While photographing the mausoleums in Mount Olivet Cemetery, I stopped at the Clement mausoleum. Something felt off. There was space for six, yet only one name was etched inside. Half-empty mausoleums always make me wonder what happened to the rest of the family. Why didn’t they join their loved one in death? When I started researching Victor M. Clement, I had no idea how fascinating his life would turn out to be.
On any summer day, Cheesman Park buzzes with joggers, picnickers, and dogs chasing frisbees. Sunlight filters through the trees, casting long shadows over the grass. It seems like any other city park, but Cheesman Park’s haunted history tells a different story. But beneath its 80 acres, thousands of forgotten bodies remain buried.
Tucked away inside a neighborhood in Avondale, Arizona, Goodyear Farms Cemetery holds the graves of countless workers who helped build this community. The small wooden crosses that once marked them have long since disintegrated in the desert heat. Rows of crumbling cement slabs, their inscriptions worn away by time, stand as reminders of those buried here.
I grew up on the west side of the Phoenix valley and went to high school in Avondale, not far from this cemetery. Unsurprisingly, I had no idea it even existed. More than that, I never knew the history behind it or the important role the people buried here played not just for Arizona, but for the entire country.
Goodyear, Arizona, sits just a few miles from Avondale, but for years I never thought much about the name. When I was younger, I vaguely knew the town’s name came from the company because I often saw the blimp. But I didn’t realize Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company had transformed thousands of acres of untouched desert into cotton fields.
In 1917, Goodyear sent a junior executive, Paul W. Litchfield, to the desert west of Phoenix. His job was to purchase land and grow cotton, a lot of cotton. At the time, Goodyear relied on cotton as a primary component of its tires, but with World War I underway, it was becoming harder to source from outside the United States. Litchfield secured enough land for the company, and by 1920, more than 800,000 acres of cotton were growing in Arizona.
Just a few years earlier, Arizona violently expelled over 1,000 Mexican and Mexican American workers during the 1917 Bisbee Deportation. Officials claimed these workers threatened jobs and national security. Yet, when industries needed more labor, the U.S. government reversed course. It legally imported over 2,000 Mexican families to work in the cotton fields. The government had driven them out but later brought them back—only as long as they stayed cheap and expendable.
Goodyear’s expansion wasn’t just about securing land, it was about securing labor. In 1919, Paul Litchfield introduced a plan to ‘stabilize labor,’ ensuring a steady workforce for the company’s cotton fields. The company provided housing, but this also made workers dependent on Goodyear, limiting their ability to leave or demand better conditions. Just two years later, the U.S. government approved the recruitment of over 2,000 Mexican workers, ensuring the fields remained productive. But as history shows, when Goodyear no longer needed them, it erased the workers and their communities, leaving behind only a cemetery and a church as evidence they ever existed.
Transforming the desert into farmland required an enormous workforce. The work was grueling, the hours were long, and the summer heat was relentless. Goodyear offered better wages than what was available in Mexico, but that didn’t mean the pay was good. The company provided housing, but only because they needed a stable labor force — workers who were too dependent on their employer to leave.
Camps formed around the fields, each assigned a number. People called the camp near Goodyear Farms Historic Cemetery Camp 50. It was the main camp, sometimes called Algodon or Centro. 1A People’s Guide to Maricopa County Most of the men worked in the fields, but some of the women found jobs at the nearby Wigwam Resort, which had originally been built as a retreat for Goodyear executives. In 1929, it opened to the public, offering visitors an escape from colder climates far removed from the harsh conditions in the nearby cotton fields.
Shortly after workers harvested the first crops, the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918 swept through the camps. No one recorded exact numbers, but many believe the unmarked graves in Goodyear Farms Cemetery hold migrant workers who died during the outbreak. With the nearest cemeteries miles away in Glendale or downtown Phoenix, Paul Litchfield saw the need for a burial ground and established the Pioneer Cemetery, later renamed Litchfield Cemetery. The burial plots were provided for free to the workers but they had to dig the graves themselves.
Workers lived, toiled, and died here, their labor fueling the success of Goodyear and its booming cotton industry. Yet, they remained practically invisible in life and, for too many, their sacrifices have been overlooked in history.
For decades, the cotton fields thrived, but in 1986, Goodyear Farms shut down, closing the camps for good. Nearly every structure was demolished to make way for new housing developments. All that remains of Camp 50 today is the cemetery and a small church.
Goodyear no longer needed the workers, and just like that, the community they had built disappeared. It’s a pattern as old as American labor history, immigrants are brought in when there’s a demand for labor, worked to exhaustion, and discarded when the industry moves on.
The cemetery, located near Santa Fe Trails and Indian School Road, is usually unlocked during daylight hours. Every November 1st, the City of Avondale and local groups host a Día de los Muertos event at the site, honoring the people buried there. For a brief moment, this forgotten place comes back to life, its history honored and remembered.
It’s impossible to visit this cemetery and not think about how little has changed. A hundred years later, we’re still having the same debates, still seeing the same contradictions. The same country that demonizes immigrants relies on their labor. The same industries that claim they can’t survive without them are the first to discard them when they’re no longer useful.
The graves at Goodyear Farms Cemetery are silent, but the story they tell is loud and clear. The cycle of labor exploitation, erasure, and hypocrisy didn’t end with them, it’s still happening today. The question is: Are we finally ready to do something about it?
On January 13, 1908, the Rhoads Opera House fire became one of the deadliest in American history, engulfing Boyertown, Pennsylvania. In minutes, over 8% of the town’s population perished—helplessly trapped inside the burning theater.
Outside, frantic onlookers could do nothing but watch as flames consumed the building. Even worse, they couldn’t escape the agonizing screams of those trapped inside.
The tragedy wouldn’t just leave its mark on history for the fire safety laws it helped create.11908 Pa. Opera House Tragedy Ushered in Fire Safety Rules It would also become one of the most haunted locations in Pennsylvania, with ghostly reports surfacing immediately after the fire, a rarity in paranormal history, and continuing well into the present day.
Built in 1885 by local physician Dr. Thomas Rhoads, the three-story Rhoads Opera House was the most modern building in Boyertown. The first floor housed a national bank and several stores, while the second floor contained a large auditorium used for performances and community events. The third floor held meeting rooms and changing rooms, and a residential space at the rear provided homes for four families.[efn_note]Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 15 Jan 1908[/efn_note]
With cushioned seats, kerosene footlights, and state-of-the-art amenities, the opera house was a prized community gathering space.2Pennsylvania Disasters: True Stories of Tragedy and Survival
On January 13, 1908, nearly 400 people packed into the theater for a benefit performance for St. John’s Lutheran Church. The show, hosted by Mrs. H.E. Monroe, featured an illustrated lecture on the Scottish Reformation, complete with magic lantern projections and “living pictures.”
The evening’s projectionist, 21-year-old Harry Fisher, had been hired with only two days of training to operate the dangerous magic lantern projector—a gas-powered device that required months of experience to use safely.3Magic Lantern Society
About three-quarters through the show, during intermission, Fisher changed a slide. As he did, a gas line came loose, releasing a loud hissing noise that startled the audience.
Behind the curtain, unaware of the audience’s growing panic, an actor accidentally knocked over a coal-oil lamp and a kerosene footlight. Within seconds, fire erupted on stage. What started as a small, manageable fire quickly turned into a deadly inferno when the flames reached a kerosene tank feeding the stage lights.
Within minutes, the curtains, ceiling, and wood-paneled walls were ablaze.
As thick smoke filled the theater, hundreds of people rushed toward the rear exit doors—only to find them locked. Even worse, the doors opened inward, and the panicked crowd pressing against them made them impossible to open.
The building had unmarked and difficult-to-reach fire escapes, forcing people to climb through windows three feet off the ground—a nearly impossible task for women in heavy dresses and young children. The main stairway, which had been six feet wide at the top, narrowed to just three feet at the bottom, creating a deadly bottleneck. People leapt from balconies and windows to escape—many breaking limbs or skulls, but surviving.
By the time firefighters finally smothered the flames at 4:30 AM, the fire had claimed 170 lives in Boyertown. Their bodies were stacked six feet high—trapped against the very doors meant to save them.4The Allentown Leader, 15 January 1908
Boyertown was devastated. Entire families were lost.
When townspeople finally entered the charred ruins, they encountered a scene of horror beyond imagination.The aftermath of the Rhoads Opera House fire was staggering—bodies piled in a six-foot-high mass, wedged together so tightly that rescuers had to use pickaxes and crowbars to gently separate them.5The Allentown Leader, 15 January 1908
While the fire burned 29 victims beyond recognition, rescuers could still identify most of the bodies—but the sight remained just as horrific. The fire devoured them from the top down, leaving behind a grotesque contrast—their upper bodies blackened and unrecognizable, their legs eerily untouched, as if frozen in time.
Outside the smoldering ruins of the opera house, the victims’ clothing was piled in the street. Families searched through the charred garments, hoping to recognize a dress, a coat, a pair of shoes—some small piece of evidence that their loved one had been among the dead.
The New York Times reported on the tragedy the following day, noting a cruel irony:
“Many of the men who perished in the fire were employed in the Boyertown Casket Company. The majority were carpenters employed in the making of coffins. Many a poor fellow unconsciously labored over the coffin in which he will be buried.”6New York Times, January 14, 1908
Those interested can find numerous pictures documenting the aftermath and recovery efforts following the fire. The Thanatos Archive hosts many of the most graphic photos from the tragedy.
In the days that followed, Boyertown became a town of mourning. Grief settled over the community like a thick fog, inescapable and suffocating. With 170 dead, nearly every household had lost a friend, a neighbor, or an entire family.
Officials created a mass burial site at Fairview Cemetery for the 41 bodies too burned to identify. They placed each body in a coffin, separated them with brick walls, and buried them in a semi-circular arrangement. The community planned a monument to honor those who remained nameless, lost to the fire’s brutality.
Perhaps the most chilling detail is what lay buried alongside them. Authorities collected the ashes of the destroyed opera house—believing they contained human remains too charred to separate from the rubble—and buried them in the cemetery.
The weight of the tragedy was so immense that some townspeople couldn’t bear to stay. Families left Boyertown, unable to live among the daily reminders of loss.
To this day, a remembrance ceremony is held at Fairview Cemetery, honoring those who perished in the flames and the devastated town they left behind.7Boyertown ceremony honors memory of those who died in Rhoads Opera House fire
After the Rhoads Opera House fire, city officials transformed the Mansion House Hotel (now The Ironstone) into a temporary morgue. They stacked bodies in the basement until morticians prepared them for burial.Those who worked and lived in the building afterward would report strange occurrences for decades to come.
Staff and patrons alike report eerie activity—including figures appearing in their peripheral vision, the feeling of phantom hands brushing their hair, and doors slamming shut on their own.8The Haunted Bar: Ghost Living in Boyertown Saloon?
Cases of beer topple over with no explanation, and lights flicker or shut off completely, as if some unseen force is still lingering in the basement where so many bodies once lay. The building’s original owner, Harry Binder, was among those who perished in the fire—and some believe he never truly left.
The building that now stands on the site of the Rhoads Opera House has its own share of hauntings. A real estate agent once brought a woman and her 5-year-old son to view an apartment inside the building. But when they reached the staircase, the boy threw a fit, screaming and refusing to go inside.
When his mother calmed him and asked what was wrong, his response sent chills down her spine. “I don’t want to go in there. The people are screaming and running down the stairs.”9Dad’s Ghost Story
A longtime tenant saw a woman in fine period clothing pass through her apartment at the same time every year. As she walked by, she muttered about being late for the play. She seemed trapped in an endless loop, forever reliving the night of the fire. The faint smell of smoke drifts through the hallways and apartments, lingering even when no fires burn.
Some believe the Rhoads Opera House fire left an imprint, a tragedy so devastating that it echoes through time. It replays itself in the very place where it occurred.
Next time you’re at a theater, take a second to look at the well-lit exit signs—a direct result of tragedies like this. And if you ever visit Boyertown, listen carefully. Some say the echoes of that fateful night never truly faded.
The Salt Lake City Cemetery spans 120 acres in downtown Salt Lake, with over 9.5 miles of winding, narrow roads.The cemetery saw its first burial in September 1847, however it wasn’t until January of 1851 when an ordinance was passed incorporating Salt Lake City, that the cemetery was officially organized. Since that first burial, there have been more than 124,000 people buried here, including the infamous Lilly E. Gray, Victim of the Beast 666.
The Salt Lake City cemetery is also home to a few unusual legends such as Emo’s Grave, Jean Baptiste, and Lilly Gray. People aren’t drawn to Lilly’s grave because of who she was, but because of what’s written on her headstone. She must have had a really ornate eye-catching headstone, right? Not quite. Located on the far northeast edge of the cemetery in Plot X_1_169_4E, Lilly’s red, flat granite headstone blends in with the surrounding headstones and is fairly unnoticeable. That is until you get close enough to read what it says:
Lilly E. Gray
June 6 1881 – Nov 14 1958
Victim of The Beast 666
Whoa! Right?! This is not your average epitaph. Usually, epitaphs are a heartwarming tribute to the deceased. Lilly’s, on the other hand, only leaves people scratching their heads about what happened to this older lady who died almost 65 years ago, in 1958. In the years following her death, legends began to grow about the meaning behind the epitaph. The most popular legend was that she must have been murdered in some horrific fashion.
There were others that suggested she was a follower of The Great Beast himself, Aleister Crowley. He was denounced by mainstream media at the time for being “the wickedest man in the world” as well as a Satanist. Other versions of the legend along this same thread were that she was involved in Satan worship, or murdered by Satanists during a ritual. But none of those assumptions are true. Let’s explore what is known about the life of Lilly E Gray.
Lilly Edith Gray was born on June 4th, 1880 in Manvers, Ontario, Canada. Interestingly enough, her maiden name was also Gray, which tended to make tracing her life slightly more difficult. She had a twin sister, Ethel Sarah Gray, and Lilly and Ethel were the sixth and seventh of eight children. According to census records the Gray family immigrated to Benzie, Michigan in 1880, following the birth of Lilly and Ethel. In July 1898 Ethel was admitted to the Traverse City State Hospital (asylum) where she would stay until her death in 1917 at the age of 36. (A side note, Traverse City State Hospital is rumored to be one of the most haunted places in Michigan.) Lilly meanwhile was unmarried and still living at home.
Shortly after the death of her twin sister, Lilly would marry for the first time. She married a man named Richard C. Walsh in Chicago, Illinois on October 8, 1918. At the time of their marriage, he was 67, and she was 38. A 29-year age difference, and she would have been considered an “old maid” back then. A marriage of convenience perhaps? Their union was brief, as Richard passed away a few years later in December 1925.
Not long after, less than a year later to be precise, Lilly entered into marriage again. Her second marriage took place in November of 1926 when the widowed Lilly married Frank Zimmerman. This time, the age gap was much narrower, with Lilly being 46 and Frank 50. It’s likely that their paths crossed through work, as both were employed at a post office in Chicago, according to the 1930 census. The marriage between Lilly and Frank endured for 17 years until his death in August 1943. After the loss of her second husband, Lilly was left to ponder the direction of her life.
By 1950, Lilly Zimmerman left Chicago behind, though the reason for her move remains unknown. She headed for Salt Lake City, where she would soon meet her third husband — an eccentric man named Elmer Louis Gray.
Before we get to how Lilly and Elmer ended up together, let’s get to know Elmer Gray, considering he’s the person responsible for her bizarre epitaph. It was fairly difficult to trace Elmer’s life as he told many different stories and would use different versions of his name, along with aliases. Elmer was from Butler, Missouri and was born on March 12, 1881. From a fairly young age, Elmer got himself on the wrong side of the law, and he would stay there for pretty much his entire life.
By 1900, the Gray family was living in Nebraska. At some point prior to 1909, Elmer was sent to the Nebraska State Industrial School, similar to juvenile detention today. On May 21, 1909, Elmer was admitted to the Missouri State Penitentiary following a conviction for Grand Larceny. Although he was sentenced to two years, he was released a little early on November 13, 1910. From here, Elmer headed west and by 1915 he was living in Silver Cliff, Colorado. This is where Elmer’s adventures in crime start hitting the public record.On Elmer’s WWI draft registration, he lists his name as Elmer Louis De Gray. The date of birth matches exactly, however, he lists his place of birth as France. There’s one good clue though that shows this record belongs to the Elmer Gray we’re looking for; his unique signature.
From 1915 until 1932 it appears Elmer lived a trouble-free life in Denver; at least nothing bad enough to make the news. His brother lived nearby and Elmer made a living as a laborer. But for a period of time between 1932 and 1934, Elmer was serving time in the Colorado State Penitentiary for larceny. And this is when we get our first glimpse of Lilly’s future husband. After Elmer’s release from the Colorado State Penitentiary, we pick up his trail in Utah.
I suspect that Elmer had some connection to the railroad either by working for them, or catching rides as a hobo, probably a little bit of both. On the evening of August 9, 1937, Elmer was busy breaking into the Kamas Confectionary building. The store owner caught him in the act, and the police quickly escorted him off to jail.
When officers brought him before the judge and charged him with 2nd Degree Burglary, he gave the name Woodrow Lamb, an alias he had used multiple times. On September 11, 1937, Elmer, still using the name Woodrow, pleased guilty, and the court sentenced him to an “indeterminate term” in the Utah State Prison in Sugar House.
Elmer quickly applied for parole. Shortly after arriving at the prison, he filed his first application. he used the name Woodrow Lamb and told a bizarre story. “Woodrow” claimed he had no idea what crime he had committed. Insisted that no one had arrested him, and stated that he had never appeared in court.
He went on to say that he was vacationing in Utah before heading back to work in Iowa. He claimed Utah authorities held him hostage and prevented him from speaking to a lawyer because he was sick. For his next parole application in September 1938, Elmer’s story changed even more dramatically.
This time, he claimed that on August 6, 1937, he camped near the Heber River with his wife, Florence Potvin. He said robbers shot him twice, murdered his wife, and stole $1,600. These unidentified attackers also took their car and baggage. However, he never explained why authorities found him at the Kamas Confectionary or why he showed no signs of injury when they arrested him.
Elmer again claimed that the State of Utah had kidnapped him and held him without a trial or due process. By 1941, when he applied for parole, he finally used his real name. He still insisted that he had committed no crime and that the state had imprisoned him illegally. When his previous parole attempts failed, he decided to tell the entire truth in his January 1945 application. After serving 10 years and 6 months in prison, officials released Elmer Gray on July 11, 1948. He was 67 years old.
According to her obituary, Lilly moved to Salt Lake City at some point in 1950. I’ve been unable to find any records or mention of her living in Utah prior to her marriage to Elmer. In the 1950 census it shows that in March of that year Lilly was still living in Chicago with her nephew and running a restaurant. Elmer Gray and Lillie E. Zimmerman married at the courthouse in Elko, Nevada, on July 11, 1952. At the time of their marriage, Elmer was 71, and Lilly was 72. After their marriage, the couple rented a small house located at 1216 Pacific Avenue in Salt Lake City. They tore down the ramshackle house without indoor plumbing years ago, replacing it with an apartment building.
From all accounts, Lilly and Elmer seem to have lived a quiet life together, and Elmer had no more problems with the law. Lilly and Elmer spent six years together before she passed away on November 14, 1958 at Salt Lake General Hospital. Despite the rumors, she died of natural causes — pulmonary embolism and kidney failure. Lilly’s death certificate holds some very helpful clues to her past. Not only does it list her parent’s names, but it also lists all of her married names. One thing I’ve noticed is that depending on what record you’re looking at, the spelling of her first name changes. It appears that earlier in life she went by Lillian, however different records show Lily, Lilly, or Lillie. In writing this article I went with Lilly to keep it simple. Simply put, that’s how it’s spelled on her headstone.
They buried Lilly in the Salt Lake City Cemetery on November 19, 1958. Her obituary was short and to the point. I don’t believe that Elmer wrote it; the funeral home probably chose the wording. According to her obituary, her only surviving family was Elmer and several nieces and nephews. A few of her siblings were still living at the time of her death, but from what I can tell all remaining family lived in Michigan and Washington.
For whatever reason, Lilly never had children. Shortly after her death, Elmer had the infamous headstone placed on her grave. There were a few mentions of Elmer in the years following Lilly’s death. Mostly him placing ads looking for a live-in caretaker. Paramedics brought Elmer to St. Mark’s Hospital on October 31, 1964, but he was dead on arrival. The cause of death was a stroke; Elmer was 83 years old. They buried him in the Salt Lake City Cemetery on November 4, 1964, far from Lilly’s grave.
I have not been able to find an obituary, and it appears a local nursing home provided what little information is listed on his death certificate. Like Lilly, Elmer had no children. And all of this brings us back to the question of why he put Lilly E. Gray Victim of The Beast 666 on Lilly’s headstone? The most common explanation is that he despised the Utah government and law officials, blaming them for her death. Seems like a really weird way to express such dislike for the government, right?
Elmer’s bizarre pardon applications and his unusual signature may hold a clue to the mystery. His handwriting remained shaky and erratic throughout his life, which I believe could be evidence of Parkinson’s Disease — a condition confirmed on his death certificate. While most people associate Parkinson’s with tremors, it can also cause cognitive symptoms, including paranoia, hallucinations, and delusions. Given Elmer’s history of fabricating elaborate stories and viewing himself as a victim of authority, it’s possible that his declining mental state led him to believe Lilly had fallen prey to something sinister.
Rather than referencing Satanism or cult activity, ‘Victim of the Beast 666’ may have been his way of expressing deep-seated paranoia — perhaps a final act of defiance against the forces he believed had wronged them. In the end, the truth behind Lilly’s headstone isn’t one of murder or the occult, but rather the result of an aging man whose troubled past and deteriorating mind shaped his final tribute to his wife.
Lilly’s grave has been my favorite in the Salt Lake City Cemetery for over a decade. I’ve spent years piecing together her life, and everything I’ve found points to an ordinary woman who never could have imagined the curiosity her headstone would spark.
Yet, here we are — still talking about her all these years later. If you ever find yourself wandering through the Salt Lake City Cemetery, stop by her grave, take a moment, and maybe even leave some flowers. After all, for someone who was labeled a ‘Victim of the Beast 666’, she deserves at least a little kindness.
In 2012, my wife and I spent our 20th wedding anniversary in New York. It was our first visit, and we walked miles around Manhattan, taking in all the typical tourist attractions. When we travel, we make the most of our time—morning until late at night—determined not to miss anything. Among the many places we planned to visit were Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, but I was especially intrigued by the abandoned Ellis Island Immigrant Hospital, a place I knew little about at the time.
We toured the Ellis Island Museum and walked around Liberty Island, but something struck me as odd. Why had the hospital on the south side of Ellis Island been left abandoned? Surely, it held just as much historical significance as the U.S. Immigration Station, right?
After returning home, I did some research and discovered that several organizations offered guided hardhat tours of the hospital for small groups. That instantly put a return trip to New York on our bucket list.
In August 2018, we finally made that trip back—this time with our two teenage sons. With everything we had planned for the week, I wasn’t sure how they would react to a hardhat tour of an old hospital. I expected at least a few groans or an exasperated “Are we done yet?” But I was completely wrong.
A week later, as we sat around the dinner table reflecting on the trip, my sons both agreed—the hardhat tour had been a highlight.
There is a universal truth about photographers—we are drawn to old, abandoned, and forgotten places. It doesn’t matter where they are; we find them, and we photograph them. Is it because we see beauty in things others have discarded? Or is it the desire to document and preserve history through images? I don’t know if I have an answer.
In the months leading up to our trip, I studied hundreds of photos of the abandoned hospital. With so many already captured, why take the same images? But I knew I had to make my own. I wanted to create my own versions of the scenes I had envisioned, to add them to my catalog, and to share them with others.
On the south side of the island sits the abandoned Ellis Island Immigrant Hospital, which operated from 1902 to 1930. At its peak, the hospital complex had 29 interconnected buildings, forming a vast medical campus. By 1914, it was fully operational, treating over 10,000 patients from 75 countries. With 750 beds, it became the first public health hospital in the United States and one of the largest medical facilities in the country.
When immigrants arrived at the Immigration Station, third-class and steerage passengers underwent visual inspections. Doctors selected about 1 in 5 immigrants for further evaluation and marked half with chalk to indicate possible medical issues. Doctors screened for contagious diseases such as trachoma, tuberculosis, and diphtheria, while immigration inspectors had the final say on who could enter the United States.
Despite strict screenings, officials deported only 1% of immigrants for medical reasons. Steamship companies typically covered the first few weeks of hospital care. However, 13% of immigrants were denied treatment, often because they couldn’t afford medical expenses. Those with Class A conditions—including mental illnesses such as epilepsy or insanity—were especially vulnerable to exclusion.
We booked our hardhat tour through Untapped Cities, but tours can also be arranged directly through the National Park Service at a lower price. The ticket included ferry transportation with Statue Cruises and access to both Ellis and Liberty Islands.
One of the best parts of the tour? 100% of the ticket price goes to Save Ellis Island, a non-profit working to preserve the hospital and other historic structures on the island’s south end.
When the hospital closed in 1930, officials left it unlocked, exposing its furniture and medical equipment to the elements. Decades of neglect took a toll—walls crumbled, wooden beams rotted, and black mold spread through parts of the General Hospital. Some areas are still too unsafe to tour. In the doctor’s quarters, a large room with a beautiful fireplace, a crack had appeared in the ceiling just weeks before our visit.
Our tour guide, a volunteer in his early 20s, led us through the hospital and answered what felt like hundreds of questions. He was also what I would call photographer-friendly. He quickly noticed that another woman and I lagged behind the group, composing shots. When I apologized for falling behind, he simply shrugged and said, “I don’t care, as long as I know where you are.” That small gesture made the tour even more enjoyable—both as a photographer and as someone fascinated by history.
Reading about the hospital online or visiting the Ellis Island Museum is interesting, but nothing compares to hearing stories directly from an experienced guide. Two facts from the tour especially stood out:
Curious about the hospital’s haunted reputation, I asked my family what they thought. There was no consensus. We saw nothing unusual and felt no fear. But some areas felt heavy with history—knowing what had happened there made an impact.
For example, my 15-year-old son, Connor, found the psychiatric ward especially unsettling. Patients at that end of the hospital could go outside into a confined, caged area. Connor looked around and remarked, “This building is huge. They must have had a lot of patients with mental diseases.”
A few weeks later, I received an email from Save Ellis Island promoting their Halloween Hardhat Tour, titled: Ghosts of the Abandoned Ellis Island Hospital. The email included four eerie images, which immediately caught my attention. I contacted Janis Calella, President of the Save Ellis Island Foundation, to ask about them.
While she didn’t grant me permission to share the photos, she told me:
“The images are interesting, and if you saw the rest (not included in the article), I’m sure you’d be convinced that something unexplainable is happening at the hospitals.”
When the Ellis Island Immigration Station was renovated, two schools of thought clashed:
I believe the Immigration Station strikes a good balance between the two. But what about the hospital complex? It holds just as much historical significance, yet it is slowly crumbling.
Whether abandoned or restored, the Ellis Island Hospital deserves recognition. It provided care for immigrants in need, protected public health, and saved lives. Babies were born there. Thousands died there.
The hospital represented American healthcare at its best and worst—sending 90% of patients on to New York City to start new lives, while denying others medical care due to lack of funds.
For 12 million immigrants, Ellis Island symbolized hope and opportunity. For 3,500, it became a place of loss and sorrow.
Shaun Nelson is a photographer from South Ogden, Utah. See his portrait work at ShaunNelsonPhotography.com and read his thoughts on vintage cameras at UtahFilmPhotography.com. Follow Shaun on Instagram @shaunnelson.
