Of all the charming invitations extended to me over the years — psychic conventions, ghost hunts, aura detox seminars — few sounded more ludicrously promising than an overnight stay at Ironford Penitentiary, one of New England’s most notoriously “haunted” abandoned prisons. A place where, according to the marketing brochure, “the walls still remember the screams.”
I brought earplugs just in case.
The tour operators set the scene beautifully. Before locking us in for the night, they regaled us with breathless tales of shadow figures, cold spots, inexplicable moaning, and cell doors slamming shut without human touch. We were warned — lovingly — that we might be pushed, scratched, or whispered to in the dead of night. Special attention was given to the cellblock known as “The Hole,” where so many ghostly encounters had allegedly taken place that one guide said he refused to enter without a prayer and a pocketful of salt.
I skipped the salt.
Once the last flashlight demonstration ended and the tourists had posed for the obligatory “look scared in Cell 13” selfies, we were released into the prison’s skeletal remains to experience whatever horrors awaited. I chose a cell with a wrought-iron bunk, wedged myself into my sleeping bag, and waited for something — anything — to happen.
It didn’t.
No whispers. No slamming doors. No spectral footsteps down the crumbling corridor. Just a cool draft, the soft drip of distant water, and the steady creaking of metal as the building shifted with the night. If that’s paranormal, then my refrigerator has been haunted for years.
What I did get, for the first time in recent memory, was an uninterrupted night of sleep so profound it bordered on religious. No traffic noise. No creaking innkeepers mistaking plumbing issues for demonic oppression. Just quiet, stone, and oblivion.
Except for the raven.
At precisely 3:17 a.m., a loud thunk on the windowsill jolted me upright. I blinked into the darkness and found myself being stared at — with deep, proprietary disdain — by a lone, ragged black raven. It tapped once at the bars, blinked slowly, and then flew off.
Honestly? I respected it. At least one creature in that entire place had a sense of dramatic timing.
Ironford Penitentiary isn’t haunted. It’s abandoned, drafty, and well past its prime. But if sleeping under a collapsed ceiling surrounded by peeling paint and imaginary ghosts helps you achieve closure with your existential dread, who am I to judge? And if you see the raven, tell him I said hello.