I never imagined how real true fear could feel until the night I spent in Sedamsville Rectory. The old red-brick building loomed at the end of a quiet Cincinnati street, its dark windows hiding secrets that would test my courage and sanity. I arrived with two fellow investigators—Tim Nealon of Ghost City Tours and our friend “Skippy”—eager to document the paranormal. Armed with cameras, audio recorders, and an open mind, we stepped across the threshold into a silence so thick it felt alive. Little did we know, by dawn we would be forever changed by what lurked in that demonically active house.
In the span of one harrowing night, I experienced something I can only describe as a possession-like influence. A sudden, uncontrollable fury overtook me—I screamed, cursed, even wanted to fight my own friend in a blind rage. Tim looked at me with alarm, clearly worried he might have to defend himself if I got any closer. Shadow figures stalked the halls just beyond the beam of our flashlights. Invisible forces banged on furniture and whispered into our recording devices. At one point, Skippy’s shouts echoed from downstairs, then he went eerily quiet—later he claimed he didn’t even remember yelling at all. The Rectory worked its way into our heads, prying at our emotions and pushing each of us to the brink. By the time the sun rose, we were shaken to our core, struggling to process the night’s events.
How did a former priest’s residence become what locals call a “gateway to hell”? To truly understand the terror we faced, you have to know the troubled history behind Sedamsville Rectory. The old walls remember tragedy and sin, and many believe those dark memories fuel the hauntings within. Before I recount the spine-chilling investigation itself, let’s delve into the Rectory’s past and the legends that surround it. From historic records to whispered neighborhood tales, every story seems to add another layer of foreboding to this unassuming house on the Ohio River.
History of Sedamsville Rectory
The Sedamsville Rectory’s exterior, a 19th-century red-brick building that once housed Catholic clergy. Despite its peaceful appearance, the site harbors a troubled history of tragedy and dark secrets.
Sedamsville Rectory was built in 1891 as a residence for priests serving Our Lady of Perpetual Help, a Catholic church founded in 1878 to minister to Sedamsville’s thriving German-American community. Back then, Sedamsville was a bustling riverside neighborhood. The rectory, a solid two-story brick home with a mansard roof, stood adjacent to the church—symbolizing sanctuary and guidance for the faithful. For decades, this house was a place of prayer, where clergy lived and prepared sermons for the parishioners next door. Its halls likely echoed with the polite footsteps of priests and the murmurs of evening prayers. On the surface, Sedamsville Rectory was a beacon of holiness and comfort.
Time, however, was not kind to Sedamsville. Industrial decline and devastating floods hit the area hard in the mid-20th century, and the once-thriving parish dwindled. By 1989, Our Lady of Perpetual Help Church closed its doors, and the rectory was left empty and silent. The Catholic Archdiocese sold the property in 1995 to a private owner, John Klosterman, who hoped to renovate and rent it out. The building’s structure survived demolition, but something unseen seemed to awaken in that emptiness. It was during renovations in the 1990s and early 2000s that whispers of paranormal activity first surfaced. Residents and workers reported odd occurrences—as if the rectory resented being disturbed.
Looking into the rectory’s distant past, I found accounts of tragedy that could explain a ghost or two. In the late 1800s, a priest named Father Donald MacLeod, who lived at Sedamsville Rectory, met a sudden and gruesome end. One stormy night, Father MacLeod was hurrying to deliver last rites to a gravely ill woman across town when he was struck and killed by a speeding train. The accident was instantaneous and horrific, cutting the young priest’s life short in service of his flock. Ever since, locals have claimed Father MacLeod’s benevolent spirit still walks the rectory, dressed in his dark clerical robes. Indeed, many visitors over the years have reported encountering a phantom priest matching his description drifting between rooms. If true, it’s a poignant haunt—a guardian soul bound to the place of his devotion.
But not all histories are so sympathetic. A darker chapter of Sedamsville Rectory’s story emerged in rumor and local lore: it’s said that decades ago, another priest who resided there abused and even molested children. As a paranormal researcher and investigator, I treat such claims cautiously—there’s often a thin line between documented fact and whispered gossip. However, a former area resident later came forward to corroborate that a clergyman at the rectory had indeed harmed young boys. Those atrocities were never formally acknowledged by the Church at the time, but if true, one can only imagine the dark energy they left behind. The rectory’s very walls may have absorbed the anguish of those victims. Some speculate that the evil acts committed by a man of God could have tainted the property, opening the door for something demonic to take root. After all, if there’s anything demons purportedly love, it’s corrupting the holy.
Another piece of the rectory’s checkered past involves cruelty of a different sort. In the 1980s, when Sedamsville Rectory sat vacant, it’s rumored the building was used to host illegal dog fights in the basement. Accounts suggest that unsavory locals snuck in after dark, turning the rectory’s cellar into a pit of animal suffering. Blood stained the concrete floor; the vicious echoes of barking and yelps of pain seeped into the foundation. It’s hard to verify these stories fully (some longtime residents insist no such fights took place there), but the rumors are persistent. Disturbingly, phantom dog noises have been reported by visitors in recent years—unexplained growls and whimpers coming from below. Could these be the residual cries of those poor animals, imprinting terror on the environment? Or something more infernal mimicking them to terrify the living?
By the early 2000s, Sedamsville Rectory had gained a reputation as a seriously haunted location. Renovation volunteers and tenants who tried living there didn’t last long. Two former tenants in the 2000s complained of horrible, unexplained smells—specifically the stench of sulfur that would fill certain rooms without warning. In paranormal lore, the odor of sulfur or decay is a classic hallmark of a demonic presence. It’s as if whatever lurks there can manifest its foulness in the air itself. Those tenants also reported being touched or scratched by unseen forces, and hearing disembodied voices echoing in the dead of night. Ultimately, the tenants fled, and the rectory was left unoccupied once again, its only visitors being brave (or foolish) ghost hunters like us.
The current owners, a preservation society, have been working to restore the rectory’s structure and beauty. But even they haven’t been spared the house’s wrath. In one eerie incident the owners described, they brought a box of old books and a piece of art into the rectory—items salvaged from a neighboring abandoned house. The moment they approached the back door with these dusty relics, the entire rectory seemed to explode with fury. A chorus of growls and angry whispers erupted around them, a door upstairs slammed shut on its own, and the light in the halls dimmed as if some darkness was snuffing it out. They even heard the heartbreaking sound of a woman crying amid the chaos. Startled but determined, the owners walked in reciting the Lord’s Prayer, as if performing an impromptu exorcism while placing the items inside. Gradually, the house fell silent again. It’s as though Sedamsville Rectory itself rejects outsiders and their belongings, as if guarding its space from intrusion. Stories like these had been circling in the paranormal community for years, contributing to the rectory’s infamous status.
By the time I set foot in Sedamsville Rectory, I was well aware of its haunted pedigree. The history I’d uncovered painted a portrait of a place steeped in tragic death, abuse, and possible demonic influence. As a researcher, I felt a mix of trepidation and curiosity—how much of that negativity was genuine supernatural evil, and how much was the understandable fear that tragic history provokes? There was only one way to find out: spend the night there and face whatever waited in the dark.
Ghost Legends and Demonic Activity
Sedamsville Rectory | photo by Tim Nealon, Ghost City Tours
As we prepared for our investigation, we gathered every tale of ghosts and demons linked to Sedamsville Rectory. The legends were enough to give even a seasoned paranormal researcher like me a chill. Sedamsville is known for two things—being the birthplace of baseball star Pete Rose, and being home to one of the most haunted houses in America. Locals have dubbed the rectory a “gateway to hell”, a bold claim that speaks to the sheer malevolence people have encountered there. Skeptics might roll their eyes, but the laundry list of reported phenomena at Sedamsville is no joke. Over the years, many visitors and investigators have come away with scratch marks, terrifying EVPs, and stories of demonic encounters.
To give you an idea of what people have reported, here are just some of the ghostly and demonic happenings linked to Sedamsville Rectory:
- Unexplained scratches and physical attacks: Visitors have left with burning scratch marks on their skin, sometimes in symbolic patterns like crosses. Others felt invisible hands bite or shove them without warning.
- Disembodied voices and sinister noises: In the dead of night, people hear voices in empty rooms, phantom footsteps on the stairs, and unexplained growling emanating from dark corners. Some investigators captured EVPs laced with profanity—angry insults like “whore” and “bitch” spat out by an unseen entity
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- Shadow figures and apparitions: Numerous witnesses have seen shadowy figures flit along the hallways or peek from doorways. A dark silhouette of a man in clergy robes is often reported moving between the living room and parlor, believed to be Father MacLeod’s ghost making his rounds. Full-bodied apparitions are rarer but not unheard of; one team even claimed to snap a photo of a demonic-looking face lurking in the darkness.
- Oppressive atmosphere and threats: Many describe an intense feeling of dread upon entering, as if a heavy weight is pressing on the chest. People have been suddenly overcome by anger or despair that “wasn’t their own.” In one case, a previous investigator approached the basement door (known to slam itself) and suddenly blanked out, standing unresponsive for minutes as if in a trance
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- Poltergeist activity: Doors are known to open and slam shut by themselves. Objects move on their own – a rocking chair upstairs has been seen rocking when no one is near, and a heavy old piano downstairs occasionally plays a few ghostly notes in the silence of night. During one investigation, an unseen force reportedly left the imprint of a body on a freshly made bed, as if someone invisible had just lain down.
Perhaps the most alarming legends are those tinged with demonic flavor. The scent of sulfur, as mentioned, is a recurring motif and always raises red flags. One volunteer described the smell hitting like a wall in the upstairs hallway, followed immediately by a cacophony of knocks and whispers – a one-two punch that suggests something truly nasty was making itself known. Growls have been heard not just from phantom dogs in the basement, but also echoing from the rafters above, with no animal in sight. Seasoned ghost hunters know that a deep, guttural growl in a haunted location is never a good sign; it often points to an inhuman presence.
Then there’s the infamous “child spirit” of Sedamsville Rectory. Tenants and visitors reported seeing what looked like a small child wandering the house – a little boy who would peek around corners or giggle in an empty room. Naturally, in a former rectory one might think of an orphan’s ghost or a residual echo of children who once visited. But those who attempted to interact with this “child” got a horrifying surprise. The moment anyone tried to approach or speak to it, the thing would emit a deep, menacing growl and sometimes even shove people hard. The innocent façade would drop, revealing something far from childlike. Investigators now believe no actual child spirit resides there (indeed, there’s no record of a child dying on the property) – instead, a malevolent entity is impersonating a child to lure people in. This is a well-documented trick in demonology; demons are said to masquerade as benign spirits (like children) to gain trust, only to strike with malice once you’ve let your guard down. The “child” of Sedamsville fits this pattern perfectly, earning it a reputation as potentially demonic.
The rectory’s demonic legend was further cemented by an episode of Ghost Adventures that aired in 2012, which we watched closely before our own trip. In that televised investigation, the team (Zak Bagans and crew) felt the presence of a powerful, dark entity. They even brought in a priest, Father Jack Ashcraft, to perform an exorcism rite on the house. According to the show’s narrative, the rectory’s owners at the time, Tim Brazeal and Terrie Scott, had been experiencing escalating frightening activity. During the exorcism, both owners felt something physically affect them: Terrie was lightly shoved by unseen hands, and Tim suddenly became ill and aggressive, to the point where he interrupted the ritual and tried to throw the priest out. Zak Bagans noted that Tim’s demeanor changed drastically, as if he were not himself – a classic sign of demonic oppression, where a person’s emotions are manipulated by a dark force. In fact, Tim eventually stormed out of the rectory mid-exorcism, refusing to continue, and the priest declared that an oppressive entity was at work on him. To top it off, multiple people in that investigation saw a “demonic shadow figure” lurking upstairs during the exorcism, described as a tall, dark mass that darted around with intelligent intent. They also recorded disturbing EVPs—a disembodied laugh that crackled through their recorder, as if mocking the ritual. And of course, the sulfuric stench made its appearance to validate the demonic theory.
Those dramatic accounts had me equal parts anxious and fascinated. Could Sedamsville Rectory truly harbor a demon? Or was it the angry spirit of the alleged pedophile priest, so vile in life that he feels demonic in death? One investigator from another team later theorized that the entity might not be a demon at all, but the ghost of that abusive priest—a “bad, mischievous… not demonic” presence, as she put it. Either way, the entity clearly had the ability to influence emotions. That investigator described how she became inexplicably irritable and full of hatred inside the house—feelings she knew were not her own—only to have those feelings vanish as soon as she stepped outside. This was nearly identical to what happened to Tim during the TV exorcism, and, as I would soon find out, eerily similar to what I was about to experience myself.
Walking into Sedamsville Rectory on our investigation night, I carried all these stories with me. They were the mental armor and the warning signs. We were dealing with a location with a heavy reputation. Shadow figures, violent physical assaults, phantom animals, possible demonic oppression—this wasn’t going to be a casual ghost hunt for creaking floors and cold spots. We fully expected Sedamsville to test us, perhaps even try to target our minds and fears. We were not disappointed.
Ghost Adventures: Sedamsville Rectory
The Investigation Experience
The afternoon of our investigation, we arrived in Sedamsville while the sun was still hanging low in the sky. The neighborhood itself felt a bit forsaken—quiet, with many old buildings bearing the weight of years. Even in daylight, the Rectory exuded an aura of neglect and mystery. We spent some time outside filming establishing shots and getting a feel for the area. A couple of locals, curious about our camera gear, wandered over to chat. When we mentioned we were spending the night in that house, their eyes widened. An older man named John, who said he had actually lived in the Rectory about a decade ago, shared his experiences freely. He still looked uneasy just recalling them. John spoke of waking up to see shadow figures gliding through the hallway and hearing dogs whining in the basement when no dogs were there. His roommate had likewise seen dark shapes and heard phantom footsteps. John admitted he never felt comfortable in the house, as if he was never truly alone. Hearing this from a former resident—a firsthand witness—set our nerves on edge and validated the legends. Another neighbor advised us to lock our van and watch out for trouble “at the top of the hill.” It was a strange mix of practical safety advice and superstitious warning, as if both the living and the dead posed threats here.
By 8:00 PM, dusk had settled. We rendezvoused with Tim (not my teammate Tim, but Tim Brazeal, one of the rectory’s owners) at the gate. Tim Brazeal was friendly and down-to-earth, but you could sense a guardedness in his demeanor. “Be careful in there,” he said with a wry smile, as he let us inside. He gave us a quick tour of the rectory’s interior, pointing out various rooms: a once-elegant parlor with a dusty piano, a dining room, the kitchen with its old servants’ staircase, and the creaky main staircase leading up to the bedrooms. We noted religious artifacts still hanging on some walls—a crucifix here, a portrait of Christ there—as if attempts to bless the house in years past. Yet the air felt heavy. In the kitchen, Tim paused and admitted, “I don’t go down to the basement anymore.” He gestured to the stairwell leading below, shaking his head. “Had a bad experience down there; I just stay out.” He didn’t elaborate, and we didn’t press him, but that sent a clear message. If the owner who’s seen it all avoids the basement, it must be truly frightening. We knew about the dogfight stories and could only imagine what oppressive atmosphere might reside in that darkness beneath us. Once Tim Brazeal departed and wished us luck, the Rectory was ours for the night.
We set up a “base camp” in the kitchen—basically a folding table with our equipment cases, extra batteries, and snacks. The electricity in the house was limited, so we relied on flashlights and battery-powered lanterns casting long shadows in each room. As night fully fell, the house seemed to settle and quiet down, as if it were watching us. I remember the three of us standing there in the dim living room, sharing a silent glance that said: Here we go. We were about to disturb the darkness, and there was no telling how it would respond.
We began with a baseline EMF sweep and temperature read. The readings were mostly normal, aside from one corner of the dining room that gave a slightly higher EMF spike (which could have been old wiring in the wall). Nothing extraordinary yet. Next, we conducted a brief EVP (Electronic Voice Phenomenon) session on the first floor, near the base of the stairs. We each held digital voice recorders. I asked standard questions aloud into the stillness: “Is anyone here with us? Can you tell us your name?” and “What happened in this house?” We stood motionless after each question, ears straining for any hint of a reply. Only the distant sound of traffic on River Road and our own breath met our ears. But EVPs are often not heard in the moment, only revealed upon playback, so we wouldn’t know until later if something answered.
Our first intriguing result came not long after, and it happened almost by accident. We had invited back John, the former tenant we met earlier, to walk through with us for a few minutes and show us where he experienced things. As we chatted informally in the front parlor, all of us heard a faint female voice interjecting in the air. It was so quick and quiet we weren’t sure if we’d imagined it. Luckily, our audio recorders were rolling. Upon playback, we caught it clearly: a woman’s voice saying, “This guy.”
The tone sounded amused or disdainful; it was hard to tell. We had been talking about John’s time living here when it occurred. Was the voice commenting on John? On one of us? We couldn’t be sure, but it was unmistakably a disembodied voice – an EVP – captured on multiple devices. “We’ve got company,” Tim Nealon muttered, forcing a grin. Inside, I felt a mix of excitement and apprehension; we had tangible evidence that we were not alone and the night had barely begun.
Not long after John left, the three of us regrouped to plan our next steps. Around 11 PM, we decided to take a short break on the back porch to get some fresh air and discuss where to focus the investigation. The night was warm and still, and the glow of Cincinnati’s lights bounced off low clouds. Out back, the rectory’s shadow fell across an old courtyard that led to the adjacent church building, now dark and abandoned. We leaned on the porch railing, quietly contemplating the stories of demonic aggression. That’s when something within me started to shift.
It’s hard to articulate the feeling as it was happening. One moment I was fine—tired, a bit on edge, but fine—and the next I felt an odd heat flooding my chest and a pressure in my head. My patience thinned to a thread without any clear cause. Tim was talking about a game plan (“Maybe we should do the attic last, it’s cramped up there…”) and I remember barely hearing his words. Instead, an inexplicable irritation flared up inside me. It was as if a voice in my mind (not an audible one, but my own internal voice) suddenly screamed, “I don’t want to be here, this is stupid!” I’m generally a calm and rational person—friends jokingly call me “the Zen guy” because I rarely even raise my voice. But at that moment I felt the polar opposite of calm. Anger surged through my veins, fast and hot.
Sedamsville Rectory living room photo by Tim Nealon
Tim must have noticed the change in my posture or expression. He lowered his flashlight and asked, “Chris, you okay?” I clenched my fists, heart pounding, and growled, “I’m just…so…angry.” There was no immediate reason for this fury, but it was consuming me. I heard myself telling Tim, “I need to fight. I just – I need to hit something or someone.” I locked eyes with him, and for a fleeting second a part of me indeed wanted to swing at him, to hurt him. Tim stepped back instinctively. Later, he told me that at this moment I didn’t look like myself at all—my face twisted with rage, my body language predatory. He was genuinely worried I might snap and push him off the porch in a fit of violence. And truth be told, I worried about that too. I felt on the verge of losing control. It was as if I were drowning in hatred that wasn’t mine. Inside I was screaming why am I feeling this? and trying to claw back to my senses.
Some small rational part of me knew I had to remove myself from this situation immediately. With a snarl of disgust, I turned and stormed off the porch, heading toward the gravel parking lot by the old church. Each step away from the rectory felt like a battle—part of me wanted to keep going and never come back, another part was resisting the urge to throw punches at the night air. Tim called after me, but I barely processed it. I made it a good twenty yards from the house before doubling over next to a scraggly bush, overcome with nausea. I vomited onto the gravel, retching out the negativity (and my hastily eaten dinner). It was not a graceful moment, but almost instantly I began to feel relief. The cool night breeze on my face started to clear the red haze of anger from my mind. I took deep gulps of air and paced in circles for a minute or two. Gradually, the murderous rage subsided, receding like a dark tide leaving my mind’s shore. I stood up straight, shaken and confused. What the hell just happened? I wondered. One moment I was ready to attack my friend; the next, I was myself again, albeit a bit queasy.
Tim approached me cautiously in the parking lot. I could see the concern in his face lit by the moonlight. “Are you alright?” he asked quietly. Embarrassed and bewildered, I wiped my mouth and assured him I was okay now. My body felt weak, as if I’d run a marathon in those few minutes of fury. I apologized profusely, still trying to make sense of it: “I don’t know what came over me… I just got so angry, out of nowhere.” Tim nodded, “I believe you. That was… it wasn’t you.” In the back of our minds, the same thought clicked: The rectory had gotten to me. Some invisible force, possibly the demonic entity or oppressive spirit we’d been warned of, had influenced my emotions—briefly hijacking me—until I left its immediate vicinity. It was textbook demonic oppression, and terrifying to experience firsthand. As Tim later recounted, “The Chris I was talking to just wasn’t Chris.”
Indeed, I felt as though something had momentarily stepped into my mind and puppeteered my darker instincts. If I ever had doubts about the legends, I didn’t anymore.
We took a short breather by the cars as I regained my composure. I drank some water and did a quick mental grounding ritual, focusing on positive thoughts, envisioning a protective light around myself. Tim and I both agreed: whatever that was, we needed to be on guard the rest of the night. It seemed the entity in the rectory was actively engaging with us, testing our limits. And it had only been a few hours. Skippy returned around this time (he had made a late-night McDonald’s run for coffee and fries to keep us awake). We updated him on what happened. His eyes widened in astonishment and perhaps a little fear—seeing the usually mellow me in an agitated state was not normal. With renewed determination, we all headed back inside the rectory. It was time to face this thing head-on.
Back in the house, the air felt palpably different now. We had stirred the hornet’s nest, so to speak. The silence was heavier, and every creak of the old floorboards set our nerves on edge. It was past midnight. We decided to move our investigation upstairs, where many have reported intense activity (and where Ghost Adventures saw shadow figures). The second floor had four small bedrooms connected by a narrow hallway. We picked the one that looked like a makeshift bedroom with an old wooden bed frame and a worn-out mattress – perhaps a “master bedroom” in the past. There was a simple wooden chair in the corner. This room, we’d been told, was one of the “hot spots.” Some paranormal teams claimed to have seen impressions on the bed or even a shadow person lurking here. I set up a digital recorder on the fireplace mantel and an EMF detector on the nightstand. Tim volunteered to lie on the bed (perhaps to provoke any spirit that disliked intruders), while I took the chair by the foot of the bed with my video camera. Skippy stayed in the hallway, monitoring our live audio feed on headphones for any EVP spikes.
The scene was classic horror-movie: Tim lying in the dark on a dusty old bed in a haunted rectory, me nearby asking questions to the darkness, and Skippy’s silhouette in the doorway. We began an EVP session, softly encouraging whatever was present to make itself known. “If there’s someone here with us, we invite you to speak,” I said. “We don’t mean any harm. We just want to know you’re here.” Perhaps in hindsight saying “we don’t mean any harm” was ironic, considering whatever was there certainly meant us harm.
Minutes passed in thick silence. Then suddenly—BANG! It was a startling, loud impact. The footboard of the bed shuddered. Tim literally jumped and sat upright as I simultaneously stood from the chair. “What the—? Did you kick the bed?” I asked, already knowing he hadn’t because his feet were nowhere near the footboard. “No, it wasn’t me!” Tim said, alarmed. I had felt the vibration through the floor; something had struck the solid wood footboard of the bed with force. It wasn’t the house settling or a distant noise; it was localized and deliberate. I quickly flicked on my flashlight and scanned the footboard and under the bed—of course, nothing was there. The EMF detector on the nightstand spiked a little, then fell back to baseline. “That had to be a ghost letting us know it’s here,” Skippy said from the doorway, his voice a mix of excitement and nervousness. We tried to debunk it. Could something have fallen? The room was nearly empty aside from us and the furniture. No loose boards, no items on the footboard that could have dropped. It truly felt as if an unseen force had either kicked or slammed into the foot of the bed, right between where Tim’s feet were and where I was sitting. It was a dramatic response to our EVP request – perhaps too dramatic for an ordinary ghost. My mind went back to the stories of people being shoved or objects being thrown by the Sedamsville entity. We might have just been warned: leave this room.
Our adrenaline was up. We continued asking questions, hoping to capture any voices in response to the loud bang. “Did you do that? Are you angry that we’re here?” I called out. “Thank you for letting us know you’re here. Can you do it again?” Tim added, trying to encourage more interaction. But the room fell quiet again. Often in investigations, a single burst of activity will be followed by lulls, and that seemed to be the case now. We didn’t get a repeat performance, which in a way made the initial incident even spookier—whatever hit the bed made its point and then withdrew.
Eventually, we decided to rotate our investigation spots. Skippy wanted to sweep the first floor with our MEL meter (a device that measures electromagnetic fluctuations and also has a shadow detector) while Tim and I remained upstairs to watch for any shadow movement or further noises. We let Skippy go do his solo session downstairs, figuring it was relatively low risk since most of the nasty stuff had been reported upstairs and in the basement. Tim and I sat at the top of the staircase in the dark, whispering about the evening so far. I was feeling significantly better since my earlier episode—steady enough to continue, but I remained vigilant for any tug at my emotions.
Not five minutes had passed when we heard yelling echoing from below. It was Skippy’s voice. He was shouting expletives, and sounded both furious and frightened. Tim and I exchanged alarmed looks. Was he in a fight with someone? But there shouldn’t be anyone else there. We rushed down the stairs, calling, “Skippy? You alright?” We found Skippy in the dining room by himself, standing over the MEL meter which was on the floor. He was breathing hard. “What happened?” I asked. Skippy looked at us as if unsure why we were there. “You were screaming,” Tim said. Skippy blinked in confusion. “I… I was?” he stammered. Only then did I notice the MEL meter on the floor; it looked like it had been flung or dropped. Skippy was at a loss. He didn’t recall yelling at all. The last thing he remembered, he said, was that the MEL meter started spiking and beeping unexpectedly, and then… we were suddenly in front of him asking if he was okay. Tim and I looked at each other with a mix of concern and validation. It was happening again—the house was influencing Skippy now. Based on what we’d heard coming downstairs, it sounded like Skippy had been screaming angrily at the equipment, perhaps in frustration or fear, before coming out of whatever it was. Yet he truly had no memory of doing so. We made sure he was steady on his feet and calmed him down. The fact that all three of us had now had some kind of bizarre emotional episode (Tim’s being the fear of me attacking him, mine and Skippy’s being actual irrational rage) was not lost on us. It was as if the rectory was cycling through each of us, seeing who it could rattle next. We took a moment to document what happened in our notes and on camera, time-stamping it for the record.
At this point, it was clear we were dealing with something extremely intelligent and hostile. The pattern was classic for inhuman hauntings: isolation (Skippy alone), then influence (loss of control), then memory lapse (time displacement). We regrouped once more in the living room and decided to stick together for the remainder of the night—no more lone wandering. Strength in numbers, at least psychologically.
Sedamsville Rectory basement photo by Tim Nealon
The next few hours were relatively quieter, though still punctuated by odd occurrences. We ventured briefly into the basement, steeling ourselves for whatever might lurk there. The rickety stairs led us into a low-ceilinged cellar of stone and concrete. Our flashlight beams caught cobwebs and old pipes along the ceiling. The space was cold, far colder than the rest of the house. We found evidence of past paranormal investigators – some graffiti on a wall, remnants of candles, and chalk markings (perhaps from a protection ritual or experiment). For a while, we only encountered silence and damp earth smells. But at one point, all three of us heard a distinct sound that raised every hair on our bodies: the faint whine of a dog, seemingly coming from a dark corner of the basement. It was brief, like a single, plaintive yelp. We rushed to that area and found nothing living (or dead). The meters showed no unusual readings. Yet the sound was as real as ever. We couldn’t find a source, and it hadn’t come from outside (it was clearly emanating within the basement’s acoustics). It instantly brought to mind those dog-fighting stories. Was it a residual haunting replaying a moment of pain? Or a trick by whatever entity was down here to scare us off? Either way, the basement’s oppressive vibe deepened after that. We also noted an intermittent odor in the basement hallway – not quite the rotten egg sulfur smell, but more like a waft of something rotten that appeared and disappeared quickly. It was enough to make us gag, but it dissipated before we could trace it. Given the owner’s warning and our own instincts, we didn’t linger too long in the depths. We captured a few hours of static video down there to review later, and headed back upstairs.
By roughly 5:00 AM, exhaustion was weighing on us and we decided to call it a night for active investigating. The plan was to grab a few hours of sleep inside the rectory (yes, brave or stupid as that might sound) and then pack up late in the morning. Many hauntings actually kick up when people are sleeping (or trying to), so part of me also thought we might passively witness something during our rest. We each chose separate bedrooms on the second floor to bunk down. Skippy took one small room, I took another across the short hallway, and Tim decided to rest on a couch downstairs for a bit (perhaps feeling uneasy about sleeping upstairs after everything we encountered). We set our walkie-talkies to the same channel in case anyone felt in danger or needed to alert the others. I also left an audio recorder running on the hallway table between our rooms, just in case something wandered by while we slept.
I was bone-tired, but still a bit wired from adrenaline. I lay on the creaky twin bed in my assigned room, boots off but clothes still on, staring at the ceiling. The events of the night replayed in my mind: that alien anger that overtook me, the bed slam, Skippy’s rage and blank-out, the shadowy movements we caught glimpses of, the dog’s whine in the basement. It felt like a week’s worth of experiences packed into a single night. As I finally started to drift off, I remember thinking, Maybe it’s over now; maybe the house has done its worst. How naïve that thought was.
Suddenly, a shout came through the walkie-talkie, jolting me from the edge of sleep: it was Tim’s voice from downstairs. “Guys – get up here, now. There’s something… I think I saw—” The transmission crackled. I leapt off the bed, heart instantly hammering, and nearly slipped as I jammed my feet back into my boots. Skippy burst out of his room at the same moment, walkie in hand, eyes wide. We raced down the hall and met Tim as he was hustling up the main staircase two steps at a time. He was as white as a sheet.
Tim caught his breath and quickly told us what happened. He had decided not to sleep and was doing one last walk-through upstairs to check on us before settling. As he reached the top of the stairs, he glanced into Skippy’s room (which was empty since Skippy had come to my room when the walkie call started). Tim swore that he saw a person standing in the darkness of Skippy’s room. The figure was entirely black, about 6 to 7 feet tall, with no discernible features – a solid shadow of a man. At first he thought an intruder had somehow entered, or maybe I was in there for some reason. But as he shone his flashlight, the beam seemed to be absorbed by this shadow; it didn’t reflect off clothing or a face. Tim realized he was likely seeing the famous Sedamsville shadow entity with his own eyes. The figure did not disappear when noticed, as shadows often do; it just stood there, unwavering, as if boldly challenging him. For a moment, Tim and the shadow person were practically face to face across the threshold of the room. Tim had the presence of mind to call us on the radio while keeping his eyes on it, but as fate would have it, in the split second he looked down to press the send button and then back up, the shadow figure was gone. It hadn’t darted away in the usual blink-of-an-eye fashion; rather, he described it like it just melted into the darker corner. By the time we got to him, there was nothing there but an eerily empty room.
We quickly scoured the adjacent rooms and hallway, trying to see if the figure had moved elsewhere, but found nothing. That’s when the smell hit us: an intense, nauseating odor of sulfur and burnt air, right in the hallway between the rooms. “Oh god, do you smell that?” I gagged. It was the strongest burst of that rotten-egg, demonic stench we had encountered all night. It seemed to emanate from nowhere and everywhere at once, a thick cloud of it. And just as soon as we exclaimed our disgust, it vanished. The air went back to stale and musty. We exchanged unnerved glances. That smell was a message: whatever Tim saw was not just a harmless ghost. The demonic calling card had been delivered, in case there was any doubt left.
That was enough for us. Sleep be damned; our instincts said get out. We hastily gathered our most essential gear (cameras and recorders; we would come back after sunrise for the rest) and we made a beeline for the exit, sticking together tightly. As we left the rectory, I turned back one last time. In the faint dawn light, the old house stood silent and still. But I felt like something watched us leave from the upstairs window, possibly with a sense of triumph. We survived the night in Sedamsville Rectory, but not without scars – psychological if not physical.
Stepping outside into the chilly early morning air was like emerging from underwater. We could breathe freely again. Only now did I notice how tense my body had been inside; my shoulders finally relaxed. It truly felt as if we had been under a pressure or influence within those walls, which lifted the moment we exited. We sat on the curb across the street for a few minutes, just decompressing and ensuring we were truly okay. The sky was turning lighter, and birds began to chirp – the banal sounds of a normal world waking up, while we were reeling from a night in the paranormal one.
In the end, Sedamsville Rectory had given us everything it was famous for: an EVP of a disembodied voice, objects moving (the bed jolt), shadow figure sightings, foul odors, personal physical reactions, and intense emotional manipulation. It was as if the house said, “You wanted an experience? Here you go.” The three of us were exhilarated but also deeply shaken. I think we all knew we’d be unpacking what happened in that house for a long time to come.
Psychological and Emotional Toll
It’s one thing to read about demonic hauntings; it’s another to live through one. That night in Sedamsville Rectory pushed each of us to our psychological limits. For me, the worst part wasn’t seeing a shadow figure or hearing phantom cries – it was losing control of myself in that moment of rage. In those frightening minutes on the back porch when fury overtook me, I genuinely felt a foreign presence inside my mind. The memory of that feeling lingered long after we left. It’s a profoundly unsettling experience to wonder if you are still you, or if something else can hijack your emotions. In my case, as soon as I stepped outside and expelled whatever it was (quite literally, by vomiting), I was back to normal. But the realization that an external force could influence me so strongly… I had a few nightmares about that in the weeks after. I’d dream I was back in the rectory, arguing with Tim, and suddenly I’d attack him while a shadowy figure laughed behind me. I’d wake up in a sweat, my heart pounding, questioning if some trace of that anger still hid in me. Psychologically, the rectory got under my skin.
Tim Nealon confided that seeing me in that berserk state was one of the most frightening moments for him. He later admitted he had a brief flash of “What if I have to physically fight my friend to protect myself?” and that was a thought he never expected to have. Tim had always known me as an easy-going giant; to suddenly fear I might do him harm messed with his head. It took him a bit to shake that unease even after I was back to myself. For the rest of the night, he watched me and Skippy closely for any signs of weird behavior, essentially on high alert to step in if needed. That’s a stressful way to conduct an investigation, always braced for an attack from an unseen force through one of your teammates.
Skippy’s emotional ordeal was subtler but no less disturbing. He doesn’t recall the moments he was yelling downstairs at all, which in itself is alarming to him—having a blank spot in your memory is never comforting. What he does recall is a sudden blur of frustration while reading the MEL meter, and then being confused as Tim and I confronted him. In the aftermath, Skippy felt a bit violated, like his mind had been tampered with. He told me later that for days after the investigation, he kept wondering, “Why me? Did it pick on me because I was alone? ” The experience left him more anxious in dark, quiet places. He even hesitated to do solo equipment checks on subsequent investigations for a while, haunted by the idea he might lose himself again for a minute and not know what he’d done. That kind of self-doubt is a lasting psychological bruise.
All of us experienced the lingering adrenaline crash and exhaustion that follow a night like this. In the immediate hours after, once we were safely away, we were giddy with nervous laughter and disbelief as we recapped the events to each other. That’s a common reaction – almost a kind of relief-fueled euphoria that we made it through. But in the days that followed, other emotions set in. I went from excitement to a kind of post-investigation blues. I found myself more on edge at home at night. Every little creak in my house made me jump, because my mind was still partially back in Sedamsville, expecting something to lunge out of the dark. I had to consciously remind myself: you’re home, it’s over.
Sleep did not come easy the first few nights after Sedamsville. I’d lay in bed replaying everything, questioning what was real, what could be rationalized, and what felt undeniably supernatural. At times I even questioned my own reactions: was I just overly tired, did I psych myself into that rage? But then I’d recall the look on Tim’s face, or read the scribbled notes we took right after each incident, and I’d conclude that no, something truly external was at play. Coming to terms with that – that we possibly encountered a demonic force – is heavy stuff. It challenged my worldview. As a researcher, I maintain a healthy skepticism and usually look for logical explanations first. Sedamsville Rectory pushed me closer to believing in authentic demonic activity than I ever had been before.
Emotionally, there was also a sense of sadness that hit me later on. Amid all the fear and chaos of that night, a part of me felt a profound sorrow, especially when thinking about the origins of this haunting. If indeed an abusive priest’s spirit or the agony of dogfights were at the root of it, then this haunting is born of pain and cruelty. Standing in that basement, hearing an echo of an animal’s pain, I remember feeling a swell of anger (my own, this time) at whoever caused such suffering. And upstairs, if the very walls carry the imprint of victimized children or a corrupted clergyman, it’s tragic that this place of supposed sanctuary was defiled in such a way. In that sense, the emotional toll includes empathy pains – feeling the weight of past trauma that possibly fuels the haunting. It’s as if the investigators who walk those halls can’t help but tap into the sadness and anger lingering there. I certainly did, and it left me a bit heartbroken, not just spooked.
Another consequence was a subtle change in how we treated each other immediately afterward. That night, we saw each other at our worst – me in a rage, Skippy in panic, Tim in fear. It could have easily sown distrust or embarrassment between us. Thankfully, our friendship was strong, and if anything, surviving Sedamsville bonded us tighter. But we did have to debrief honestly about how we felt. I apologized again to Tim and Skippy for frightening them, even though it wasn’t “me” per se. They apologized to me for any moment where they might have doubted my character in that state. We had to reaffirm: “That wasn’t you, I know that.” This kind of open communication is crucial after a harrowing paranormal experience because keeping those feelings bottled could lead to resentment or trauma later. We talked it out, we reassured each other, and we processed it together.
Still, for a couple of weeks, I had this underlying anxiety that I hadn’t quite shaken off everything from Sedamsville. It’s not rational, but I worried: what if something had attached itself to me and followed me home? This is a common fear for investigators after dealing with a potentially demonic case. I found myself smudging with sage and saying a prayer of protection, just in case, even though I’m not particularly religious. The experience humbled me; it made me respect the potential dangers on a whole new level. Before Sedamsville, I might have casually walked into a haunted site alone, unafraid. After Sedamsville, I make sure to center myself more, and I’m quicker to step out for fresh air if I feel at all off. It taught me that mental and spiritual safety is as important as physical safety in this field.
Lastly, there was the toll of confronting something that challenges your understanding of reality. If what we went through was truly paranormal, then it means there are forces out there that can see us, target us, and manipulate us, yet we can’t see them in return (at least not clearly). That one minute standoff Tim had with the shadow figure – he described freezing up, feeling smaller than this towering dark shape – that kind of experience can make you feel vulnerable in a profound way. He later admitted that the image of that tall shadow just standing there staring has flashed in his mind when he’s alone at his own house at night. It’s like a psychological scar; it doesn’t incapacitate him, but it occasionally pricks at his peace of mind.
Despite all this, we also felt a sense of accomplishment and even a strange affection for the experience. It tested us and we came out the other side. It’s a bit like the camaraderie soldiers might feel after a battle (though I wouldn’t compare this to real combat, of course) – a mix of pride and relief. We had gathered evidence and lived to tell the tale. Over time, the fear and stress have faded, leaving behind the story and the lessons learned. But make no mistake, the emotional toll was real: Sedamsville Rectory left its mark on our psyche, reminding us that ghost hunting isn’t just chasing stories – sometimes, the darkness chases you back.
Theories and Reflections
After surviving such an intense encounter, the big question that loomed for us was why? What exactly had we faced in Sedamsville Rectory, and how could we explain it? In the cool light of day (and after plenty of rest and recovery), we sat down as a team to deconstruct the night with a more analytical eye. We entertained a few primary theories, each offering a different interpretation of the events. Whether one believes in the paranormal or not, it’s important to consider all angles, from the supernatural to the psychological, to piece together the puzzle of that night.
- Demonic Oppression or Inhuman Entity: The most straightforward paranormal explanation is that a demonic or inhuman spirit resides in Sedamsville Rectory and was actively oppressing us. The evidence supporting this includes the foul sulfuric odor we smelled (a classic sign of demonic presence), the unexplained rage and violent urges (entities are believed to manipulate emotions as a form of oppression), and the sheer hostility of the encounters (growls, aggressive physical phenomena). In demonology, there’s a stage called oppression or infestation where a demon hasn’t possessed a person fully, but essentially wears down the victim’s will by influencing their emotions and environment. What I experienced on the porch—sudden irrational hatred—fits the description of demonic oppression frighteningly well. The way it vanished once I left the house also matches accounts: oppressed individuals often feel relief upon exiting the haunted site (as if the influence is tied to that location). Tim Brazeal’s experiences during the Ghost Adventures exorcism line up too: he became angry and sick until he left the building. It’s as if the entity had a zone of influence. The shadow figure we (or rather Tim) saw could well have been the manifestation of this demonic force, showing itself as a tall, dark humanoid shape. The fact it stood its ground and vanished at will suggests an intelligence and arrogance common in lore about demons. And that mocking female EVP saying “This guy” when John was speaking – could that have been a demonic entity commenting on us, maybe expressing contempt or amusement at our presence? It’s unsettling, but plausible in this theory. If indeed demonic, why Sedamsville Rectory? Perhaps the past evils (abuse, violence) invited a demon in, or even created one in a sense; some believe that intense negative acts can summon or give birth to inhuman entities. In reflection, the demonic theory is both compelling and chilling. It accounts for the malevolence and the targeted nature of the experiences. We treated this theory seriously enough that, as mentioned, I used sage and prayer afterward in case something clingy was around. While I’m not eager to label every haunting “demonic,” Sedamsville gave multiple hallmarks that are hard to ignore on that front.
- Ghosts and Residual Energy (Non-Demonic Explanation): Another theory is that we weren’t dealing with a demon at all, but rather a combination of an intelligent yet angry human spirit and a heavy residual energy imprinted in the house. The abusive priest rumor provides a candidate: the rectory might be haunted by the ghost of that priest (or even one of his victims), who in death is enraged and projects that anger onto visitors. A living person can have a formidable presence; imagine a violent, toxic personality lingering after death – it might feel demonic, but it’s really human, just unrestrained. One investigator of Sedamsville, as noted earlier, came to believe the entity was a mischievous but human spirit, possibly the pedophile priest, and not truly demonic. She described the influence as akin to an annoying bully rather than an ancient evil, and that resonates with me on some level. My sudden aggression could have been me “picking up on” the priest’s own vile temper that soaked into the environment. Perhaps I, being somewhat sensitive to atmospheres, inadvertently channeled his leftover rage. In paranormal circles, there’s the idea of telepathic impression or empathic absorption, where a sensitive person might feel the emotions of a spirit. If that’s true, Sedamsville Rectory might act like a container of all the dark emotions experienced or unleashed within it: anger, pain, fear. We may have essentially stepped into that emotional soup, and it tried to overwhelm us. The residual energy theory also covers things like the dog whining sound – that could be a residual haunting, a playback of a tragic moment, with no intelligence, just an echo from the past. The bed slam could be a ghost trying to get attention – maybe Father MacLeod’s ghost or another resident spirit saying “I’m here.” Perhaps they lash out because they see us as trespassers or because they themselves are tormented by the demonic-looking entity (if one ghost is a victim, another is an aggressor – a sort of ghostly reenactment of abuse dynamics). The shadow figure could even have been the spirit of Father MacLeod or another tall priest. Shadow people aren’t always demons; sometimes ghosts appear as shadows when they lack sufficient energy to show details. The sulfur smell is a tougher fit here, since that’s more commonly demonic, but one might argue chemical or natural causes (though none obvious in a random hallway). Under this theory, the rectory is extremely haunted by multiple ghosts with bad attitudes, and possibly saturated with “psychic scar” energy from past violence. It’s like a dark cloud that amplifies negative emotions in the living who enter. Not an intentional attack by a demon, but a kind of environmental effect from all that misery. I find this theory somewhat comforting because it frames the haunting as a human story – tragic, but human. It also implies that maybe with the right approach (like spiritual cleansing or resolving the ghosts’ issues), the haunting could be mitigated. If it’s a demon, that’s a whole other level of trouble requiring more heavy-handed solutions.
- Psychological and Environmental Factors: As paranormal investigators, we have to be honest about the role of our own minds and surroundings in such experiences. Could some of what we went through be explained without ghosts or demons at all? It’s possible that Sedamsville Rectory itself – as an old, decaying building – played tricks on our perceptions and psychology. Let’s break this down. We went in at night, primed with frightening stories (even having watched a sensational TV episode beforehand). Our expectations were set for a scary time. In such cases, the power of suggestion is enormous. We might have, subconsciously, been expecting something oppressive and thus gotten hyper-alert and anxious. That can lead to misinterpretation of normal stimuli. For example, say the house had pockets of mold or high EMF fields from old wiring: both have been shown to cause symptoms like dizziness, mood swings, paranoia, even hallucinations. High electromagnetic fields in particular can influence the brain – researchers note that strong EMFs can induce panic, fear, and even the sense of a “presence” or shadow in peripheral vision. Is it a coincidence that the most intense emotional episodes (my rage, Skippy’s outburst) occurred when we were near electrical appliances (on the porch near some power lines or junction box perhaps, and in the dining room likely near wiring)? We didn’t do a thorough EMF sweep at the exact porch spot or in that dining corner afterward, which in hindsight we should have. It’s conceivable we walked through a sort of EMF “fear cage” – a spot with unusually high electromagnetic radiation that triggered our fight-or-flight responses. Similarly, an overload of fear and fatigue can lead to temporary irrational behavior. We’d been up all day and night; by 3-4 AM our bodies were stressed and our minds not at peak function. A slight provocation (like a loud noise or equipment acting up) could have caused Skippy or me to flip out momentarily. As for the shadow figure – could Tim have been experiencing pareidolia (seeing a shape in the dark that wasn’t actually a person) or even a waking dream state if he was extremely tired? It’s possible, though he was adamant that it was a solid humanoid form, not an illusion. The physical phenomena like the bed bang and smells are harder to chalk up to psychology. Maybe the bed shifted due to an uneven floor or our own movements without us realizing? The sulfur smell, could it have been sewer gas wafting in or something chemical? We didn’t find a source, but old buildings do have weird odors sometimes. Psychological theory also points to group dynamics: once I had an episode, perhaps that primed Skippy to have one too – a sort of contagion of fear or expectation. In essence, our minds, steeped in the location’s dark lore, might have created a self-fulfilling prophecy. While this theory doesn’t explain everything neatly, we must acknowledge that human perception is fallible. We went seeking ghosts; under the adrenaline and suggestion, maybe we inadvertently generated some of the scares ourselves. It’s the skeptic’s angle, yet even as I consider it, there are pieces that simply don’t fit (I know what I felt was not just panic – it was profoundly external in a way that’s tough to rationalize). Still, we keep this theory on the table.
- A Combination of Factors (Holistic View): Ultimately, our reflective conversations led us to consider that the truth might not lie in a single explanation. Sedamsville Rectory could be a “perfect storm” where paranormal reality and psychology collide. Perhaps there is a genuine dark entity (demonic or human) in that house, and it actively preys on people’s minds through psychological means. In other words, the entity might leverage the environment and our own vulnerabilities to magnify its attack. For example, it could induce a subtle EMF spike here, a whisper there, gradually nudging a person’s emotional state, then feed off the fear and chaos that result. It could also be that multiple phenomena are at play: a demonic presence and a couple of human spirits and a dank, high-EMF environment all coexist, making it extremely difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins.
In reflecting how this night shaped my understanding of hauntings, a few insights emerged. First, I gained a deeper respect for the concept of demonic oppression. I used to think it was perhaps exaggerated in TV shows or by very religious investigators. But having felt something akin to it, I now take those claims more seriously. I learned that you don’t have to see a red-skinned horned monster for a haunting to be “demonic” – it’s in the subtle but profound violation of one’s free will and emotions. That, to me, is more terrifying than a levitating object or a face in the mirror.
Second, I realized how personal hauntings can be. Sedamsville Rectory didn’t just produce generic spooky phenomena; it went after us, individually, exploiting our emotional cracks. It’s almost like an intelligent therapist from hell, unearthing anger or fear and amplifying it. This makes me think that any investigation is not just about the location, but also about the investigators—our own mental state matters. Hauntings, especially intense ones, seem to be an interaction, a relationship between the human and the unseen. I now approach cases thinking, “How might this place affect me or my team psychologically?” rather than just, “What cool evidence will we find?”
Another reflection: the importance of preparation and protection. Whether one uses spiritual protection prayers, psychological fortitude, or just a solid plan, you want to be prepared. We had some preparations, but looking back, we could have done more. For instance, taking short breaks every hour in a safe zone (like outside) to clear our heads – that might have prevented or lessened the oppression. We somewhat did that by accident when I stepped out, but making it routine could help. Also, having a code word or signal if someone feels like they’re not themselves. After Sedamsville, we instituted a policy in our team: if you start feeling any sudden intense emotion that seems out of place, you speak up immediately so the team can get you out or help you. We learned not to be embarrassed or silent about it. Skippy initially hesitated to call us when he first felt off downstairs, and only ended up calling out once he was in the throes of it. Now we know to be proactive.
Sedamsville Rectory also underscored a theory I’ve held: places remember. Whether through actual spirits or through some kind of energy recording, traumatic events leave an imprint. The rectory saw truly dark events – and those events aren’t quiet in death. They still cry out, still lash out. It’s as if the rectory itself is alive with the echoes of its history. This aligns with the “Stone Tape Theory,” which posits that buildings can absorb emotional or traumatic energy and replay it. Perhaps my anger was a playback of all the anger that ever occurred in that house. Perhaps the shadow figure is the projection of the house’s accumulated darkness, given form by our expectation to see something.
On a more philosophical note, the experience humbled me about the unknown. We left without definitive answers as to the nature of the entity (or entities), but with a trove of experiences that defy easy explanation. And maybe that’s okay. Hauntings are, by their nature, enigmatic. Sometimes the purpose of experiencing one isn’t to solve it like a Scooby-Doo mystery, but to broaden our sense of what is possible. In my case, it deepened my belief that evil is real, whether as a supernatural force or as the long shadow cast by human cruelty. Before that night, “evil” was a concept; after that night, I felt I had briefly met it.
In the months following, we reviewed our audio and video evidence from Sedamsville Rectory in detail. We did capture that EVP (“This guy”) clearly on tape, and in the background of some later recordings we found a few instances of unexplained growls and even what sounds like a man whispering “get out” (we hadn’t heard it at the time; it was discovered on playback). Those findings further validated that something intelligent was in the house interacting with us. We shared our data with a few trusted colleagues in the paranormal field. Some were shocked at how aggressive the case was, while others nodded knowingly, having faced similar forces. A demonologist friend of ours opined that in her view, Sedamsville Rectory indeed housed a demonic presence, and that we were lucky we got away with just oppression and not a full possession. She recommended not to antagonize whatever’s there if we ever returned, and to perhaps bring a clergy member if we do. On the other hand, a parapsychologist acquaintance suggested that our own latent psychic sensitivities created a poltergeist-like effect that night, essentially manifesting our subconscious fears into physical reality briefly. As you can see, interpretations vary wildly in this field.
For me, the truth likely lies in a blend: Sedamsville Rectory is haunted by something very dark—call it demonic, call it a cursed human spirit—but that force acts through fear, which means our minds are the battleground. The experience taught me that investigating the paranormal isn’t just about hunting ghosts; it’s also about confronting the depths of human emotion and perception. Each time you enter a haunted place, you are, in a sense, entering a part of the human collective nightmare – facing death, evil, the unknown. And each time, you learn a bit more about yourself as well.
Would I spend another night in Sedamsville Rectory? Honestly, yes – but not without serious preparation and probably not without additional support. Despite the fright, there’s a drive to understand more, to perhaps help document and eventually help cleanse such a place. But I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t be nervous. Sedamsville has a way of staying with you. Even as I write this, I can vividly recall the feeling of that angry presence trying to seep into my mind. It sends a shiver down my spine, yet also ignites my curiosity.
In the end, our night at Sedamsville Rectory profoundly shaped our understanding of hauntings. It blurred the line between the psychological and the supernatural, showing us how intimately they can intertwine. It reinforced that behind every haunted house are real histories and real emotions that shouldn’t be forgotten – whether it’s the kindness of a dutiful priest like Father MacLeod or the cruelty of an abusive one, or the suffering of voiceless animals. These events leave a mark, and sometimes that mark can reach out from the past and touch the present in frightening ways.
Our investigative article began with the question of what it’s like to spend the night in a demonically active location. The answer: it’s harrowing, enlightening, and not something you’ll ever forget. I faced what felt like a demon in Ohio, and whether it was truly a minion of hell or the product of a tortured human soul, it taught me that evil wears many faces – sometimes a shadow, sometimes a voice, sometimes the mirror of your own anger. As I locked the rectory’s door behind me that morning, I left with more than evidence for a case file. I left with a deeper respect for the unseen, a humbled heart, and a story – a story of a night I found myself yelling at darkness, and the darkness perhaps yelling back.
Sedamsville Rectory challenged my mind and spirit, but it also affirmed why I do this work: to peel back the layers of mystery on places where history’s ghosts still tread, and to remind the world that some houses aren’t just brick and wood – some houses are alive with the echoes of the past, both holy and unholy. And if you dare to spend a night in such a place, be prepared to confront not only ghosts in the shadows, but perhaps the ghosts within yourself as well.