"BODIES AND SCREAMS"

THE CLEVELAND CLINIC FIRE OF 1929

On May 15, 1929, about 300 patients were inside of the Cleveland Clinic in Ohio when an explosion took place in the rooms where x-ray films were stored. The room and the surrounding corridors filled with flames, but worse, the x-ray films began to produce a deadly gas. The tragedy that occurred that day claimed more than 120 lives and remains one of the most terrifying medical disasters in American history – but one that is barely remembered by anyone outside of northern Ohio today.

 The Cleveland Clinic around the time that it opened in 1921.

In his dedication speech at the opening of the Cleveland Clinic in 1921, Dr. George Washington Crile said that the purpose of the clinic was “to give assistance in solving the problems of the patient of today and through its investigations, its statistical records and laboratories to seek new light on aiding the problems of the patient of tomorrow.” It was a medical facility opened with a dream and a plan to provide the future of healthcare to the people of Northern Ohio. The clinic had been founded by four renowned Cleveland, Ohio, physicians. Three of the founders, George Washington Crile, Frank Bunts, and William Lower, were surgeons who had worked together in an army medical unit in France during World War I. When they returned to the United States, they decided to establish a group practice and invited an internist, John Phillips, to join in their endeavor. The concept of group practice in medicine was relatively new at the time. Only the Mayo Clinic and military units were known to follow this model. The founders established the clinic with the vision: “Better care of the sick, investigation of their problems, and further education of those who serve.”

The clinic saw rapid growth in its early years but suffered a major setback in 1929 that almost closed its doors permanently. On May 15, 1929, a fire started in the basement of the hospital caused by nitrocellulose X-ray film that spontaneously ignited. The fire claimed 123 lives, including that of one of the founders, Dr. Phillips.

Dozens of people had come to the clinic for healing, but found death instead.

On May 15, 1929, about three hundred patients were within the walls of the Cleveland Clinic, an institution that everyone in the city had reason to be proud of. Some of them lay on operating tables, others rested in beds and some sat nervously in waiting rooms, unsure of what diagnosis awaited them. At 11:30 a.m., a resounding explosion occurred in the basement where the clinic’s X-ray films were stored. The films immediately burst into flame. Several theories were later advanced to explain the initial explosion. A leaky steam pipe, authorities reasoned, overheated and caused the highly combustible X-ray films in the room to catch on fire. Others believed that a carelessly discarded cigarette or match caused the fire. No one was ever blamed – the impact lay in the tragedy itself.

The Cleveland Clinic at the time of the fire.

When the X-rays caught fire, they began to release deadly fumes. The poisonous yellow gas penetrated to the waiting room on the floor above and then swirled throughout the clinic. The hollow center of the building soon filled with gases as the intense heat from below sent the fumes upward. Before anyone had an opportunity to escape, a second blast blew out a skylight. Every corner of the clinic filled with a deadly bromide gas.

People were quickly overtaken by the gas. They ran for the windows, seeking oxygen, but few were able to reach them. They were enveloped in the fumes and collapsed. The fire in the basement burned up the air supply and combined with the choking gas, began to claim victims. The fumes poured in through ventilator shafts, up stairways, through halls, and then the fire found the woodwork in the stairways and began to devour it, climbing upwards into the building. Windows burst and passersby on the street in front of the clinic were also overcome by the fumes. Witnesses on the scene after the explosion said that they could hear terrified screams from blocks away.

The first explosion in the clinic was heard by police officer Henry Thorpe, who was walking two blocks away. He immediately turned in the alarm and ran towards the building, which was located at Euclid Avenue and 93rd Street. Thorpe was still a block away when he was blinded by the gas.

  

Firefighters arrived within minutes of the call. They turned in a second alarm and police, hospital and county morgue ambulances soon began to arrive. Meanwhile, firefighters were trying to enter the building. Battalion Fire Chief James P. Flynn, with his driver, Louis Hillenbrand, were the first to go inside. They found 16 bodies packed in the space between the elevator and a stairway, where occupants of the clinic had tried in vain to escape. One of the people found near the elevator was Dr. J.L. Locke. He was taken outside and revived. Five of the others, who were still breathing, were taken to the roof, where firefighters were hard at work.

Rescue workers and volunteers scaled the building, trying to help the people inside escape from the flames and from the deadly x-ray fumes.

Flynn directed his men to scale the roof and enter the hospital through a skylight. They lowered themselves from the roof, but it was not an easy entry. From the skylight, the firemen suspended themselves and then swung their bodies to gain momentum in order to drop with minimum injury inside the mezzanine rail that encircled the fourth floor. The firefighters then searched the trap door that allowed access to the roof. While searching for the door, they found a mass of bodies of people who had attempted to make it to the roof on their own. One of the firefighters was horrified by the sight:

“I hope to never have to look at anything so horrifying again. Lord help me, as far down the stairway as you could see were bodies, bodies, bodies. Twisted arms and legs, screaming men and women. Bodies and screams.”

The firemen managed to lift out 15 survivors from the top of the pile of bodies. The jam at this failed escape route was so great that many of those at the bottom of the pile were crushed to death. Oxygen tanks were rushed to the roof, but for many of the survivors, it was too late. They did not live for long. Battalion Chief Flynn lowered himself into the building and was appalled at the condition of the people his men found, most of them barely alive. He ordered the firemen to concentrate all of their efforts on saving the trapped and getting people out of the clinic. They could hear screaming coming from the third floor and crews went down the stairs. By now, the flames had reached the third floor and the men had to battle the fire while their comrades worked to revive those who had been overcome by the smoke and fumes.

Some of the firefighters described their efforts on the lower floors of the building as “a descent into Hell.” Many victims were found collapsed at the windows, unable to find fresh air. Both entrances to the street were blocked by tangles of panic-stricken patients and personnel. The doorways had simply not been wide enough for everyone to exit at the same time. Trapped, they were overcome by the fumes and then burned to death by the fire. The fire had done its damage to the clinic, too. The woodwork and masonry walls were charred and blackened by the heat.

Hardened plaster was blistered and peeled from the walls. Fumes that had filled a hollow compartment between the balcony roof and the roof of the building exploded and ripped apart the brick and mortar. The casings of the skylight above and buckled and warped under the force of the explosion and broken glass had rained down on the waiting room, three floors below. The suction of the explosion shattered glass doors reinforced with steel. Compression in the hollow center of the building packed air into the halls and staircases and when this force was released by the blast of air rushed back into the center of the building, smashing doors with the force of a battering ram.

Heavy fumes hung about the building for almost two hours after the blast. Rescuers were unable to stay inside for long intervals and frequently had to use the oxygen tanks that had been brought for the victims. All of them firemen continued to go back inside and look for survivors, though, risking their own lives.

The clinic’s front lawn was soon covered with the dead and dying. Any available vehicle in the area, including taxicabs and personal automobiles, was commandeered by the police to be used as a transport from the burned-out clinic to other Cleveland hospitals. It took almost three hours to lift the bodies, one by one, through the damaged skylight. One police officer, a war veteran, described the scene as worse than his experiences on the front lines. He personally carried out 25 bodies from the building.

The poison gas from the X-ray films did not claim all of its victims immediately. Some people walked out of the building healthy and even aided firefighters in their rescue work, only to collapse and die hours or days later. A professional football player, Ben Jones, helped with the rescue efforts at the scene, felt fine and considered himself fortunate when he returned home. He died 48 hours later from the gas that he inhaled. Several firemen were also hospitalized because of ill effects from the gas.

Other, personal tragedies, occurred.  Dr. Carl Helwig, a doctor at another hospital, came to the scene to aid in the rescue effort and discovered that his wife was at the clinic that morning for a routine check-up. She died as he worked to save her. One of the clinic’s founders, Dr. George Crile, helped in the aid and rescue and later, visited fire victims at the city’s hospitals. His close colleague, Dr. John Phillips, another of the clinic’s founders, was in critical condition. Dr. Crile donated blood to save his friend, but Dr. Phillips died despite all of the efforts to save him. 

The clinic, founded by these two men and dedicated to the welfare of its patients, was witness to 123 deaths on May 15.

  

What could have been the end of the clinic turned out to be only the beginning. The remaining founders responded to the tragedy with brave optimism and within days, they resumed operation of the clinic in the temporary quarters of an old school. The Cleveland Clinic was rebuilt and regained momentum to become nationally recognized as a leader in the fight against cardiovascular disease. In the decades since World War II, the clinic has grown to become internationally prominent and is currently the second-largest medical group practice in the world, after the Mayo Clinic.

WHERE THE DEAD STILL LINGER

HISTORY & HAUNTINGS AT THE OHIO STATE PENITENTIARY

On April 21, 1930, a fire broke out at the overcrowded Ohio Penitentiary in Columbus and claimed the lives of more than three hundred inmates. If prisons are truly haunted because of the death and tragedy that takes place in them, then the Ohio Penitentiary must have been one of the most haunted buildings in the region.

Even though the prison itself is no more, this has not stopped the stories of murder, brutality and of course, ghosts, from being told. The prison may be gone, but some say the spirits of the past still linger.

The Ohio State Penitentiary before the fire

The Ohio Penitentiary opened in late October 1834 when 189 prisoners were marched under guard from a small frontier jail to the partially completed building. As they walked along the banks of the Scioto River, they must have been amazed and dismayed by the stone walls of their new place of incarceration, as many other men would be in the years to come. Hundreds of thousands of men were sent to this prison over the next 150 years and thousands of them died, usually violently, behind the high walls.

The penitentiary that was located on Spring Street was actually the third state prison in Ohio and the fourth jail in early Columbus. The first jail in the city had been built in 1804 and was a two-story log stockade that was surrounded by 13 whipping posts. Author Dan Morgan noted that "horrible stories were told about this primitive prison" and said that men, women and children were all brought there. They were stripped of their clothing and then tied to the posts. This was followed by whippings that left their backs resembling raw beef. Further torture was inflicted with hot ashes and coals that were spread onto their bleeding flesh. It was obviously a horrifying place.

Between 1813 and 1815, the first state prison was built along Scioto Street, which later became 2nd Street. It was a simple structure that housed prisoners in 13 cells on the third floor. The prison was full within a year so the General Assembly commissioned a larger structure, designed for 100 prisoners, that was completed in 1818. This building provided unheated cells, straw mats on the floor, infestations of lice and rats and was plagued by several cholera epidemics. It also had several subterranean places of punishment, called "holes," where conditions were even worse.

The prison remained in use until a new building was constructed on Spring Street, however an odd occurrence took place there in 1830. At that time, a fire of "incendiary origin" destroyed most of the prison workshops. Strangely, a century later in 1930, another fire of “incendiary origin” destroyed an entire cellblock and claimed 332 lives at the new penitentiary. It is still considered the worst fire in the history of American prisons.

American penitentiaries were originally designed as a place of contemplation for the mistakes made that caused the inmates to break the law in the first place. Prisoners "labored in silence during the day and were locked in solitary confinement at night." The men worked in factory shops, located behind the walls, to make leather harnesses, shoes, tailored goods, barrels, brooms, hats and other common goods that were not manufactured by legitimate business in Ohio.

The paltry food the prisoners ate usually consisted of cornbread, bacon and beans and was served on "rust-eaten tin plates" and eaten with crude implements fashioned from broom handles. They slept on hay sacks and although fold-down beds were installed around the time of the Civil War, blankets were only issued in the wintertime. The clothing and the bedding were filthy and were major carriers of disease as laundry facilities were non-existent in the early days. There was also no medical treatment to speak of and epidemics, dysentery and diarrhea killed many. In 1849, a cholera outbreak killed 116 of 423 prisoners. The guards fled the grounds and the prisoners begged for pardons.

The inmates were routinely punished for both major and minor infractions. Whipping remained the major form of discipline until 1844, but was replaced by no less cruel methods of causing pain. These included dunking inmates in huge vats of water, hanging them by their wrists in their cells and of course, the sweatbox. In 1885, the prison would begin carrying out executions, as well.

The "golden age" of the prison came during the tenure of Warden E. G. Coffin, from 1886 through 1900.  A number of flattering books were written about the institution during this era and visitors who came to tour the place could even buy picture postcards and souvenir books. One section of the souvenir book stated: “It is to Mr. Coffin's revolutionary methods of inaugurating, perfecting and successfully establishing humane but repressive methods in the management of the prison that the Ohio Penitentiary owes its world-wide celebrity.”

On Christmas Day 1888, Columbus newspapers reported that Warden Coffin had decided to do away with such punishments as the dunking tub and the stretching rings. Coffin said, “A hard box to sleep on and bread and water to eat will cause them to behave themselves. It may not be so speedy but it is more humane.”

Despite the fact that things at the Ohio Penitentiary seemed to be changed from the outside, the prisoners had a different story to tell. In 1894, a newspaper reporter learned that prisoners were still being locked in sweatboxes as punishment and that the ball and chain were also in use. The newspaper denounced the state of Ohio for "a partial return to the dark ages when the stocks and pillory were used for punishment." In addition, the prisoners were still being given bad food and medical care was still very poor. They also complained of pay-offs and political graft that resulted in some prisoners being blindfolded and tortured with water hoses, while well-connected inmates were given large cells and special privileges.

It was also during this era when the Death House was brought within the walls. Prior to that, the gallows had been set up on a place called Penitentiary Hill, located in a ravine near the present-day intersection of Mound and 2nd streets in Columbus. The first execution in the county had been carried out in 1844, when a convict was hanged for murder. The day of the hanging was regarded as “truly the greatest event in the history of Columbus” and was remembered as a day of “noise, confusion, drunkenness and disorder” during which one bystander, Sullivan Sweet, was reportedly trampled by a horse. Two sets of physicians were anxious to obtain the remains of the hanged man. One of the groups went to his grave and exhumed him and while they were making off with the body, they were shot at by the other doctors. The first party ran off, leaving the body to the second group, along with the now-empty grave. The dead man’s foot was, for many years, preserved in alcohol and kept on display by Drs. Jones and Little, who had an office on East Town Street.

In 1885, the gallows were moved behind the walls of the Ohio Penitentiary. Starting with Valentine Wagner in 1885, 28 men, including a 16-year-old named Otto Lueth, were hanged at the end of the prison’s East Hall. The electric chair (considered a humane form of execution) replaced the gallows in the hall in 1897 and 315 men and women were put to death in it.

This aspect of prison life became hated and feared by guards and prisoners alike. Corrections Major Grover Powell, who spent 31 years as a guard at the Ohio Penitentiary, told reporter David Lore in 1984, "Nobody ever really wanted to work the executions; nobody ever volunteered.” Death House duties, such as staying with the prisoner during the last meal, fastening the straps or flipping the switch, were rotated. The warden would get $75 overtime pay to split among the attending officers. Powell recalled that many of the men, even during the lean days of the depression when extra money came in handy, did everything they could to get out of working the executions.

But nothing in the history of the prison, even the macabre execution devices, matched the carnage and horror of April 21, 1930.

The penitentiary in flames

The fire began as a candle flame in a bundle of oily rags on the roof of the West Block of the prison, paralleling Neil Avenue. Authorities later reported that three prisoners had set the blaze in hopes that it would really start to burn around 4:30 p.m. They hoped that it would divert the guards’ attention from their escape, which they planned to take place when most of the prisoners were still in the dining hall. The fire smoldered too long, though, and didn’t erupt for an hour after that, just after the hundreds of prisoners had been returned to the cellblock. Most of the 322 inmates who died that evening perished because of the poisonous smoke given off by green lumber being used in some construction scaffolding on one part of the cellblock, but others suffered a more gruesome fate. Photographs of the debris from the fire showed evidence of incredible heat, which turned the levels of catwalks and bars into a tangle of blackened and twisted metal. Many of the prisoners were literally cooked alive.

Rescue workers try to assist the burned and dying inmates

It was the worst fire in Ohio history and the worst in the history of American prisons. The cellblock had been dangerous and overcrowded, critics said, citing concerns about too many men in the prison that dated back to 1908. At that time, over 4,500 men had been jammed into the century-old prison (with room for 1,500) and this had created the volatile conditions that had ended in the fire. The attention on the prison led to a repeal of judicial control over minimum sentences, which was thought to have contributed to the overcrowding. A package of new laws in 1931 established the Ohio Parole Board and established parole procedures, which by 1932 released 2,346 prisoners from the Ohio Penitentiary alone.

Rows of caskets belonging to the inmates who died in the fire

Officially, the fire was blamed on three inmates, two of whom committed suicide in the months following the tragedy. This was the official word, anyway, although many suggested that the fire had been accidental and that prison officials had blamed the disaster on the prisoners to cover up their own incompetence. Only a handful of people named a more sinister source for the fire, noting with interest that the doomed West Cellblock, which had been added to the original prison in 1875, had been built directly on top of the old prison cemetery. The bodies, the legends say, were never removed. Were some of the former prisoners having their revenge against the prison from the other side?

The 1930s saw more problems at the Ohio Penitentiary. This era began to see an increase in problems at the prison. Many believe that the growth of the "rackets" and the general disrespect for the law in the 1920s and 1930s resulted in an upsurge of prison terms that had the available prisons filled to overflowing. The one-man cells at the prison were converted to handle three or more men and the average daily count swelled to 4,100 inmates by the end of the decade. In 1939, Warden William Amrine once again recommended the construction of a new prison, stating that "conditions at the Ohio Penitentiary are a disgrace to the state of Ohio." His request was turned down, but World War II marked the beginning of a new era for the prison.

The 1930s had been a horrendous time at the prison but changes came about because the inmates were now desperately needed to produce goods for the war effort. Warden Ralph "Red" Alvis is credited for the major changes in the prison, eliminating lock step marching, the strict requirements of silence and striped prison uniforms. And while many of the restrictions were lifted and the men were kept productive during the war, the food became worse. Wartime restrictions and rationing were hard on the ordinary public, but even worse on the prisoners. Gentry Richardson, a prisoner who began serving time at the prison in 1942, recalled, “They would give us butter beans with a piece of fat sowbelly in there with hair on it, big hairs up to an inch long.” Bad food, in fact, was a reason for the 1952 Ohio Penitentiary riot, the first of three to rock the institution over the next two decades. It would not be until after this incident that the rations would start to improve.

Warden Alvis began to implement recreation programs for those incarcerated in the Ohio Penitentiary and began to assume a more humane posture toward the prisoners. His goal was to improve prisoner morale and to encourage a sense of dignity in the men. He believed this was the best way to rehabilitate the inmates and hopefully to release changed men back onto the streets.

Holiday boxing and wrestling matches came about as early as 1940 and a bandstand was built on the O. Henry Athletic Field, the home of the inmate’s baseball team, the "Hurricanes."  

                                                                                

For years, the Ohio Penitentiary drew celebrities, athletes and performers like fighters Joe Lewis and Jack Dempsey and entertainers such as Lionel Hampton. Ohio State University students performed classical music and opera behind the walls and pilots from the Lockbourne Air Force Base led literary discussions. Legendary coach Woody Hayes even once offered to help start an inmate football team. The high point of each year was always the inmate Christmas show, which was performed by the prisoners and always played to a full house. A few outsiders were allowed in for each show and the tickets were always in high demand.

Despite all of this, the conditions of the prison building continued to deteriorate and overcrowding became more of an issue. The prison population reached a record high of 5,235 in April 1955. Classrooms and visiting areas had to be used as dormitories and many of the programs fell apart. With more men came more danger. One former prisoner stated, “I saw a lot of men die behind the walls. How many? I can’t even remember half of them, but there was a lot of killing.”

On June 24, 1968, the worst series of riots in the prison’s history began in the print shop, forcing a number of political decisions that would end with the closing of the penitentiary 16 years later. The initial June riots led to at least $1 million in fire damage and the destruction of nine buildings and damage to six others.

Tensions continued to mount through July and led to more riots in August, when inmates not only started fires, but also took nine guards hostage. This forced a 28-hour standoff between the leaders of the convicts and the authorities that ended with an assault on the prison on August 21. Officers blew holes in the south wall and the roof and invaded the prison with deadly force. Five of the convicts were killed but the guards managed to make it through alive. This strengthened the conviction that the prison needed to be closed down.

Governor James A. Rhodes ordered a new maximum-security prison to be built in remote Lucasville, Ohio, and placed the old prison under the control of Warden Harold Cardwell, who immediately cancelled the Christmas shows, the exhibitions and the team sports. The prison was now under a permanent lock-down and would remain that way for the rest of its existence.

In 1972, most of the prisoners were transferred out and sent to the Southern Ohio Correctional Facility, which had just been completed. The old prison now housed only the sick, the psychotic and the troublemakers. Except for the most secure areas, the place was falling into ruin. The fire-gutted buildings had been left to rot and decay and were slowly crumbling away.  

  

In 1979, the prison was ordered closed down for good as of December 31, 1983. For the first time in more than 150 years, the Ohio Penitentiary was completely silent and empty. Or was it? Not long after the last of the inmates departed, new stories began to be told about the legendary place. And there were stories of a much darker sort.            

While some stated that the only “ghosts” that remained in the prison were those of legend – remnants of the history and memories of the place, others soon began to argue that point. They believed that the fires, the executions, the stabbings, the shootings and the quiet, desperate, suicides that snuffed out thousands of lives behind the prison walls were not the only horrors to be imprinted on the desolate location. They began to believe that the spirits of many of these angry and sinister men remained behind.

Stories began to spread about the old prison site. Those who wandered too close to the old buildings or who dared to go inside began to believe that the otherwise empty cell blocks were haunted by the spirits of the men who died in the prison. There were those who even claimed to experience the phantoms connected to the horrendous fire of 1930. It was said that by standing out in the prison yard, you could hear the roar of ghostly flames from inside and the horrible screams of the men who burned alive in their cells.

These stories continued for several years until finally, the prison was torn down and the site where it stood was cleared away. A sports arena was built where the prison once stood and in the fall of 2000, the arena became the home of the Columbus NHL hockey team. All traces of the old prison were finally destroyed. Or were they? According to reports, witnesses have spotted apparitions and have heard disembodied screams echoing across the arena’s parking lot at night. This has led many to believe that the site continues to be haunted today.

Years ago, when it was first proposed that a tourist attraction or development would take the place of the prison, one of the former guards spoke up, “I wouldn’t care if they dynamited the place. It’s the entrance to Hell itself... I can’t tell you what is there, what is seen and unseen....”

Could the destruction of the prison have erased the ghostly memories and restless souls that once lingered here? Or do they remain, still hoping for some sort of redemption to appease their troubled past?

"I Had to Leave my Little Child to Die!"

“I HAD TO LEAVE MY LITTLE CHILD TO DIE”

Horrors of the Collinwood School Fire

Ash Wednesday morning, March 4, 1908, dawned clear and crisp in the town of Collinwood, Ohio. Fritz Hirter, a father of eight and the custodian for the Lake View School, left his home early to walk the short block between his home and the school. He wanted to stoke the basement furnace with coal in plenty of time to get the building warm for the children when they arrived. By 6:30 a.m., he had set to work cleaning the classrooms and sweeping the hallways. Promptly at 8:00 a.m., Hirter opened the doors, admitting the children - among them were four of his own.

The day had begun in much the same way as any other day but this peaceful routine was not to last for long. Within hours, the school would be a blazing death-trap and lead to the deaths of scores of the children who had innocently started their day at their school desks.

The Lake View School in Collinwood, Ohio before the devastating fire. 

Collinwood was a small community of eight thousand citizens located just outside of Cleveland, Ohio. The Lake View School, built in 1901, was an imposing, three-story brick building with an interior made of wood. It was a neighborhood school. Most of the families it served lived within walking distance.  On March 4, there were between 310 and 325 children between the ages of five and fifteen in attendance. In the basement, beneath three floors of happy, unsuspecting children and teachers, a malfunctioning furnace was hard at work. The steam pipes running under the first floor became dangerously overheated, so much so that the wooden floor joists ignited from the excessive heat. Thirty short minutes later all that remained of the Lake View School would be a smoking pile of rubble inside a burned-out brick shell.

After the children were settled into their classrooms and the halls and stairways were quiet, Fritz Hirter returned to the school basement. He described what happened next: “I was sweeping in the basement when I looked up and saw a wisp of smoke curling out from beneath the front stairway. I ran to the fire alarm and pulled the gong that sounded the alarm throughout the building. Then I ran to the front and then to the rear doors.”  Hirter explained that he had first opened the doors to help the children escape. Unfortunately, air rushing through the school with the doors open only served to increase the intensity of the flames and they were soon closed. He ran to a first-floor classroom and yelled for his five-year-old daughter, Ida, to run home and for the other children to leave immediately.

Hirter said the next moments were confusing. “I cannot remember what happened next, except that I saw the flames shooting all about and the little children running down through them screaming. Some fell at the rear entrance and others stumbled over them. I saw my own little Helena among them. I tried to pull her out, but the flames drove me back. I had to leave my little child to die.”

Lake View School in flames

When the fire alarm rang, the teachers and children first assumed that it was a drill. No one was overly excited and falling into line with their teachers, they quietly headed for the stairways leading to the main doors on the first floor. At first, they marched in an orderly fashion until the children at the head of the lines saw the flames. Order quickly turned to chaos and most of the children either ran screaming headlong into the flames in an attempt to get past them, or they turned to flee back up the stairs and down the narrow halls. 

Katherine Weiler, a teacher at Lake View School, was a strong young woman in her mid-twenties. At nearly six feet tall, she was a commanding presence and was known for being a strict but caring teacher, having been raised in Pittsburgh by her father, a German Methodist minister. She had been teaching since she was eighteen.

When her students realized that the fire drill wasn’t a drill at all, Miss Weiler did her best to calm her 39 second grade students as they made their way from their second-floor classroom toward the front stairs. When they saw their way was blocked by flames, they quickly ran to the stairs leading to the rear exit.  By the time they got there, they found the narrow staircase and hallway beyond packed with children. As more children arrived, they tried to climb over the pile but only succeeded in wedging themselves in even tighter. She could have left to save herself, but instead she stayed. Katherine Weiler spent her last few minutes trying desperately to pull children free of the tangled pile and relieve the pressure as they tried to force their way toward the rear doors. At some point, she lost her footing and was trampled to death under the building mass of children. She was later heralded as a hero.

The fire started in the basement, just under the staircase leading to the front doors. During fire drills, the children had been trained to go directly to those doors but were never trained to seek another way out if those doors were blocked. When the children reached the foot of the stairs they found the flames already raging up through the floor, blocking the way to the front doors and safety. The rush for the doors was so swift that the children were very quickly packed into a tight mass in the vestibule against the closed doors, which opened inward. The children approaching the foot of the stairs, seeing what was ahead of them, turned and attempted to fight their way back up while those who were coming down forced them back into the flames.  From that moment on, there was no hope for the children at the front door and first floor stairs.

After the general fire alarm was sounded, Collinwood Chief of Police Charles McIlrath was among the first to arrive. Even knowing that three of his own children were likely still inside the burning school, Chief McIlrath set to work directing rescuers and firefighters and later containing the thousands who came to help or simply watch, out of morbid curiosity.

  

Within minutes, hundreds of frantic parents and family members who had heard of the fire arrived at the scene.  Their numbers were too vast for the police to hold back. Also arriving to help were a number of men from the nearby train yard and railroad shops at the Lake Shore Rail Yard. 

George Getzien, a passerby, ran to the rear doors and, with the aid of police officer Charles Wall, managed to get the doors open but was forced back by the flames and heat. They both said that at that time, there were no children in that area so they ran to the front doors in an attempt to get them open - but to no avail.

Mrs. Walter Kelley, mother of two Lake View students, and an unknown man were among the first parents to reach the building. Mrs. Kelley was trying to open the rear doors and the man came to help her. Pulling and tugging as hard as they could, believing that the doors opened outwards, they could not to get the doors to budge. Unable to find anything with which to break down the door, they abandoned their effort and began smashing windows and pulling children out until the fire became too intense. They were able to save a few children this way.

Rescuers believed that had there been more men trying to force the doors, many more children could have been saved. What they didn’t realize was that by that time, on the other side of those doors, there was a solid mass of children packed in so tightly that there would have been no way possible for the doors to be forced open. Despite previous attempts to open the doors, men from the rail yard “kicked and pounded on the solid wood doors until their fists were bloody.” 

Eventually, the rear doors collapsed from the weight of the children, exposing a horrifying sight: a solid wall of children, all white faces and struggling bodies. Fritz Hirter, the custodian, was still in the building. He was able to save several children by tossing them through windows as he made his way out, in an attempt to pull them away from the doorway from the inside. Though his face and hands were scorched black, he continued pulling children from the pile until he could save no more. He fled the building at the last second, as more children were shoved onto the pile that was now over six feet high. 

As the flames grew closer and closer to the children, rescuers tried everything to untangle them and pull them free of the pile, but none could be saved. Eventually, the heat drove the rescuers back, and they were forced to watch helplessly as their children were engulfed in flames. 

Two of Police Chief McIlrath’s children, seven-year-old Benson and nine-year-old Viola May, who had been burned about her head and had lost her hair to fire, were among the children who found their way out of the building. However, his oldest son, ten-year-old Hugh, was lost in the fire but he died a hero’s death. Several witnesses, including his father, described Hugh’s actions that day. He was seen leading a number of younger children down the fire escape, but when they got to the bottom they saw it was a long jump to the grass. Frightened of the distance, a few ran back into the building. Hugh followed them in an attempt to bring them back out but a wall of flames appeared before he could do so and he was never seen alive again.

When the front doors finally gave way, people saw an awful scene, similar to the one at the rear doors: a wall of children. This time however, most of the children were already dead. Wallace Upton, a father who had been helping the police and firefighters, realized that his own ten-year-old daughter was caught near the bottom of the pile. She was badly burned and had been trampled, but she was still alive. He tried with all his strength to tear her from the pressing weight as the flames moved ever closer, but he was unable to free her. He continued until most of his clothes were reduced to ashes and he was severely burned himself. Despite his serious injuries, he could not be persuaded to get medical attention for several more hours. 

The Collinwood Fire Department was made up entirely of volunteers, many of them quite inexperienced. They had difficulty getting everything in order and were slow in getting to the building. When they finally arrived, they found their firefighting apparatus to be sorely inadequate. Lacking in water pressure, the water stream was not even strong enough to reach the second story windows. In addition, they didn’t possess a ladder long enough to reach the third floor. The firefighters did all they could, but in the end, they had very little effect on the outcome. 

The fire as it begins to burn down on its own, the fuel for the fire exhausted. The local fire department was understaffed, inexperienced and did not have the equipment to properly fight the fire or rescue the many children trapped in the building. 

 In very short order, there was little need for fighting the fire. Most of it had burned out within the first thirty minutes. All that was left to water down were smoldering embers, making it safer for volunteers to remove the children’s remains. This was a fairly dangerous task. The only thing left standing was the outer brick shell of the building. The walls had lost most of their internal supports and were in imminent danger of collapsing. Fortunately, the walls remained standing until after the victims were taken from the ruins. 

Removal of the bodies was done by the firefighters and the railroad workers from the Lake Shore shop. It was a gruesome task as they pulled blackened torsos and bits of human remains from the site. The rescuers formed a line and as each body was untangled from the debris, it was passed down the line to a stretcher. After each body was covered with a blanket, they were carried to one of the dozen waiting ambulance wagons. A nearby railroad shop was used as a makeshift morgue. As each ambulance was filled with victims, the remains were carried to the morgue and unloaded so that the ambulance might make a return trip for another load as quickly as possible.

The bodies of the dead were lined up in long rows to be identified by parents, family members and friends. 

As the bodies arrived at the morgue, they were laid out in rows of ten. There were sixteen rows. Many of the little bodies had fallen to pieces as they were removed from the debris making identification even harder. The scene at the morgue was sorrowful as parents and family members walked the rows of the dead searching for their lost children. Families were allowed into the morgue ten at a time, giving them ample time and space to find their loved ones in peace.

The painstaking identification process began. In the end, each of the missing was found and identified except for nineteen children and one teacher, Katherine Weiler. Some of them were thought to have burned to ashes - ashes that would remain in the ruins of the school. Many authorities believed that several mistaken identifications had taken place, but often the children were buried before the blunders could be corrected.

In the end, 172 children lost their lives as a result of the Lake View School fire. Two teachers were also lost, Grace Fiske and Katherine Weiler, whose body was never recovered. A rescuer was also lost. John Krajnyak, one of the first people to respond, last seen running into the burning building in an attempt to rescue children, had been missing since the fire. However, it was not known that he had given his life until his body was recovered from the debris.

The ruins of the school after the fire.

With a need to find someone or something to blame, whispers and rumors started to rumble amongst the townspeople and grieving parents. With no evidence at all, the blame was first laid at the doorstep of Fritz Hirter, the school’s custodian. Soon after the fire was extinguished, a crowd of nearly five hundred people gathered outside his home and a contingent of police were called upon to protect him and his family. By the second day, however, when the Hirter family emerged from the house, along with three small coffins bearing the remains of his own children lost in the fire, hearts were softened and the crowd dispersed without incident. Walter, Helena and Ida Hirter were found huddled together on the second floor. It was later determined that Mr. Hirter bore no fault in the cause or spread of the fire.

The Collinwood Board of Trade and the town council each approved $5,000 to help families without the means to bury their dead.  The town of Collinwood had planned to buy a field in which to bury all or most of the victims of the fire during a public funeral. However, after many families chose private burials, the town instead purchased a large plot in the Lake View Cemetery that would serve as a mass grave for the unidentified remains. Several children from poor families unable to pay for a funeral were to be interred there, as well. White coffins were purchased for the bodies going into this plot and white ribbons were placed on the doors of each family who had lost someone in the fire. A canvas of victims’ families was conducted, identifying needs, and thousands of dollars worth of coal and groceries were distributed.  

On March 6, the people of Collinwood began to bury their dead. An average of four funerals, some for multiple family members, were held every hour from sunrise to sunset and continued for three days. There were not enough funeral carriages available so many had to use wagons and even streetcars to transport the small coffins to the various cemeteries and churchyards. The last private funerals were held on March 8, a Sunday.

Monday was the day set aside for the memorial service and public funeral that was held in the Lake View Cemetery. The white coffins were placed side by side in a shallow arc with numerous white wreathes and huge arches of white flowers adorning the site. Thousands of people came to mourn the passing of so many young and innocent souls. 

A movement was started to collect money from Cleveland area school children to pay for the erection of a monument dedicated to the memory of the lost children and teachers. The plan was broadened to include all the schools in northern Ohio, with each child asked to donate one penny. Word of the fund spread and soon envelopes containing pennies were arriving from schools from all over the country.

A makeshift memorial for the children and teachers came together at the site of the school in the days and weeks that followed the fire and the many funerals. 

Collinwood needed a new school. The site chosen for it was next to where the Lake View School had stood.  Several grieving parents tried to stop the plan and find a different location for the new school. They said they could not bear the thought of their younger children attending school next to where the ashes of their brothers or sisters lay. However, construction began on the chosen site and the school was completed in 1910. The school was named Collinwood Memorial.

To further memorialize the tragic loss of life, a public garden was built on the site of the fire. The garden contains a lovely lawn area with trees and plantings, benches and peaceful walkways. There is a large memorial in the garden. Around the sides of the memorial are 175 tiles, each inscribed with the name of someone who died in the fire.

Fritz Hirter continued working for the school system as a custodian until he retired at age 70.  He rarely spoke of the fire. He passed away at the age of 96.

The devastating loss of life in the Lake View School fire was truly tragic but as often happens, there was some good that came of it. The fire not only touched the hearts of a mourning nation, it also caught its attention. Public awareness for fire safety and prevention was vastly increased leading to safer building and improved fire codes. Cities and towns all across the United States instituted inspections of schools, theaters, nickelodeons and public buildings. Most were requiring the installation of exit doors that swing outward, noncombustible exterior fire escapes and in some cases additional fire escapes. It is impossible to determine how many lives were saved because of these changes.

Over one hundred families lost children on that terrible day in March. Sometime after the fire, families began talking softly amongst themselves about strange things happening in their homes. Several of them described catching brief glimpses of their lost children or hearing their voices from another room then finding no one there when they went to look. They never knew if their children returned to them to say goodbye or as a comfort. Over time, the visits became less frequent. 

The Collinwood Memorial School was closed in the 1970s and remained abandoned for decades. The old school had developed a reputation for being haunted. Neighbors who live near the school have told of often seeing a light   appear in a window on the second story in the old building. The light would slowly move along the halls then disappear. This light was seen many times by many people over the years but no “natural” cause has ever been determined. 

As the building had been abandoned for so long and the neighborhood around the school had deteriorated over time, few people have taken the opportunity to wander through the building at night to investigate the haunting.  However, an intrepid few who dared to do so reported a sudden onset of chills and cold spots and occasionally, they said they heard the faint sounds of screaming children. 

People walking through the memorial garden, located on the actual site of the school fire, have told of smelling the strong odor of smoke in the area. This smoky smell occasionally becomes a putrid stench, so strong that it drives visitors from the garden.

In 2003, the memorial garden was rededicated. In 2004, the Collinwood Memorial School was demolished.  A brand new school, also named the Memorial School, now stands at the site to serve the area’s children. Only time will tell if the children from so long ago will return, again, to this new school named in their memory.

This lengthy post is only an excerpt about the horrific fire that occurred at the Collinwood School. The entire story is included in the book AND HELL FOLLOWED WITH IT by Troy Taylor & Rene Kruse. The book is available in print from the website or as a Kindle or a Nook edition. 

Spirits in Stone

Ghosts of the Mansfield Reformatory

This date, December 31, was the supposed to be the official closing of the Ohio State Reformatory in 1986 but somehow, the ramshackle structure hung on until 1990. Better known to people today as the Mansfield Reformatory, the gloomy, gothic structure looms on the outskirts of a small Ohio town. Designed as a prison for criminals who were too old for the Boys Industrial School in Lancaster and not hardened enough for the Ohio Penitentiary in Columbus, the reformatory saw untold thousands of prisoners during its years of operations. Once applauded as a place that could humanely reform first-time offenders, the conditions deteriorated to the point that it became known more for abuse, torture and murder than for its early successes.

It’s been closed down now for many years, but those who cross the threshold of this place today can assure you that the prison is far from empty.

The campaign to build a prison in Mansfield began during the years of the Civil War but it was not until 1884 that the state legislature actually approved the creation of a prison that would serve as an “intermediate” place of incarceration for Ohio lawbreakers. Using land that had served as one of Mansfield’s two Civil War camps, the city raised $10,000 to purchase the land and the state acquired the more than 150 acres that adjoined it. The cornerstone of the prison was placed on November 4, 1886 and marked a day of great celebration in the city. A crowd of more than 15,000 turned out for the event and it featured a parade that started in Mansfield, which was decorated with flags and bunting, and ended at the new building site. A number of dignitaries were present for the celebration, including former President Rutherford B. Hayes, Senator John Sherman, Governor J.B. Foraker and General Roeliff Brinkerhoff, the man who led the drive to have a prison built in Mansfield. Cleveland architect Levi T. Scofield was hired to design the reformatory, which was expected to cost about $1.3 million to build. According to reports, he based his design on sketches of castles in Germany.

Numerous funding problems in the years that followed caused so many delays that the reformatory was not able to accept its first group of inmates until 1896, a full ten years after work at the site began. The prison officially opened on September 17 when 150 inmates were transferred to the news facility from the Ohio Penitentiary. The transfer drew almost as much attention as the original groundbreaking did. Large crowds turned out in Columbus to watch the inmates, dressed in prison stripes, march from the penitentiary to the train station. The prisoners, entertained by the attention, waved and made jokes to the crowds as they passed. Men along the route even passed out cigars to the inmates as they walked by them. The train was greeted by another large crowd when it stopped in Galion, before continuing on to Mansfield. People in town cheered as the men were unloaded at the northwest corner of the reformatory and were taken directly to their cells. The inmates were immediately set to work. The reformatory was still far from finished and the convicts were used to complete the sewer system and other parts of the structure. Construction was not fully completed until 1910.

An early photo of the Ohio State Reformatory

Because the reformatory was an intermediate prison, designed for young offenders, it had few famous inmates during its history. At least one of them went on to great notoriety, however, proving that reform was not always possible with some offenders. The most famous former inmate was Henry Baker, one of the men convicted of pulling off the famous Brink’s heist in 1950.

Some of the inmates at Mansfield didn’t just commit crimes to get into prison, or after they got out. Some of them actually carried on criminals operations while they were still incarcerated. On August 21, 1921, two reformatory inmates, King Williams, age 18, and John Kmetz, age 17, were charged with carrying on a counterfeiting operation while behind bars. The plot came to the attention of the U.S. Secret Service from the superintendent of the reformatory, who acted on a tip from a trusty. The two young men had apparently been creating counterfeit bills and passing them to reformatory guards, who circulated them throughout the area. Assistant Superintendent Rowe had actually caught Williams in the act, putting the finishing touches on a bogus $5 bill. Williams and Kmetz were paroled in late 1921 and were immediately re-arrested by federal authorities, who charged them with counterfeiting.

But darker crimes have occurred in the history of the reformatory, as well. Two corrections officers have been murdered in the line of duty at the Ohio State Reformatory. On November 2, 1926, a paroled inmate named Phillip Orleck returned to the prison to try and help a friend escape. The attempt was unsuccessful but in the course of it, Orleck shot a guard named Urban Wilford outside the west gate. Wilford was killed and Orleck was arrested two months later. He died in the electric chair at the Ohio State Penitentiary the following year.

The second officer was Frank Hanger, who died after being beaten with an iron bar. Hanger tried to stop an escape attempt by a dozen prisoners in October 1932 and paid for it with his life. Two inmates, Merrill Chandler and Chester Probaski, were charged with the guard’s murder and were sent to the electric chair in 1935.

Perhaps the darkest days in the history of the Ohio State Reformatory came with the parole of two inmates, Robert Daniels and John West – who would forever be immortalized in newspapers as the “Mad Dog Killers.” In the summer of 1948, just days after being released from prison, the two young men went on a killing spree that ended with seven people dead, including a guard at the reformatory and his wife and daughter. They started the spree by killing a Columbus tavern owner named Earl Ambrose on July 10, followed by Frank Frech, an elderly tourist camp operator on July 11. After that, they drove straight to Mansfield and the Ohio State Reformatory. Robert Daniels, interviewed after he was captured stated that they had gone to the prison looking for a guard named “Red” Harris, but when they didn’t found him, they went to the home of another guard, John Niebel.

A newspaper featuring the “Mad Dog Killers” and their “13-Day Reign of Terror”

 Daniels and West arrived at the Niebel home around 1:30 a.m. and knocked on the door. When Niebel answered, they told him that their car had broken down and they wanted to use the telephone. He let them inside, but did not recognize the two men at first. It was not until Daniels pulled out a gun that Niebel realized the horror that he had allowed into his home. While West held a gun on Niebel, Daniels went upstairs forced Mrs. Nolana Niebel, and her 20-year-old daughter, Phyllis, to come downstairs. The family was forced into a light-gray automobile and was driven by Daniels and West through Mansfield, around Central Park, and then out of town to Flemings Falls Road. As they traveled, Daniels forced the Niebels to take off all of their clothes and throw them out the window.

Finally, the car was stopped and the family was forced out into the lonely cornfield that would become their death site. Daniels marched them through the knee-high corn and then, forcing them to stand in a line next to one another, shot each of them in the head with an old Mauser automatic.

Daniels and West fled the scene and abandoned the car they were driving. A few hours later, they were captured when they attempted to shoot it out with police and sheriff’s deputies at a roadblock north of Van Wert. The blockade was set up as part of what became one of the greatest manhunts in the state’s history. The newspapers called the killing spree a “13-Day Reign of Terror.” The killers claimed their last two victims just before they were caught, driving a stolen truck that was being used to haul four brand-new automobiles. James J. Smith, a newlywed farmer from Tiffin, was shot through the head when he refused to give up his driver’s license. Less than an hour later, the body of another man, Orville Taylor, a truck driver from Niles, Michigan, was found in a roadside park near Tiffin. Taylor was believed to be the driver of the automobile truck that the killers were driving when they were stopped. Shots were exchanged at the roadblock and Daniels and West managed to wound a Van Wert policeman named Leonard Conn and Frank Fremont, a conservation division employee, during the gunfight. It ended with West being shot dead and Daniels being taken into custody.  

 While in jail, Daniels bragged about his exploits and when he was bought outside to pose for news photographers, an angry mob gathered and demanded that he be turned over to them to be hanged. Officials managed to get him safely back indoors but not before Daniels cursed the police, the photographers and the crowd. He was later tried and convicted for the murders and took a well-deserved seat in the Ohio State Penitentiary electric chair in January 1949.

In other cases, inmates at the Ohio State Reformatory were killing each other – or themselves. In 1955, a guard discovered the body of an inmate who had hanged himself in his cell. A few years later, another inmate poured a can of turpentine over himself and lit a match, setting his clothing on fire. After a prison riot occurred at the reformatory in 1957, 120 prisoners were confined to a solitary confinement area known as “the hole.” This was a dank, pitch-dark place of confinement where it was rumored that several inmates had gone insane. Because there were only 20 rooms in the hole, many of the men had to be locked into the solitary cells together for 30 days. During this time, at least one prisoner was alleged to have been murdered, his body hidden by another inmate under some bedding for several days.

Some blamed the condition of the prison on the mental state of some of the inmates. By the early part of the 1930s, the reformatory was already being criticized for being overcrowded and offering inhumane living quarters for the prisoners. As the years went by, the facility deteriorated even more.

In the 1970s, the state declared that the Ohio State Reformatory no longer met the standards and guidelines for correctional institutes. Public outcry about the state of the prison was led by the Counsel for Human Dignity, a coalition of civic and church groups. In 1978, they filed a federal lawsuit on behalf of the 2,200 inmates at the reformatory, claiming that the prisoners’ Constitutional rights were being violated because they were forced to live in “brutalizing and inhumane conditions.” The lawsuit was finally resolved in 1983 with the filing of a consent decree in which prison officials agreed to improve conditions while preparing to close the cellblocks by December 31, 1986. The closing date ended up being extended for a few years, but by 1990, the reformatory was closed for good.

During the final years of the prison, the only people who seemed to appreciate the crumbling prison were Hollywood moviemakers. While the reformatory was still in operation, two movies – Harry and Walter Go to New York in 1975 and Tango and Cash in 1989 – used the prison for some scenes. However, it was not until 1994, when the film crew for The Shawshank Redemption arrived, that film crews began to realize that the Ohio State Reformatory was the perfect setting for prison films. The facility was widely featured in the film with more than 30 scenes shot in the prison or on the grounds. Several years later, scenes from Air Force One were also filmed at the reformatory. In recent years, there have also been a number of music videos produced at the prison, as well.

One of the Reformatory’s Cell blocks – a popular place for both film makers and ghost hunters!

The reformatory continued to decline for a time after it closed but then, in an effort to save the place, the Mansfield Reformatory Preservation Society (MRPS) was formed. Today, steps are under way to restore the remaining structure to its original condition. The building was added to the National Register of Historic Places and the reformatory’s six-tier east wing is listed in the Guinness Book of World Records as the world’s largest free-standing steel cellblock. The MRPS continues its work today by offering guided tours and numerous events and they have received several awards for their efforts to save this piece of Ohio history.

Since the closing of the reformatory in 1990, stories have circulated that the prison is haunted by the tormented spirits of former inmates, guards and prison officials who have simply never left. According to the legends, they are trapped here behind these decaying stone walls and rusted iron bars by the violent and painful events of their individual pasts. The horror and death of years past seems to be replaying itself behind the gates of the Ohio State Reformatory. Visitors who come here today become quickly aware that the cellblocks and corridors of the prison are not as empty and silent as they first appear to be.

One of the most tragic events to occur at the reformatory took place on November 5, 1950, in the administration wing of the prison. One section of this wing contained the home and offices of Warden Arthur L. Glattke, his wife, Helen, and their sons, Arthur, Jr. and Teddy. On that Sunday morning, Mrs. Glattke was in her bedroom alone and was getting dressed to go out. It was believed that she reached up into a high shelf in her closet, trying to get her jewelry box, and moved a .32-caliber pistol out of her way. The gun had been placed in the residence for the family’s protection. Dr. P.A. Stoodt, the attending physician, believed that Helen may have dropped the pistol and as it slipped out of her hands and hit the floor, it went off. The bullet struck her in the chest and penetrated her left lung.

When Warden Glattke heard the shot, he ran to the bedroom and discovered Helen bleeding on the floor. He summoned the reformatory physician, Dr. J.V. Horst, who, unable to treat her on site, had Mrs. Glattke rushed to the General Hospital. She never regained consciousness and died during the early morning hours of Tuesday, November 7.

In 1959, Arthur Glattke died of a heart attack in his office. It is believed that the ghosts of both Mr. and Mrs. Glattke haunt the reformatory. At certain times, visitors have reported feeling cold rushes of air in the administration wing and equipment failures are also common here. The “pink bathroom” located in this wing is a spot where the ghost of Helen Glattke is said to make her presence known through the smell of perfume and the scent of fresh flowers. Mrs. Glattke may also be the ghost who has been seen in the old prison library. A number of psychics have experienced the vision of a woman in the prison and several visitors have also gotten a glimpse of her in this room.

The hospital’s infirmary is another area of the prison where strange experiences often occur. It was here that inmates were treated for influenza, tuberculosis and a legion of other ailments and diseases caused by the poor conditions and inadequate food and medical care offered to the prisoners. A number of men died of these illnesses during the years of the reformatory’s operation and some believe their ghosts may linger at the last place where they suffered during their lifetimes. It has often been reported that video cameras, recorders and electronic equipment behave erratically in this area and that shadows are often seen here, moving about in the dim light. It is a part of the prison where few want to venture alone. 

The prison’s chapel is located just above the infirmary and it has its own tales of ghosts and hauntings. The most commonly reported incidents there seem to involve a man who has been seen peeking around the doors and peering into the room. He always ducks away when someone notices him. At first, visitors believe this is a real person, or someone from their own group, hoping to play on trick on them. But when they check the other side of the door, they discover that no one is there.

The prison’s cellblocks have their own dark stories to tell. It was in these cells where the inmates lived, suffered and sometimes died. Prisoners committed suicide, mutilated themselves and committed horrific acts on one another. Beatings, stabbings and rapes were not uncommon and a brutal attack might be visited on another inmate for something as trivial as looking at someone the wrong way. Life in the reformatory could be agony, filled with hate, violence and insanity. Many of these men carried these emotions with them to the grave and their spirits, trapped within these walls, are still manifesting these feelings in death. The doors to the cellblocks may be standing open these days, but the spirits of the men who were once locked behind them remain imprisoned behind the rusted bars.

The lowest levels of the reformatory are perhaps the most frightening to visitors who come here today. The basement is a maze of dark, twisting hallways and rumors persist that inmates were sometimes brought here to be beaten and tortured by guards. A number of people claim to have seen the ghost of a young inmate, allegedly beaten to death, wandering the dark hallways of the basement. The boy always vanishes, or runs away, after he is noticed.

But perhaps the most sinister location in the old prison is the infamous “Hole.” There is no record of just how many prisoners were subjected to the terrifying conditions of this part of the prison, where they were jailed in total darkness and forced to sleep on bare, concrete floors – or how many of them may have been left behind as restless spirits. The Hole is a place that saw the darkest side of human nature and the most violent acts carried out within the reformatory’s walls. One does not need to have any psychic abilities to feel the intense energies of this area. Those who visit The Hole say they feel goosebumps, cold chills and, on many occasions, become violently sick to their stomachs. Is it merely their imagination, sent into an overactive state because of the bloody stories that are told about this place? Perhaps, but if so, how do we explain the strange cries that have been recorded in these cells, the tapping footsteps and the unshakeable feeling of being watched? The history that has been imprinted on the stone walls of The Hole seems to be making its presence known to a great many people who dare to come to this spot.

The Ohio State Reformatory can be a physically and mentally exhausting place. There are seemingly miles of rooms, offices, corridors and cell blocks to be explored and it’s not a place for the faint of heart. Unexplained occurrences are common here and give evidence to the fact that sometimes escape simply isn’t possible – even after death.

Want to spend the night at the Mansfield Reformatory with us? Join American Hauntings for two different PRIVATE dates in 2013! Click here to see more information about our overnight ghost hunts and we hope to see you in the coming year!

(Some photographs courtesy of Rob Johnson and Troy Taylor’s book DEAD MEN DO TELLTALES)