by Bob Curran
It was then wartime, and Densham made further changes to the Rectory before writing to the authorities to say that he would accept evacuees from London there. He claimed that he’d made a number of “moderizations” to the place that would suit young children, including the building of many bunk beds. The authorities came, took one look, and left, telling him that “because there was no woman present” they could not possibly consider him. Once again his plans were thwarted.
At the time it appears that Densham began to fixate on small children. Perhaps he thought that if he won them over, the parents would follow. So venturing out from his Rectory, he bought large bags of sweets in Bodmin and began to wander around the village, offering them to any children that he met. Of course, parents were incredibly suspicious and ordered their children to stay well away from him. There were rumors that he was trying to tempt children into the Rectory for ritualistic purposes. Fresh complaints were made to the Bishop but Densham argued that he was only trying to fulfil his pastoral duties with the young. He even spent some of his meager money in trying to construct a childrens’ playground within the Rectory grounds. After his death, a cemented depression (a swimming pool), a large cartwheel (a merry-go-round), and several other items were found among the brambles and overgrown bushes. He also purchased a magic lantern, which he housed in an outside barn to give “cinematic displays” to the young folk. These were supposed to be themes from classical mythology and folklore, however, some of the slides were slightly nightmarish—Polyphemus with a gouged-out eye and a horrible-looking Gorgon, certainly not suitable viewing for young children. Densham, however, thought that this would give an added thrill to the experience and the whole episode somehow reflected the fictional lantern show given by the sinister Mr. Karswell in the M.R. James story Casting the Runes. There was a significant difference, however, because no child attended the Rector’s show. Local mothers were unwilling to trust their offspring to the children’s play area—let alone allow them to enter a darkened room with a man like Densham.
The Rector’s behavior became more and more erratic. For a while, he locked up his own church on a Sunday and attended the local Methodist gathering. However, because he would not behave himself, he frequently leapt to his feet and harangued the minister when there was something he disagreed with. Either that or roar in an unknown and barbarous-sounding tongue, which disconcerted many of the other worshippers. In the end he was asked to leave and returned to the Rectory.
In the latter years, Densham faithfully kept up the Church Register. Significantly under Attendance is the common entry “No congregation at any service.” Under Rector’s Remarks, which was supposed to detail parochial activities, he simply recorded observations about the weather. However, he had a plan to furnish himself with a “congregation” of sorts. Accounts vary, but it is said that he made himself a series of cardboard figures which he placed in the pews and preached to them. It was always the same sermon, “The Devil as a roaring lion,” except at Christmas when he preached on “God is Love.” Others say that it was not cardboard figures at all—this they claim was no more than an invention of the novelist Daphne du Maurier, who lived in Cornwall from 1943 and who knew of Densham—and that he simply preached to cards bearing the names of former Rectors. Whatever they were, he referred to them in his journal as “a congregation of ghosts.”
Not only this, but he arranged a crude speaker system in the bushes near the church. This was little more than a metal box connected to an old microphone by a series of wires, but it served to carry the Rector’s voice preaching the same sermon over and over again each Sunday to the houses nearby. The few residents there were treated not only to the sermon, but also expositions of missionary life in India with the inclusion of the radio show The Brains Trust. Had it not been so pathetic, it might have been humorous. Many of the residents complained to the District Council and eventually the broadcasts stopped.
Densham now contented himself with his writing. He wrote file upon file of text, consulting some of the “strange books” that he kept about the Rectory. He changed the paintings on the walls of the Rectory rooms, showing far away scenes of Biblical lands with peculiar twists—such as Christ raising Lazarus at Bethany and the road to Emmaus where Christ had appeared to some followers. He also seemed to be more fearful of something—some say that he saw death approaching—and began to paint every door of the house with a cross and other religious symbols. He also broke his silence with the village and asked one good parishioner to come in to see him and light his stove for him (he was now becoming increasingly infirm) and perhaps do a little meager cooking. But the overwhelming feeling in that lonely Rectory was now one of fear.
From about 1951 onward, Densham had, from time to time, a peculiar audience at some of his services. The reclusive Rector had become something of a curiosity in America and occasionally some journalists and photographers would show up at the church to try to interview him. There were reporters for Life Magazine and the Western Morning News, as well as from some of the London papers, who also viewed him as a curiosity. They photographed him for a while as he harangued the local Methodists for their “Hellbound” ways, such as drinking and smoking, and as he preached to the empty church. Eventually though, even the press lost interest in him and the Rector retreated behind his rhododendrons and shut his Rectory doors once more.
He returned to writing, allegedly filling his files with material copied from “terrible books,” drawing peculiar symbols on the doors. The rumor that the Rectory was haunted was now an accepted part of local folklore. But things were about to change.
One morning in 1953, some locals noticed that “the Rector’s smoke” wasn’t rising from the one chimney, which could be seen behind the high rhododendrons. Alarmed that something was wrong, several of them beat on the oil drum beside the gate, hoping that Densham would show himself, but he didn’t. After calling the police, they went up to the overgrown Rectory and found him dead where he had fallen at the foot of the stairs. According to most accounts, there was a look of absolute terror on his face and his hands had been raised as if to ward something away. He had been dead for two days. The villagers inspected the church records, hoping to gain some clue. The last entry for the Sunday before simply read: “No wind, no rain, no sun, no congregation. Both stoves burned excellently.” There was also a cryptic reference to another visitor named as Tom Webster who arrived at the Rectory at 3:10 p.m. on Sunday having travelled by British Rail. There was no record of him leaving. No trace of this individual or what his business with Densham might have been was discovered. Further searches of the house were made and it’s alleged that there were other items found in some of the rooms that were quickly and quietly disposed of, although Densham’s private papers were not touched. A day or two after the discovery, his brother arrived to take charge of his possessions. The man proved to be as taciturn as the Rector had been and reportedly spent several days carrying his brother’s books and hundreds of files to the back of the Rectory where he created a great bonfire and burned them all before departing. In the back of the house was a study where every cubby hole had been filled with sheets of paper and scroll-like texts, all of which were taken out and destroyed. There were clearly some things that he did not wish other eyes to see.
Gradually scant traces of Densham’s last hours began to emerge. There had been a basket of apples placed on the kitchen table, he would take to some of his parishioners. At some point he had gone upstairs—some speculated in order to die—but had never reached the top. He had fallen down dead and lay where he had been found. The cause of his death was given as a heart attack.
His brother never returned to finish clearing out the Rectory, and shortly after his death, some of the contents of the house were put to auction. None, however, gave any clue as to his mysterious life, and although many turned up to see, they felt no closer to their Rector than they had when he was alive. Densham had left specific written instructions for his burial and had constr
ucted a “Garden of Remembrance” enclosed by laurels in the grounds of the Rectory where he was to be laid to rest. The locals ignored these and cremated his body, scattering his ashes in the official Garden of Remembrance in Plymouth. Neither his brother nor any member of his family attended the funeral, nor did any member of the Warleggan parish. In fact, only one mourner attended his funeral—his solicitor.
Warlaggan Church was whitewashed and the Rectory was sold. After Densham there was never another Rector in the parish, and today, the old house is let out as apartments. When they cleaned out the cellars, builders found several more sheets of paper, but these turned out to be no more than lecture notes and several lines of jokes. Frederick Densham had passed into history without much of a legacy.
And yet his shadow still hangs over Warleggan. Old people there still remember him and a number of residents claim to have seen his ghost—sometimes alone, sometimes with his dog—along the lanes around the present village. There are still tales of haunting in the old Rectory, and people still puzzle over what went on there. Following his death, another clergyman in a neighboring parish took over and the congregation returned in some measure to St. Bartholomew’s, but some members still say that it was “never an easy church.” Was Densham no more than a harmless, reclusive, and greatly misunderstood eccentric? Or within the walls of the Rectory did he use Eastern and pagan magics to call down something from beyond, which still somehow lingers in the quiet places of the village? And his strange character seems to have influenced those further afield. There have been several articles and fictional stories written about him, and in 2009, Mark Collicot’s film A Congregation of Ghosts was shot in Cornwall. Although dead for more than 50 years, his strange influence still continues and may still have the power to chill us all!
Wavery Hills Sanatorium (Louisville, Kentucky)
“‘If you listen carefully,’ whispered Beatrice putting her ear close
to the door, ‘You can sometimes hear her moving about inside. She’s
on the other side of the door you know, listening all the time, trying
to catch what’s going on out here in the passage. She is awfully quiet
during the daytime, but sometimes when you’re in bed at night, you
can hear her shouting and laughing in this room, even away across
the house. I think that’s when she frightens me the most.’”
—Harriet Burdon, The Mad Woman’s Room
Many people, myself included, find hospitals to be frightening places. Maybe it’s their associations with illness and death that chills us most. And no matter how modern the building, the frowning, sterile walls, and the strange, clinical smells often give us fear. And because of their connections with death—whether sudden or lingering—it is a small wonder that many hospitals have acquired a “haunted reputation” throughout the years.
One of the most haunted is the Waverly Hills Sanatorium, just outside Louisville, Kentucky. Not only is this one of the most troubled hospital sites in the United States, but it is also described as “one of the most haunted buildings in America.” And yet, as haunted buildings go, Waverly Hills is fairly new, only dating back as far as 1910. That, of course, does not detract from its creepiness.
The name was given to the area by Major Thomas H. Hayes, who purchased the land on which the hospital now stands, in 1883. A fervent believer in education, Hayes established a one-room schoolhouse for his two daughters and some other children on what was then known as Paige’s Lane, and employed Miss Lizzie Lee Harris as a teacher. Miss Lizzie had a particular fondness for the novels of the great Scottish author Sir Walter Scott, and named the school The Waverley School after one of them. Hayes liked the name and it became official. When they took over the land in the early 1900s, the Board of the Hospital kept the name, although when the second “e” was dropped and it became Waverly Hills is unknown.
In 1911, Jefferson County was ravaged by what became known as “the White Plague” (tuberculosis). A great majority of the cases were in the Louisville area, which was particularly low-lying and swampy—a perfect breeding ground for the tuberculosis bacteria—and to try and contain the contagion, the city authorities built a rough wooden facility in which patients could be housed. There were, however, plans to build a more permanent hospital. Throughout 1911, work was hampered by financial wrangling and political manoeuvring, so the earliest patients were transferred to a new, temporary institution at Waverly Hills pending completion of a hospital in Louisville. Some of the structures were no more than wooden cabins, some were even tents, and the whole area had a very temporary feel about it.
Political and financial dealing nevertheless continued, and with the new hospital still not completed, more and more patients were transferred to the Waverly Hills site. Initially, the institution had been set up to deal with first-stage pulmonary tuberculosis, but advanced cases were being sent there. By December 1912, new wings were added to accommodate another 50 patients, all of whom were classed as “advanced cases.” In 1916, a children’s pavilion added yet another 40 beds. By that time, Waverly Hills was being classed as a “capacity hospital” and boasted around 130 patients. However, it is not known if this was actually a true figure, as building continued apace with the building of laboratories and extra spaces. In fact, the hospital seemed to grow a little bigger each year. Meanwhile, rumors began in the surrounding countryside. It was said that Waverly Hills was secretly an “experimental hospital” where doctors were experimenting on the terminally ill in secret additional structures to try to find a cure for the disease which was blighting parts of the state.
In 1924, it was becoming apparent that Waverly Hills would no longer be regarded as a “temporary hospital,” and that a more permanent structure should be built. A five-story building was proposed, and it would include a number of facilities to house long-term sufferers of tuberculosis in the Louisville area, which would hold more than 400 patients. This opened on October 17th, 1926, and was certainly an imposing building. However, rumors about what was going on there still persisted. The secret laboratories, it was said, had now become formalized and more sophisticated, and terminal patients were being experimented upon there daily by certain members of staff.
In certain cases of tuberculosis, the disease had affected the brain of the patient and madness had set in. A special “mad ward” was rumored to exist within the hospital where the insane were kept. Many of these people were from poor families who simply deposited them at Waverly to be rid of them, so this ward in particular was said to be a rich picking ground for doctors who wished to medically experiment with patients. If they died, who would miss them?
Waverly ran as a tuberculosis hospital until the 1960s. However, in 1943, the widespread use of streptomycin led to a decline in numbers suffering from the disease. Although it remained open throughout the 1940s and 50s, the numbers of patients grew less and less, and areas of the building were largely abandoned. Or were they? Local legends suggested that even more medical experiments went on there in the now “empty” wards and laboratories, particularly during the latter years of World War II. However in June 1962, Waverly Hills finally bowed to the inevitable and closed its doors as a tuberculosis hospital with the remaining inmates being transferred to the City Hospital in Louisville.
It didn’t stay closed for long though. At the end of 1962, it reopened again as Woodhaven Geriatric Home, which would remain in operation until 1981. Although it was classed as a “geriatric hospital” stories suggested that it was in fact an asylum for the confused and mentally ill. After all, it did have a “mad ward.” People who were too disturbing or too violent to be housed in regular mental facilities were shipped there to be kept away from public gaze. In 1981, amid allegations of patient abuse, Woodhaven Medical Services, who owned the building, closed it down once more.
By then, the hospital was a center of rumor and story. There were tales of a “death tunnel” that ran beneath it. It ran from the first floor down to a
n exit at the bottom of the hill on which the hospital stood. One side of the passageway comprised a flight of steps, the other, a small rail and a cart powered by a motorized cable. Staff often used this tunnel to come and go without having to walk up a steep and dangerous hill—and also without being seen from the hospital itself. According to Woodhaven Services, this had been built during the time of the tuberculosis hospital and had originally been used to transport supplies. During the height of the tuberculosis outbreaks, there were constant deaths at the hospital and the sight of bodies being taken out—sometimes on a daily basis—was upsetting for some of the other patients. Therefore, the “death rail” was used to discreetly remove bodies from some of the wards and take them to town for transport to Louisville without being seen. There were those who said that this “railroad” was used by some doctors to dispose of the bodies of those who had died during illegal experiments in the hospital.
And, of course, there were stories of the unquiet dead roaming the corridors at night, especially near what had been “the mad ward.” Here, insane phantoms lurked among the shadows, ready to threaten unsuspecting nurses as they passed. Some of these could be quite terrifying to look at—gibbering and gesticulating in an awful manner before vanishing into the dark. One of those most frequently seen is that of an old woman with long, straggly white hair; staring insane eyes; and dressed in a blood-stained tunic with metal cuffs. She may have been a particularly violent inmate of the geriatric hospital who needed to be restrained and is waiting for her family to come and take her home. She is still waiting, and in the dark of the night, presents a truly terrifying sight. And in the darkness, from time to time, the screams and the groans of the former inmates—some demanding to be let out, some simply shouting in pain from the alleged experiments, can be heard, far away and echoing across the building
