The Haunting of The Portico’s

In 1991, I was a junior at Indiana University, in Bloomington, Indiana, studying Journalism. I was taking a magazine reporting course, led by one of my very favorite professors ever, Dr. Stocking. The assignment was to write a human-interest article about something in your hometown. I felt a little extra pressure to come up with something amazing, since I was representing the townies, having grown up in Bloomington. I needed to find something so Bloomington that IU students wouldn’t know about it.

I remembered going to a restaurant for a number of special occasions, including my Junior Prom, and many birthdays. It was called The Portico’s and was located in a beautiful, old, Victorian mansion on North Walnut. The sign in front of the restaurant was cheeky. It said, “The Portico’s – Fine Food and Spirits” – Good one!

Word was, it was haunted. I’d heard the stories. And some of them were from some very reputable Bloomington residents, including former Mayor, Tomi Allison. And I’d heard the scary recordings that would play every Halloween on WTTS, from a DJ who had spent the night, alone, in the building.

The stories I’d heard involved a couple of kids, a boy and a girl, who like playing pranks on employees and guests. There were two common stories I’d heard. A number of women reported locked in the bathroom on the second floor, even though there was no lock on the outer door. And numerous people told of two children blocking access to the second floor by sitting on the stairs. One story I’d heard had the children complaining that they couldn’t find their brother. Like a never-ending hide-and-seek game from beyond.

I’ve always been on the line between believing in ghosts and, well… not. I found comfort in the idea that people who’d gone before me were watching over me. But the thought of anyone’s spirit being “trapped” is frightening and sad. So, I began my research with a fairly open mind.  

I started by interviewing a number of people who worked at the restaurant. Most had general stories of feeling spooked, being touched when no one was around, hearing indistinguishable sounds when no clear source could be found. Certainly creepy, but not solid evidence.

Two employees had very specific incidents that they shared with me. One, a manager, was closing up for the night. Everyone else had gone home and he was finishing up paperwork. We went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. When he came back onto a dining area on the same floor, about five minutes later, all of the chairs were piled in one corner, the forks in another, spoons in another, and knives in another. He left.

A server recounted a time when she had a large tray on her shoulder, full of food to serve guests. She felt someone hit the tray, hard, from behind and everything went flying in front of her. I’ve been a server. I’ve dropped trays. We all have. The way she explained it, someone hit the bottom of the tray at her back. Only there wasn’t anyone there.

I felt like I could interview every employee who ever worked there and every guest who’d ever eaten there, and I’d probably hear just as many stories that couldn’t be verified. So I called WTTS to see if the DJ who had spent the night was still around. He was.      

                

Jerry Castor agreed to my interview, but he wasn’t happy about it. At all. When I met him, I could feel his nervousness at even talking about his experience. Once he started talking though, he opened up and talked about an experience that would make almost anyone a believer.

Jerry and two other WTTS employees planned to spend Halloween night, 1988, in the Portico’s. As the date drew near, the other two found excuses and backed out, leaving Jerry to spend the night there alone. Gathering his courage, he set up a comfy spot of blankets in the main hallway on the second floor. He set up a tape recorder, hit record, and settled in for a long night.

As the night drew on, Jerry couldn’t sleep. He had a lot of nervous energy, of course, but the massive grandfather clock on the main floor below chimed every fifteen minutes, making it impossible to really fall asleep. He noted every chime and at the end of his stay, disappointedly realized nothing had happened and he’d been awake the whole night.

He packed up and headed to a press conference in town. He had the tapes on hand from his overnight stay and used some to record the press conference. Back at the office, he listened to the audio and edited it together to form his radio spot.

As the audio from the press conference ended, and Jerry worked as his desk, the recording underneath came on. This was his useless recording from the Portico’s and he frowned as he heard himself… snore. SNORE??? He hadn’t slept a wink! He’d heard that grandfather clock chime every fifteen minutes! But he was clearly snoring.

Intrigued, he let the audio play. Fifteen minutes passed. Thirty minutes. An hour. He snored and sighed. He mumbled from time to time. He was clearly asleep. And more confounding, there were absolutely no grandfather clock chimes. None.

Just as he began to think something hinky had happened, there was a scream. It was both loud and far away. Ethereal, really. He rewound and heard it again. It sounded like kids screaming. Playing, perhaps? Were they laughing? Or were they scared? He wasn’t sure, but the screams were clear.

He listened to all of the audio he had left, kicking himself for the hour or so he’d taped over during the press conference. There were a number of random noises, but only one other moment was clear. And it chilled him to the bone. Out of the silence came children yelling two words. They were a little muddled, and like the screams earlier, sounded both close by and far away at the same time.

He played the two audio clips for me. I heard the kids yell, “Cold Spot!” He nodded and said that’s what he thought too, although he wasn’t totally sure.

And the screams? Pardon the pun, but they were chillingly haunting. I looked at Jerry and he said, in his deep voice, perfectly suited for radio, “If they are playing, it’s kind of cute. But when I hear them, I think they are in pain, and that makes it sound totally different.” He played it again, and this time, the screams brought tears to my eyes.

When Jerry reported his finding’s to the owners of the Portico’s, they gave him puzzled looks. The grandfather clock, they asked, had chimed? He explained that he had clearly heard it throughout the night, every fifteen minutes, but it wasn’t on the recordings. They gave each other a look and told him the clock hadn’t chimed in decades, since it had been moved from one floor to another. It. Never. Chimed.

Jerry and I spent about an hour together and I left knowing that he truly believed the building was haunted. He had heard from numerous people over the years, of course, as they played the recordings on the radio every year. Two of those stories stuck with me.

A man who used a metal detector to find lost, forgotten items, had permission and was searching the property behind the Portico’s. He noticed two kids watching him intently and waved them over to show them what he was doing. They were obviously playing dress-up, as they both wore clothes reminiscent of Little House on the Prairie. He smiled and showed them what the metal detector did. They asked what he was hoping to find. He said, anything, but really coins. The little girl pointed to a tree and told him they’d buried some coins over there. He smiled indulgently. “Thanks, kid. I’m looking for older coins.”

He turned his back and when he looked again, the kids were gone. Eventually, he made his way over to the tree and, sure enough, his metal detector went off. Thinking he’d show the kids that his tactic had worked, even to find modern coins, he dug a little hole and began pulling coins from the dirt. They were all coins dating back to the nineteenth century. He tried to find the kids again, but couldn’t. No one knew of any children living nearby. They were gone.

Another listener had called WTTS and shared that she has used a Ouija Board in the back yard. She’d basically gotten four words, “Penny,” “Owen,” “Stanley,” and “Fire.” That was enough to send me to The Monroe County Public Library to research the house.

I spent days in a small room, delicately going through dusty old ledgers and books recording the history of Bloomington, Indiana. Specifically, I was looking for any information about the house at 520 N. Walnut.

I found what I was looking for. My heart sank as I read. The house had burned to the ground in the mid-1800s*. A family of five had perished. The bodies of the parents, the daughter, and one son had been found. The infant’s remains had not been located. The children’s names were listed as Penny, Owen, and Stanley.

From a skeptic’s point of view, I found the information after hearing what the Ouija Board lady had said. I could have just as easily created a story using the information I found in the library. So, whether Ouija Board Lady received the information from the other realm, or the library, I cannot say.

Regardless, it left me saddened. And I remembered the stories I’d heard of the children who were looking for their brother. Were Penny and Owen looking for their baby brother, Stanley, for eternity? Were those screams Jerry Castor recorded those of children dying in a fire? My heart ached. Even if their spirits weren’t trapped in the house and it was all a bunch of bunk, a very real family had died there.

Records showed that the house burned to the ground, but a new house was built on the existing basement. Folklore had it there was a tunnel in that basement that had been used in the Underground Railroad. Certainly, the basement was still there. I could not get permission to go down there, and frankly, my chicken-hearted soul was totally okay with that answer.

I contacted a local ghost hunter*. He said some people believe that different individuals are receptive to different energies. Some people are receptive to a wider range than others and these are the people who are considered “sensitive.” What they see and hear is basically like a video, replaying a time in history. He told me that buildings are built upon, and with, living matter. This matter can hold memories, just in a different way than we do, as humans. And those memories replay. Sensitive people can see or hear those replays.

I also contacted the Skeptics Society. A good journalist includes both sides, right? I talked to a well-spoken man* who said that he did not believe in any of it. I asked about the ghost hunter’s explanation. I liked it. It made me feel better than the “trapped souls” version we all know. But it didn’t explain the interactions so many people were reporting. The house wasn’t “remembering” something when the kids talked to people in the present. Right? That’s where the skeptic shut it down and said it just, plain isn’t happening. People like ghost stories. Period.

I submitted my story to my professor. I got an A. But I never really felt like I knew for sure what happened and whether those ghost children were real.

I dreamt about them for years. It was always the same dream. We were in a big, old kitchen, with a black pot, full of something that smelled delicious, in the fireplace. I was sitting at a long, wooden table with Penny and Owen, laughing about some inside joke. They would each grab a hand and stare at me. Their stares penetrated me to the core. And I would wake up in tears, my heart pounding. I had the dream for about ten years. It occurred less and less frequently, until the dreams finally stopped. Even now, thinking of the dream, my heart is pounding a little harder, and I feel on the brink of tears. I get the feeling I was supposed to find answers for my little friends, and I failed them.

It’s silly. I know that. But Penny and Owen and the stories surrounding the Portico’s will stick with me for a lifetime. I truly hope, if they were real, that they’ve found peace.

[*I will update these sections when I find my original story. I have dates, names, and specific information, but I’m not seeing any of it online at this time.]

Photo 1 credit: https://www.heraldtimesonline.com/news/local/the-former-portico-s-restaurant/image_d8fb3924-3c9c-53d5-8e60-493d49e309af.html

Photo 2 credit: http://hauntedindiana.net

The Skeptics Society: https://www.skeptic.com/