Andersen Cami - The Haunting of Asylum 49: Chilling Tales of Aggressive Spirits, Phantom Doctors, and the Secret of Room 666

THE HAUNTING OF ASYLUM 49

CHILLING TALES OF AGGRESSIVE SPIRITS, PHANTOM DOCTORS, AND THE SECRET OF ROOM 666

RICHARD ESTEP
AND CAMI ANDERSEN

Copyright 2016 by Richard Estep and Cami Andersen

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THE HAUNTING OF ASYLUM 49

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For my friend Gareth Ace Gregson, one of the finest men that I have ever known.

Richard Estep

For my husband Kimm, who is never surprised by what I can accomplish.

Cami Andersen

And for the Asylum 49 family, whether living or dead, without whom this book could not have been written.

S pecial thanks are due to our spouses, Laura and Kimm, for taking care of the real world while we were oblivious at our keyboards.

Thanks are also due to the people who make Asylum 49 what it is: Dusty and Lyle Kingston, Sonja Andersen, Misty Grimstead, Ray and Cathy Blank, Tyson and Julie Lemmon, and Robert Buck Helige. Thanks to the Utah Ghost Organization who got Asylum 49 started down this crazy road, Troy and Kris Wood, Trudy Roberts, and Dan Roberts. Last, but not least, to the huge cast and volunteers of Asylum 49, past and present; the list is far too long to mention everyone, but you all know who you are.

A special thank-you to Travis Shortt, who is always willing to lend his expertise to an old friend.

The investigation would not have been nearly as thorough without the help of Sean Rice, Jason Fellon, Catlyn and Greg Keenan, Randy Schneider, Robbin Daidone, Jennifer Roderick, and Autumn Kingry, all of whom traveled a long way in pursuit of their desire to investigate the paranormal.

Thank you all. We couldnt have done it without you!

M y room was filled with visitors and medical staff alike, all stopping by to check on my recovery after an emergency gallbladder removal. The pain was unreal and I was connected to a wonderful pain reduction system (morphine drip), and with the push of a button could control my own pain/pleasure principle and control itor perhaps over control itI did. That is when I started to notice a very strange situation unfolding in my hospital room; I realized that aside from the busyness of visitors and nurses checking on me, I had, unbeknownst to the others in my room, a large gathering of shadowy figures watching over me, patiently waiting for those moments when I would see them and they could attempt communication.

Now I know what you are all thinking: drugs, hallucinations, wild imagination. And I cannot for certain disagree. However, I know that those moments, when I could see them, are burned in my memory more clearly than the conversations and interactions I was having with my living, breathing visitors.

Never before had I experienced such a strange and surreal situation. While my eyes were open, I could see, hear, and communicate with all of my fleshy, warm-blooded friends; when my eyes closed, I could still see every detail of my room, with the exception of the actual people in it. I could still hear them and interact, but they were no longer in my visual spectrum. Instead, my room was filled with ashen-faced, silent beings, many of whom stood there, watching me, and only a few would move. Then there was The Woman, a wild-haired, elderly woman who would float there in front of my face, her hair seemingly blown by some unseen force, her eyes piercing, and her face filled with lines and anguish. She would stare deeply into my eyes, screaming words I could not hear, insisting that I pay attention to her. She grew angrier and more persistent as my stay continued, which also led me to believe that this was more, so much more, than a drug-fueled hallucination. My consciousness, or perhaps subconsciousness, was wide open to another level of existence and they knew it; they could sense that I was straddling two realms and they were opportunists, making sure that I would see and remember everything.

In the days after I was released, I wracked my brain trying to understand, often vacillating between belief and disbelief of what it was I witnessed. I tried so hard to convince myself that everything I saw and experienced was the machination of a drug-induced haze, but I could remember it all so clear, so vivid, and that stuck with me.

That sent me down a rabbit hole that I have yet to pull myself out of, trying to understand or comprehend what is going on around us, unseen at all times. Are we just that close to another reality or dimension? Do the dead really surround us? Then my heart sank as I thought about a room full of ashen, washed-out ghosts, trapped, caught between this world and the next, and filling the rooms and halls of hospitals, asylums, and institutions around the world. How many millions or hundreds of millions of spirits must still walk their halls?

What I found most disturbing was why they were still here, walking among us, especially in places like that. I would hope that in the end, if I stay, I will be bouncing between visiting my kids, scaring some investigators at Asylum 49, or popping in and out of the Minnesota Vikings Cheerleaders dressing room. (What? Hey, I am only human.) Why do spirits choose to stay or be stuck in these circumstances? My only solace came from a fellow investigator and researcher who shed some light on what may come next and why those who stay are still here.

Miss Bay looked deeply into my eyes and said:

When we die, all that we are, all the good, the promise, the light, will go on and complete its journey. Wherever that may be and that which is left behind is the anger, the resentment, jealousy, pettiness, the base, the animal part of all of us. That is why communication is often short and limited to bangs, flickering lights, and an occasional GET OUT and why most communication is so basic. It leaves behind the animal instinct, the pack mentality of sticking with others like itself in an environment that it is familiar with, until at some point that energy fades and finally goes out like a match in a breeze.

I looked at her and questioned, Then what happens to the light of us, the best of us?

Without missing a beat, she lifted the beer bottle to her lips, took another long pull off of it, and said, Now that is the