It was on a sunny Saturday afternoon in November that I first visited the Rolling Hills Asylum. Rumored to be haunted, the nearly 200-year-old former orphanage and poorhouse was promoted in October as a site for ghost hunts, and in November and December as a holiday craft fair. (Apparently, the hauntings ceased October 31, and on November 1 it became a happy place where all could rejoice.)
Even in the light of day, the rambling brick building was imposing—but only just a teeny bit creepy. I’ve been known to have a bit of a sixth sense <cough>, but looking at it, I didn’t feel a sense of dread wash over me or anything of the sort. It was just a worn-out old building. Any ghost hunt they might have was more than likely a shtick. My friend Mike and I wheeled into the parking lot to check the place out.
There were directional signs to the “Holiday Craft Fair,” so we bypassed the woman at the front desk area—giving her a courteous nod of hello, rather than stopping to chat. I didn’t want her to know we were interested in the ghost thingie. I wanted to wander around with a clear mind, just to see if I sensed anything otherworldly. I loved historic buildings anyway, so I considered it time well spent.
Rolling Hills Asylum was set up in a wing structure, like a hospital. It was the first floor’s East Wing that housed the holiday craft fair. As we passed each room of the wing, we saw that it housed a different vendor. We went to the far end of the wing, so we could work our way back to the front desk area.
I walked into the first room of the “craft fair” expecting to be greeted by a person who would make me super uncomfortable and pressure me as I browsed their wares, while I frantically wondered how long it would be appropriate to pretend to look at stuff before it would be acceptable to leave.
Entering the first room, the first thing I noticed was that there was no person inside (alive, or dead.) What a relief.
But that was just when the terror began.
“Oh, geez,” Mike said. “What a friggin MESS!”
There were “crafts” piled everywhere in the room. It was like a bad episode of Hoarders. No offense to people who Hoard! Like my Dad.
Anyway, I was frozen in fear. Because it was at that very moment that terrible memories, previously repressed, washed over me related to “crafts.”
- Quality. My bar is high. I’m on a tight budget, and I’m picky, and what’s beneficial to craft vendors is that I make rash purchasing decisions on the spur of the moment. But my bar is still high enough that any crafts I will even consider must be at least the level of T.J. Maxx. But preferably the level of the stuff in the middle of the cul de sac at the Pittsford Farms Dairy that the woodworker makes and also he has a rabbit. I know that is uber-specific but you have to check that guy out I mean WTF? and;
- Propensity for crafts. I am not a huge fan of crafts. Not at all. When I acquire a craft, it’s usually to give to someone else as soon as reasonably possible.
Anyway. We moved on to the next room, then the next. Our eyes were assaulted with so many unspeakable horrors. From the least offensive…a white cloth throw pillow that screamed, “HAPPY HOLLY-DAYS!” …to a wooden yard reindeer with a bulging eye and a severed hoof…to hundreds of disturbing ornaments of all shapes and sizes that—unbelievably—were of even worse quality than what my kids would bring home from school. The kind you put on the back of the tree.
This craft fair was a torture chamber.
Mike sighed. “Hey, I’m going to run ahead…no hurry, I’ll catch up with you at the front desk.”
“Don’t worry,” I replied. “Believe me, I am right behind you.”
There were maybe twenty rooms in that wing, the remainder of which I briskly entered and exited in record time. At that point, I had forgotten all about being in a “haunted asylum.” I’d forgotten about being in touch with myself about “creepy feelings.” I just wanted to get the hell out of there. I’d had hopes that perhaps one room had an ornament I might like, maybe Santa playing a guitar or something, but—nope.
Eventually, I arrived at the last room. Phew.
As I crossed the threshold in relief, I was literally stopped cold in my tracks.
A blast of freezing air hit me like a strong gust of wind.
I pushed through it into the room, thinking that there must be some sort of massive fan on—perhaps to simulate the North Pole!
The entire room was very cold. I poked around as to the cause
I didn’t see a fan. No air conditioner.
I checked the window. It was closed and locked.
I felt the window glass. It wasn’t cold.
Confused, I went back into the hallway. I saw Mike chatting with the lady up at the desk. I covertly waved him over.
Mike met me at the doorway. “Check this room out,” I said. He gave me a quizzical look, and went in. I followed.
No cold whoosh this time as I entered, but I still felt ice cold inside the room.
We stood there. He looked bemused.
“So. What do you think of this room?” I asked him.
He looked around at the haphazard crafts. “It’s as awful as the rest of them.”
“Yeah, right, I know,” I answered. “But, I mean, don’t you think it’s super, super cold in here?”
He frowned. “No…none of the rooms are very warm. But it doesn’t feel ‘cold’ to me.”
“Hmm. Okay. I guess it’s just me. You know I get cold easily,” I said. “Let’s just get out of here.”
We made our way to the front desk, situated amidst what looked to be a little makeshift gift shop. Standing at the desk was a woman in her late 50s, with long black hair parted in the middle, flowing straight down her back, and she was giving us a big, toothy smile.
“Well, hello,” she said, directing her greeting at me, as she’d already met Mike. “Welcome to Rolling Hills. I’m Grace.”
“Hi, Grace, I’m Jane. Nice to meet you,” I said.
“We just swung by quick to check Rolling Hills out,” I continued. “We missed the Halloween season. So I guess we’ll have to catch the Ghost Hunt next year.”
(Note: I said this with no intention of “catching the Ghost Hunt next year.” This place seemed just about as haunted as the Geneseo Walmart.)
“The ghost hunts are very popular,” Grace said with a smile as she handed me a flyer, which I reluctantly accepted. “There’s a lot of history here…and a lot of spirits.” She winked. I acted the appropriate level of WOW, THAT IS SO CRAZY on the outside, but had a bored, beaten-down feeling on the inside. The craft fair had crushed my soul.
“Yes, I know there’s a lot of history,” I said. “The building is very cool. Actually, speaking of cool, I have a question. So, I was in the craft wing, and one of the rooms seemed super cold. Mike didn’t feel it, but I did. When I entered the room the first time, it actually felt like a cold wind hit me. It’s that room over there,” I pointed. “The one closest to us, on the left.”
Grace grinned broadly. Reaching under the desk, she pulled out a 8-1/2 x 11” enlarged black-and-white photo encased in a transparent sleeve, and handed it to me.
It was a photo of a woman with her hand on the doorknob of the cold room.
There was a man standing behind her.
Yet—not a man.
A dark shadow of a man. In a suit. With a brimmed hat. Like from the olden days.
WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT THE
“We have many photos of ghosts here at Rolling Hills, but this is by far our best one, that we are most proud of,” Grace said, her face beaming. “We are confident that this is the Warden of the asylum. He makes his presence known quite frequently.” She continued, “Jane, you must be very sensitive to spirits. When ghosts are present, those of us in the ‘real world’ can experience cold, or sometimes a very strong gust of what feels like a cold wind.”
While I may have been very cold before, now I felt very hot—and sweaty. Shadow Man could have been standing next to me in that room, with me none the wiser. Maybe he was standing next to me right now.
AAARRRGGGHHH
As I slumped to the floor, the last words I heard were Mike saying, “We’ll reserve two tickets to next year’s Ghost Hunt, please!”
(Well. Karma’s a b—-. Little did Mike know that he would be very sorry about getting those tickets. At the ghost hunt that following year, we found out the hard way why Rolling Hills is the second most haunted site in the United States.)
Next Up: Part II—Sure, The Ghost Hunt Is Fun—If You Like Getting Possessed, That Is, and Mike, You Totally Deserved It
