, typically comes alive -- most notably, the cafeteria, the morgue and the infamous room 502. These were the same places cited by Mattingly as the areas where "spikes of light" have surrounded his image in photos taken there.

But before we entered the building, there was one place that we had to visit first -- the Death Tunnel.

Since Waverly's board of trustees felt it best that the patients not see the hearses driving up the hill and carting off the dead, the bodies were placed on small mechanical cars attached to rails cemented to the floor and sent through a 500-foot underground tunnel -- also used to deliver steam from a plant below -- that extended from the side of the building and ran down the hill to the morgue (originally located at the foot of the hill, according to a newspaper report; it was later moved to the first floor). That's where the hearses waited. Although the section of the tunnel that originally connected to the main building has long since been destroyed, the bulk of the tunnel remains intact.

When Tina Mattingly unlocked the rusty steel-mesh gate at the tunnel's entrance and jerked it open with a crowbar to allow us inside, the clank of steel on steel echoed off the walls. The air inside was cool and dark. Our lights danced right and left and up and down on the smooth, gray walls that stretched all around us. Were it not for the fading evening light that softly illuminated the tunnel's entrance, the outside world might have ceased to exist, swallowed by darkness and silence.

About 300 yards from the bottom, the tunnel dropped sharply, the light beams from our flashlights barely making it to the end. (The exit was covered in dirt by a previous owner to fend off trespassers.) Running along one side of the tunnel floor are elongated steps, which employees used to accompany the bodies down the chute. On the other side of the floor the surface is flat, and quarter-size scars in the concrete reveal where the rail tracks were spiked down.

While all of us were leaning against the walls waiting for John's camera shutter to signal the end of a long time exposure, Age's EMF meter chirped noisily as he held it in his hand and moved it slowly through the air. Uh-oh. But there were no paranormal shoves; no voices saying, "Get out." After about 10 seconds the chirping stopped as abruptly as it began. It would happen a few more times that night.

The cafeteria, located on the first floor, is a dilapidated gray room with blistered walls and piles of debris strewn about. Looking into its spacious interior, I found it hard to imagine the room alive with activity. But according to some, it is.

People who have not spoken with one another have independently described seeing a man in a white suit and smelling bacon and cinnamon as they passed the room, according to Tina Mattingly. And while making their rounds at night, some of the guards have reportedly heard utensils clinking and food-frying sounds coming from inside the cafeteria. It was also the room where a very skeptical friend of mine who met up with us later that night said that he "got a funny feeling all of the sudden" when he was in there alone.

While on the floor, Age took us to the morgue, apparently the site of many an autopsy. Inside, still in working order, are the metal frames of three body trays, stacked one on top of the other, inside something that resembles a long horizontal closet jutting out into the middle of the room. (The trays are similar to what you might imagine seeing in a movie when a dead body is slid out of large drawer in a morgue.)

As Age pointed out the body trays, the middle rack crept toward us. John and I quickly recoiled, and my hand shot out in-voluntarily and pointed at it. Unbeknownst to us, Crawford had slipped around to the adjoining room to have some fun at our expense. Evidently the trays were rigged by the Fox crew to add some drama to the night they filmed.

The fact that John and I were so taken aback illustrates the power of Waverly to make a person jumpy. It's the same aura that caused John to shudder when he backed into the edge of a door while setting up a shot, and caused me to look over my shoulder when I was the last one to enter a room. Did I really think that something was going to spring from the shadows? No, but the part of my psyche that had listened intently to ghost stories in the darkness as a kid, long repressed by adulthood, left the door of possibilities in my mind slightly ajar. As we exited the first floor and moved up the main stairwell to Room 502, I hoped it would close.

Standing like a statue out of place, Room 502 sits atop the roof in the shadow of the bell tower. Although its breathtaking view remains -- surrounding treetops and rolling hills stretch out below it in all directions -- it is little more than a battered framework now.

Above the door to the tiny room is the wooden imprint "502." The original metal stencil had been ripped off, probably stolen years ago, but since the number was painted over at some point, the imprint remains.

The room is about the size of a walk-in closet and supposedly served as a nurse's office. Adjoining it is a narrow bathroom with two toilet stalls -- with old porcelain toilets, yellowed with age, smashed beyond usability -- and two shower stalls. Connected to the bathroom is a large open room that extends out onto the east side of the roof. It is here, according to Age, where some of the TB mental patients had been housed.

The legend of Room 502, like all of the stories surrounding Waverly, was born in tragedy. Rumor has it that a nurse hung herself in the office. Another nurse apparently leaped to her death from the roof. It is also the place, according to Charles Mattingly, where a homeless man who had terrorized trespassers was said to have lived for some time after the nursing home moved out.

If any of these stories are true and the spirits of tortured souls who once called Waverly home are still living inside this aging tomb -- whether buried underground in the Death Tunnel or resting on top of the roof in Room 502 -- you have to wonder why they stay. Perhaps it's the same reason they came in the first place: They have no choice.

When we left that night, a thin layer of Waverly's creepiness clung to my skin, and I longed for a shower. Although the dust and grime we accumulated would easily wash away, I realized that it would probably be a long time before the experience of being there would ever be cleansed from my mind.

As we pulled out of the lot, I thanked the guard who opened the gate to allow us to leave.

Here’s a list of nine well-known and not-so-well-known local haunts besides Waverly and the four others — Cry Baby Bridge, the Howard Steamboat Museum, the Brennan House and Hotrod Haven — mentioned in the main story:

The Blue Castle Tavern, 1004 E. Oak St.
Strange noises have been heard and strange figures have been seen at this Germantown bar. Some paranormal experiences have also been reported.

The Culbertson Mansion, 914 E. Main St.,
New Albany
Southern Indiana’s most famous center of supernatural activity owes its notoriety to sightings of the ghost of Cornelia Culbertson, the second wife of William Culbertson, for whom he built the house between 1867 and 1869.

Jefferson Community College, 109 E. Broadway
Giving new meaning to the phrase “life-long learner,” a poltergeist who likes to writes notes is said to roam the Jefferson Building at JCC.

The Palace Theatre, 625 S. Fourth St.
The spirit of a former projectionist has been reported performing paranormally at this historic venue in downtown Louisville. “Scary!” raved one review.

The Seelbach Hotel, 500 S. Fourth St.
When a newlywed heard that her betrothed was killed while on his way to their 1907 wedding reception in the Seelbach’s 10th-floor ballroom, the young woman jumped to her death down an elevator shaft. Urban legend has it that she has been seen — and her perfume smelled — late at night around the hotel.

The Speed Museum, 2035 S. Third St.
What type of ghost would haunt the world-famous Speed? Apparently a female apparition that likes to hang out in the basement.

The Old Doe-Anderson Building, 223 E. Broadway
This former home to master machine-maker Henry Vogt is reported to have been the site of many a spirited family party. Retired Doe-Anderson executive Jim Lindsey recalls a night when, despite being the only person in the building and adjacent buildings, the party noise got so loud that he fled, leaving his work behind.

The Pope Lick Road Train Trestle,
off Taylorsville Road
Be afraid, be very afraid — not of the legendary goatman or sheepman rumored to lure people onto the train tracks in a hypnotic trance, but rather of the Jefferson County police who (thankfully) watchdog the property so no more foolish teens can climb out onto the trestle and either get hit by a train or jump to their deaths trying to avoid one.

The Old U.S. Marine Hospital on Portland Avenue
Apparitions of Civil War soldiers evidently still patrol this abandoned hospital (and National Historic Landmark) built in the mid-1800s, doing ghostly things like turning lights on and off and slamming doors. — MR

Maintained and hosted by WebbyCities.com.