“She thrives on fear,” a woman’s voice coming from one of the handheld radio devices says.

The group of seven other people lined up in the lobby of the rundown St. Ignatius Hospital seem unfazed by the comment—focused instead on their own various ghost-hunting devices in their hands.

The matter-of-fact nature in which the voice made the statement gave me pause, as if this supposed apparition was speaking from experience, with the comment seemingly directed at the ringleader of the ghost hunt this evening: Val Gregory.

“She thrives on fear, and then it said ‘get out,'” Val laughs as if to reassure me.

I’m not reassured.

“No one else is concerned about this?” I ask, grinning through fear.

“I think we’re fine,” Val laughs.

There’s nothing else to say except, “Mmkay,” and trust that Val, who has been doing ghost tours at the hospital for more than a decade, has built a good enough relationship with the spirits of St. Ignatius that they’re just hamming it up for our cameras.

Some people enjoy a “free roam” tour of the hospital. Val will accompany anyone who would rather have a guided tour.

Based on the brief happenings I’ve already seen, and the fact that The Blair Witch Project is for some reason running through my head, I opt for the guided tour with Val. But strictly for the story. Not because I’m scared.

Totally not scared.

“Let’s go to the doll room,” Val confidently says as she ascends the stairs from the main floor.

“Yeah, nothing bad happens in the… doll… room,” I audibly convince myself.

THE HOSPITAL

Opening in 1893, St. Ignatius was the first hospital to serve Whitman County. If you were born in Whitman County, there’s a good chance it was at St. Ignatius.

“I was born on the third floor!” Val gladly exclaims.

Though rundown, the hospital wears its history proudly. On the walls are outlines of photos that once hung in the halls. Newspaper clippings adorn various corners relaying everything from the first deaths to murder, to another that reminds tourgoers not to lick the walls (lead paint. Presumably. Hopefully.)

In 1911, the first class of the St. Ignatius School of Nursing graduated. 30 years later, Washington State’s first two male nurses came out of St. Ignatius.

In 1964, the hospital closed, but it was quickly repurposed into a home for developmentally disabled adults until 2003.

Then, time had its way with the abandoned building, but the mystery and lore around it never faded.

“Nurses and neighbors and kids who had broken in over the years said, ‘Oh, it’s haunted,'” Val smiles.

11 years ago, while leaning into the history, supposed sightings, and boom in paranormal investigations, Val asked the building’s owner if she could operate ghost-hunting tours to not only save the building and give it purpose again, but to bring tourism to the small farming community of Colfax.

It seems to be working.

“In the last 11 years, we’ve brought 41,000 people to Colfax, Washington,” Val beams. “We’re in the top ten most haunted locations in the nation right now.”

THE TEMPORARY SHUTDOWN

Though open year-round, October is without a doubt the busiest time of year for the tours, which have reached world-renowned status.

“People come from basically all over the world,” Val says. “I’ve had Germany, Nova Scotia, Finland, South Korea.”

A map of the United States full of pins from various visitors and their home bases hangs on the wall next to a random door signed by various ghost-hunting shows and social media influencers who have braved a few hours in the hospital.

The popularity is undeniable.

“Our main goal is to preserve the building so it’s around for the next generation,” current building owner Austin Storm says in an Instagram video dated October 15th. “It’s a beautiful building that means a lot to us and a lot of other people.”

Not everyone is a fan, however.

“We’ve always had really great neighbors. We love our neighbors,” Austin says in the video. “We have one neighbor that’s never liked the building, and I’ve never been able to figure out why, but this year he decided to make trouble for us.”

Storm claims the now-trespassed neighbor in question harassed the tour guide (Val), made complaints with the City of Colfax that went nowhere, and eventually took their complaints to the State of Washington—specifically Labor & Industries—about the safety of the building.

“We’ve always taken safety very seriously… it keeps me up at night, thinking about wanting people to be safe in the building,” Storm continued.

The issue, later clarified by Storm via text, wasn’t in regard to the safety of guests, but rather the potential of debris from the building that Storm had moved himself that wasn’t properly tested with a Good Faith Inspection for hazardous materials, like asbestos.

Shutting down during the busiest time of the year hasn’t been easy from a financial standpoint. An online fundraiser was immediately launched to help Storm and Val during the closure.

“Losing this income has put us at risk of devastating personal financial loss after we have poured ourselves into this building for so long,” Storm said on the fundraising website. “Your support will help pay for the roof work we have already committed to and help us make it through this investigative process while tours are canceled.”

While he works through the process, Storm says he is doing independent testing for hazardous materials and hopes to be able to reopen the hospital for tours very soon—possibly even November, according to Val.

In the meantime, Storm owns a hotel that also has some supposed spirits staying there and has tours available there, too.

THE TOUR

The room is filled with dolls. Dolls that in the daylight might not look as creepy. They’d still be creepy, just not as creepy.

The dolls aren’t original to the hospital. They’re stacked on top of each other in what has been appropriately dubbed “The Doll Room,” each an offering from a visitor.

There’s also randomly an Austin Powers cutout in the doll room. The smile, the teeth, the red eyes someone stuck on him—somehow it is even more terrifying than the doll locked away in a glass case. The doll’s name is Hannah. The spirit inside the doll is named Lucy.

I don’t want to get it wrong.

“Do you like it here?” I ask at the encouragement of Val.

Silence.

“Do you not want to answer the reporter’s question?” I follow up.

Despite no one being near it, the bell on top of Lucy’s glass case rings twice.

“She said no,” Val translates. “One is yes, two is no.”

“Do they like cameras?” I ask Val.

The bell rings twice.

“No.”

That’s all the answer I need. Time to move on.

Rose’s Room is a well-known stop on the tour. Rose lived in the hospital, and the walls in her room now have what appears to be red paint splattered on them—the hijinks of kids who had broken in before tours began. It looks creepy, but that’s all.

The real creepiness is yet to come.

“I might put it down here because I think there’s a little girl in here,” Val says as she places a lit flashlight on the TV stand next to Rose’s one-time bed. “If you’re in here, can you turn off the flashlight? All you have to do is touch it.”

The light flickers and then shuts off.

A message pops up on my “Spiritchat” device: “Tribute” is all it says.

“This is a tribute,” Val says, gesturing to the stack of empty Coors Banquet cans like a paranormal Vanna White. “Rose likes Coors Banquet.”

Rose and I would’ve gotten along fine.

“Rose, next time I come, I’m bringing you a beer,” I say as I leave her room.

Maybe six?

In the one-time operating room, our radio picked up laughter that could only be described as sinister.

“That was so scary,” Val says, doubled over while laughing in a much more comforting way.

“Stop! No, you don’t get to jump like that,” I say, almost looking for reassurance and for her to wink from behind her mask of laughter that it’s all just a big gag.

The wink never comes. Only the next room.

“The nuns kind of scare me,” Val says as we climb to the top floor of the hospital: The Nuns’ Quarters. “If anybody wouldn’t like me, it might be them.”

We stand in Mother Superior’s room, once again listening to odd noises on our ghost radio.

“I don’t know what those noises are,” Val says.

Cool.

Our conversation turns to the nuns still being here. Surely, if anyone would ascend to the next plane of existence, it would be them, right?

“I asked the nuns why they were here once,” Val offers. “As clear as day on the radio, they said, ‘Because of the children.’ They stayed because they’re still taking care of the kids who are stuck here.”

During our brief time at St. Ignatius, there were things I saw that were tough to fathom. My mind was telling me there was a perfectly good, reasonable explanation for everything, but at the same time, there were things my heart—and heart rate—found to be, well… concerning.

And if you’re a cynic or a skeptic, I’m sure you’d have no problem walking through a nighttime tour explaining away everything you’ve seen or heard. However, it’s a whole lot more fun if you just let the moment and experience be your guide.

And maybe take Val along with you. She offers a sense of calm and peace in a place that is anything but.

And as long as Val can act as the paranormal proprietor, she’ll continue to be the conduit between those who visit and those who perhaps still call St. Ignatius home.

“I love it!” she laughs. “It’s the best job I ever had!”

For more information on St. Ignatius and their tours, along with updates on when they might reopen, check out their website and/or Facebook pages.