My Paranormal Experience: Indiana State Sanitorium (Pt. 2)

As mentioned in my previous discussion, things became very strange—and quite rapidly. The clustering of events—some concrete, objectively verifiable—left me with no doubt that what I was experiencing was real, though a quiet skepticism lingered between May 2nd and May 5th. All my original research aims fell away. Looking back three months, research ceased to be simply an intellectual exercise and became something far more precarious—a negotiation between evidence, experience, and the limits of my own belief. My former interests lost their grip; in their place grew a pressing need to understand what was transpiring. At the same time, I questioned how anyone manages to share such experiences without succumbing to deep self-doubt or a painful sense of isolation. Even now, at the point of writing this, I have wanted to tell everyone—and yet, tell no one. In a profound sense, it is isolating. Sufic scholar, mystic, and philosopher Idries Shah believed that the highest development of the human intellect—what he called “real intellect”—arises from a union of careful critical analysis and intuitive perception. Over the course of the last 3 to 4 months, I’ve gleaned more from this principle and whether the pursuit of knowledge - grounded in objectivity to shed light on how the subjective-experiential - calls upon us to embrace uncertainty.

During the first weekend of my last visit, information I gathered on the Sulava family through cemetery records led me to this brief synopsis:

“The Sulava family arrived at the port of Ellis Island on the SS Carpathia on June 26th, 1907 with three daughters. The three sisters are Maria, Anna, and Frances. Josephine Sulava appears to be the second child born in the United States. I found information on Anna’s naturalization in 1938—twenty-one years after immigration. Birth records of siblings are confusing—Anna was born in Yugoslavia, while Frances was born in Hungary; I was unable to locate Maria. Julia was born in 1908, while Josephine—the spirit in question—was born in 1910 in Clinton, Indiana. The father, Joseph Sulava is - at least by cemetery index records - identified as Slovakian, while the mother (Frances) is identified as Austrian.”

These details proved confusing, prompting me to investigate further into the history of national boundaries—even consulting a professor and searching for ship records to determine the family’s origin point. Gradually, a small thread of inquiry became a major undertaking, one I could not ethically abandon without being left to wonder or regret.

The obituary for Frances Sulava, linked through the cemetery database, clearly identified the mother’s cause of death:

“Mrs. Frances Sulava, aged 38 years, died at her home on North Eighth Street, Sunday evening, after an illness of two weeks for pneumonia. She was the wife of Joseph Sulava, and came with her husband from Austria to this country three years ago. The funeral will be conducted by Rev. Father Keefe, from Sacred Heart Catholic Church at 4 o’clock tomorrow morning. Interment will be at Riverside cemetery.”

– Daily Clintonian, 20 January 1913

On the evening of May 4th (a Sunday), I was lying on the couch in the living room, questioning whether I was losing my mind or simply losing touch with reality, when a strange sensation came over me. With my back to the room, I felt what I can only describe as static electricity, a tingling at the back of my neck that quickly moved down both arms—almost spider web-like, yet distinct. As the sensation travelled, I suddenly heard a loud, whispered voice very clearly in my right ear:

“SLEEP…”

That night, my dreams were strange and violent, if difficult to recall in detail. But what remains vivid—and is written multiple times in my dated records—is the presence of a kind, young woman with dark brown hair and hazel eyes, instructing me to look to the constellations and saying, with crystalline clarity:

“Do not let darkness impact the eye.”

This blurring of dream and waking reality unsettled me deeply, challenging the boundaries between critical detachment and subjective experience, and making me wonder how much of research is ultimately shaped by events we cannot explain. In Josephine Sulava’s case, nothing beyond her birth and burial could be found; only a brief obituary noted an extended illness, but no underlying cause. With hindsight, I see more clearly how stigma and parental grief might have led to this lack of information—challenges for any researcher, and ones that would only grow more pronounced.

It is worth noting here that I wrote and reflected on this phrase—“Do not let darkness impact the eye”—often, whether by automatic writing, sketch, or note. Upon awakening, I realized my narrative was no longer fully my own; it seemed to belong, in part, to those whose stories have never before been heard. I was certain that this presence was from the Sanitorium, though why she reached for me rather than the hundreds or thousands of others who visit, I could not say. My goal was research; I am not a ghost hunter, nor am I enamored by public spectacle or sensationalism. Further, I had no way of knowing, then, whether she had died - I felt it strongly, but could not prove it, and so could not even voice these notions.

The following week, on May 8th, at around 12:48 AM, I closed my book (Greek Civilization and Character, by Toynbee) and lay down to sleep. Suddenly, I heard footsteps—six or seven in rapid succession—on the floor above me, followed by the sound of a pen or small object flung across the upper hallway. When I checked, all was quiet; the fans and televisions were off, and the house stood still, yet I felt that same static electricity tingling at my neck and along my right arm, as if someone were silently behind me. I returned downstairs, tried to rest, but soon heard two clear whistles coming from the stairs, just feet away from my place in the living room.

At this point, I was certain this was not imagined, so I reached for my journal and closed my eyes, beginning my usual exercise. I had drawn a person wearing a headdress and some sort of mask. Initially I thought it depicted a nun—possibly a sign of my own anxiety, but definitely not connected; or so I thought. Still unsettled, I consulted the ghost radio again. The messages received were:

“Nurse.”
“Matewan.”
“Coal.”
“Strikes.”
“Labor.”
“Coal.”
“Coal.”
“Cathartic.”
“Kulpa.”
“Guess.”
“Get it right.”

What I found astonished me. A basic image search of the “nun” drawing with the face mask in the picture—which I nearly discarded—revealed a remarkable resemblance to early twentieth-century tuberculosis nurse and physician attire. Where at first, I thought it immaterial, the same detail (the word, "nurse") appeared in the Estes method transcript. By then, approaching 3 AM, I decided I had enough - I would sleep and research details the next morning. The convergence of the nurse image, the historic placenames, and ghost radio messages kept me invested. As I continued down the list, “Matewan, West Virginia” emerged—a major mining town marked by the Matewan Massacre, a deadly clash between union miners and the detectives hired to protect corporate interests. The word “Kulpa” led me to a river in Europe dividing Croatia and Slovenia - pointing to broader histories of struggle and migration. “Cathartic,” “Guess,” and “Get it Right” all seemed to suggest a narrative in need of resolution.

Without any previous interest in Clinton, Indiana, I soon came across articles and presentations on the Palmer Raids and the Red Scare—years during which Clinton stood out as a significant mining city. The Daily Clintonian discussed its “melting pot” of ethnic communities and described how anti-mutual aid campaigns and the perils of allowing ethnic mutual aid societies. In that era, mutual aid worked much like insurance - for illness, absence, and bereavement—sometimes extending even to those who could not otherwise afford it.

By this time, I knew that Josephine wished—needed—her story to be told. Even as information arose that I could not have anticipated, the absence of proof regarding tuberculosis as her cause of death continued to trouble me. At least, for the time being. Perhaps, in striving to validate the past, we become witnesses not only to history, but also to the persistence with which memory—personal and collective—insists on being known.

That Sunday, I again returned to the Sanitorium. Upon arriving, I approached the pleasant woman at the reception desk - whom I had spoken with during my initial two visits - and inquired, tentatively but with measured curiosity, whether she was aware of the region’s historic mining towns. “I’m doing some research on coal mining in the area and was wondering if you might know anything, or could point me in the right direction,” I said, careful to remain noncommittal, adding, “It’s somewhat connected, but somewhat distinct from my primary research.” She replied, “I’m not extremely familiar, but I do know there was a railroad that ran nearby.” I pressed a bit further: “Do you happen to have any death certificates from the tuberculosis era?” She shook her head. “No, unfortunately—we don’t have any of that information. The only records we maintain are primarily from the psychiatric era.”

It was clear to me then that this was a deeper historical enigma: the past would not yield its secrets readily, and I would need to dig considerably deeper, allowing information and clues—however inexplicable—to emerge in their own time. Each visit brought new revelations, each one not only extending the mystery but also drawing me further into lines of inquiry I could not have anticipated. With every return, I found myself compelled to accept that answers were not just possible, but perhaps, inescapable.

The anomalous phenomena and mysteries long-buried by time seemed increasingly intent on resurfacing. This peculiar triangulation of events and information—linking the Rockville Sanitorium; Clinton’s immigrant mining community; the Austro-Hungarian Empire; and my own unfolding experience—would not only persist but deepen. The territory between past and present, and between personal encounter and micro-history, was being continually redrawn before my eyes.

(To be continued)

Invitation for Reflection

- Throughout history, spirituality and epiphany have often been intertwined; whether through the oracles, the intellectual fervor of the Renaissance spurred by religious humanism; or the synthesis of science and mysticism during the Islamic Golden Age. How might experiences like those described here echo or depart from these traditions of intuitive knowledge and inquiry?

- Idries Shah believed that the highest development—what he called “real intellect”—arises from a union of careful critical analysis and intuitive perception. How does this balance, flow, or openness appear - and for what purpose does it serve?

- To what extent can spiritual or anomalous experiences become legitimate catalysts for asking new questions in the humanities, philosophy, or history?

- How might the spirit of inquiry—be it mathematical, philosophical, historical, or experiential—inform or be informed by personal, subjective experiences dismissed as paranormal or unexplainable?

- In what ways can attention to these kinds of mysteries serve not as ends in themselves, but as openings to deeper narratives—both individual and collective—about meaning, memory, and experiential embodiment?

- Reflecting on antiquity, what role did epiphany, oracular guidance, or revelation play in the formation of knowledge? Is there space in contemporary scholarship for these modes of insight, and if so, under what terms?

- How does the impulse to seek, record, and interpret the inexplicable relate philosophical and humanistic inquiry?