St. Albans Special

Welcome to St. Albans. Cor here, taking you through that fateful night at the Sanatorium that turned this goof into something straight out of the X-Files, minus the bad loose '90s suits. So I'm at this event with the Tennessee Wraith Chasers with a Canon. They’ve got all the gear set up—motion detectors, spirit boxes, EMF readers, Estes EVPs, the works. They’re not playing around; they’re here to chat with the locals, and I don't mean the kind that can pay for their own drinks.

Let's rewind a bit and set the stage for this ghostly theater we call St. Albans Sanatorium. Virginia, early 1900s, a place perched on a hill like it's king of the creepy castle, originally built as a fancy-pants boys' school before it went full One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and turned into a sanatorium. Back in the day, it was all the rage to ship off your troubled and tubercular to places like this. High ceilings, long hallways—it's got that gothic 'you're definitely not alone' vibe.

“St. Albans Sanatorium, perched ominously atop a hill in Christiansburg, Virginia, has a storied past that rivals any gothic novel. The building, originally constructed as a prestigious boys' school in 1892, promised education and refinement. However, the picturesque location belied a competitive atmosphere that may have contributed to a student's suicide, marking the first of many tragedies associated with the property.

Transitioning from a place of learning to a beacon of healing, St. Albans found its second life in 1916 as a sanatorium for the mentally ill and the tubercular. It was an era when mental health care was rudimentary at best, and treatments were often cruel and unusual by today's standards. The sanatorium was a microcosm of the larger, often misguided, mental health practices of the early 20th century, where patients underwent experimental therapies and suffered in the name of science and medicine.

During its tenure as a medical facility, St. Albans Sanatorium gained notoriety for its radical—and sometimes barbaric—treatments. Lobotomies, electroconvulsive therapy, and insulin-induced comas were standard fare, leaving many to question the line between treatment and torture. The high death rate and reports of patient mistreatment contributed to a dark legacy, cementing the sanatorium's place in local lore.

The sanatorium closed its doors in the 1990s, leaving behind a repository of sorrow and unanswered questions. The building, now abandoned by the living, is said to be occupied by the restless spirits of former patients. These spectral residents are believed to be eternally trapped within the walls, replaying their tragic pasts in an endless loop—a testament to the sanatorium's turbulent history.

Today, St. Albans Sanatorium stands as a dilapidated monument to a bygone era, its decrepit corridors and peeling paint bearing witness to the countless lives that passed through its doors. Paranormal investigators and the curious alike are drawn to the site, eager to connect with the echoes of the past. St. Albans is more than just a building; it is a chronicle of human suffering and the quest for understanding the mysteries of the mind.”

So, this joint's seen more drama than some real housewives of a metropolitan area. The school part was by all accounts chill until the sanatorium era hit, and then it was all about ice baths, shock therapy, and the kind of treatments that would give modern doctors nightmares. They say the folks running the sanatorium were about as compassionate as a cactus, and it's got the ghostly roster to prove it. Patients came with hopes of recovery but ended up part of the architecture, their spirits sticking around, maybe 'cause the afterlife's got a no-return policy on souls.

Which leads us to the sanatorium's rep as a hotspot for the afterlife's unhappy customers. You've got stories of patients offing themselves, others just wasting away, and whispers of staff that enjoyed their work a little too much, if you catch my drift. And the spirits of these victims all long forgotten by their families, now simply whispers in this darkness to creeps like us.

We kick it off in the morgue/sanatorium isolation section and right off the bat, things start heating up. Lights are flickering, sensors going red, and we're getting seriously chatty responses from more than one spirit on the other side. From Nympho Gertrude to Tragic Mike, we seem to get full on narratives from at least two spirits. Then some shadow sightings – one allegedly a shape-shifter?

And just when we thought we'd heard it all, the grand finale hits us—a full-blown alarm goes off, and we're talking about demons now. That's right, demons. my aunt, the die-hard believer, the one who's seen more spirits than a bartender, actually got us the golden tickets to this spectral showdown. She's been all-in on the paranormal since forever, convinced that every creaky floorboard is a ghost trying to get Insta-famous. So, heading into St. Albans, she's like a kid in a haunted candy store, ready for a meet-and-greet with the other side. Trust me, when the alarm hit red alert, her 'I told you so' face was the real climax of the night. She nearly faints, and we decide it's time to bail because you don't mess with the D-word.

We walk out of St. Albans with more questions than we came in with, a bunch of stories to tell, and a new ghostly friend or two. Gertrude's naughty antics, Mike's tragic tale, that freaky shadowy shapeshifter, and the demonic doctor who left us all a little shook. It's the kind of night that makes you want to leave a little light on. But that's a wrap on this episode—until next time, Stay Snide, and maybe say a little prayer.