H.B Carlson was a ghost hunter from the deep down parts of West Virginia. He had found many things in his 13 years in the field of ghost hunting; EVP’s of demonic presences and lost souls, photos of apparitions and angels, experiences with physical ghostly encounters and everything in-between. He never understood why he had been so fascinated in this line of work. Maybe it was because he watched so many ghost hunting shows, or simply because he wanted to know more about the unknown. Maybe because he wanted to know what was on the other side, where ghosts came from, or just to know what a ghost really is?
His curiosity led him here. The Old City Orphanage in Marquette located in Michigan. He came to this place because he had read many things on it, and for some reason, the place couldn’t get out of him thoughts. They were there when he awoke in the morning, at the dinner table in the evening, and before bed in the late of night. Something was literally pulling him to that huge ghost sanctuary, and he had to find out what it was.
The building was huge; the bricks were literally bright red, as if a fresh slice across your throat began to pour the scarlet blood that trickled down your body, the windows broken and empty, putting off this feeling of dread, and sadness. Yet anger and the urge of terror swept closely behind. He saw the gatekeeper and Carlson finally got the guts to get out of his car, and walk towards the gate. He approached the old man nervously, and began to introduce himself.
“Hello, my name is-“
“Mr. Carlson, I know who you are.” The old man unlocked the gate, and stared at Carlson as he passed through. “Only a poor soul with a death wish would come here,” He muttered warningly as the on edge ghost hunter passed him. He spun around to ask the gatekeeper a question, but as he did so, he was gone. Vanished, like a puff of cigarette smoke that faded in the air. Carlson started to make his way towards the large lawn that hadn’t been mowed in God knows how long. As he walked through it, it was as if the grass was trying to prevent him from making it to the front steps of that building of hell and misery.
He finally made it up the steps, and he just stared at the doors, not looking away. He wanted to turn is head, look behind him; but it was as if something wouldn’t let him. Before he got too distracted, he shook his head and started to fumble for the keys in his jacket pocket. He finally found the right ones, and he twiddled with the main key in his hand, feeling the rust and edginess of it. He took a deep breath and slowly put the skeleton key into the hole, and turned. It unlocked so easily, as if the house gladly welcomed the frightened stranger. Yes, Carlson was frightened; but he ignored it most times, and remembered why he was here in the first place.
This information was the only information he read before going to the orphanage;
“Formerly known as the Holy Cross Orphanage, the Old City Orphanage stands against the Marquette hills as a menacing reminder of the city are past. Built in 1915 and abandoned in the mid-sixties, the Catholic orphanage remains a location of lengthy narrative and legend. According to occupants of the orphanage, the nuns were known to physically and mentally abuse the children and were fierce in their punishments. One account recalls a little girl playing outside during a blizzard and subsequently catching pneumonia. She died several days later. As a testament to her foolishness and a warning to the other children, the nuns put her body on display for all to view. The crying of children is said to be heard if passing the building on a quiet night.”
After this, he knew he had to go. For some reason, he had for some reason the assumption that the kids were drawing him there. He finally entered. It was just pure emptiness. Time and age had certainly taken over the looks of the place. He felt sadness, and he actually wanted to cry. Was this a spirit drawing energy from him? Either way, he knew where he wanted to start within the old abandoned orphanage; He wanted to go straight to the room where the little girl’s body was set on display for all the children to see.
He made his way up the stairs, up to the 3rd floor, and stood in front of the red door, the ONLY red door in the whole 3rd floor. He stood there, and had shivers run up and down his spine. He had to go in. He just had to… he took the biggest inhale he thought he ever took, and he felt his heart literally pulsate throughout his whole body. He knew there was something bad, very bad behind that door… but he had to know. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door. To his horror, he saw…
3 nuns, their back to him, and they were hanging something up against the wall. As one of the nuns moved slightly to the side, he noticed a white arm, and they were tying it up in the air. The nuns backed away slowly and he could see a little girl’s dead body hanging lifelessly from the sir, the ropes so tight that they were digging into her wrists. All 3 nuns, turned and faced him. They looked at him, but they did nothing, said nothing. Carlson stood in shock, not knowing what he was seeing. It had to be a reenactment of what happened that winter, where the little girl played out in the blizzard… and the punishment to her and all the orphan children.
All of a sudden, one of the nuns screamed, “GET IN HERE THIS INSTANT!” It echoed, and it never seemed to fade, as most echoes did. Carlson felt children run past him, and saw them all crying and standing in front of the nuns, barely clothed and many very very sick, due to freezing and not being clothed. Carlson couldn’t look away, he couldn’t even blink.
“This is what happens when you play!!!!” screams one of the other nuns, who picks up a grapevine twig and starts slapping the front line of orphans in the face, and screaming children and cries of anguish and pain filled the room. It was too much for Carlson, he was overwhelmed, and frightened beyond belief. He couldn’t move, and he couldn’t run. He just fell to the floor, covering his eyes and ears and he waiting for the nuns to beat him to a pulp.