In August of 2014, we took our team and a group of guests south to Newark, Ohio, to visit and investigate the Old Licking County Jail. Along the way, we made a couple of stops and enjoyed lunch, but we spent the entire night investigating the jail, then drove back to Youngstown, Ohio.

It was early afternoon when we loaded our gear, along with our friends and guests, into a large rented van and began the drive toward Newark, Ohio. The excitement was electric among our team as we prepared to investigate the Old Licking County Jail, one of the region’s most haunted and historically significant buildings. The conversation was lively at first, but as the miles passed, a quiet sense of anticipation settled in. Everyone knew that this night would be one to remember.

The Old Licking County Jail is an imposing stone structure that dates back to the late eighteen hundreds. Its gray walls and barred windows have seen more than a century of sorrow, punishment, and despair. Many who entered its cells never left alive, and some say that their restless spirits continue to pace the halls long after their earthly sentences ended. The building has become a local legend, both for its history and for the strange, unexplained events that happen inside.

We had a larger group than usual for this investigation. Several friends and fellow guests joined us, along with a few newcomers who were curious about the paranormal but had never experienced a full investigation. The van was filled with nervous laughter and whispered stories of past hauntings. Even the most skeptical among us admitted to feeling uneasy as we approached the dark outline of the jail against the night sky.

When we finally arrived, the building seemed to rise out of the darkness, its rough stone glowing faintly under the streetlights. The iron bars and heavy wooden doors looked almost medieval, as if we had stepped back in time. Even before crossing the threshold, there was a sensation that we were being watched from within, as though unseen eyes followed our every move.

Before the investigation began, we spent about an hour on a guided tour of the facility. Our guide shared chilling stories about former inmates, the tragedies that occurred inside, and the lingering reputation the building holds. Each room carried its own energy. The warden’s quarters still felt oddly dignified, while the basement seemed to absorb every sound, creating a sense of isolation and dread. The upper cell blocks were especially unsettling, their rusted doors and faded graffiti serving as grim reminders of lives once trapped behind them.

Throughout the tour, we learned about some of the darker chapters in the jail’s history. There were accounts of inmates who took their own lives, violent confrontations between prisoners, and even a few mysterious deaths that were never fully explained. The guide mentioned the story of a woman whose screams were once heard echoing through the corridors, though no record could ever identify her. That story would come to mind later in the night.

After the tour, we gathered in what was referred to as the safe room. This was our base of operations, a small space where we could unpack our equipment and prepare for the night ahead. We tested cameras, audio recorders, EMF meters, and temperature sensors, making sure everything was charged and functioning properly. The room quickly filled with the soft hum of electronics and the low murmur of planning as we divided the building into sections for our smaller investigation groups.

Once everything was ready, we split into teams and began our exploration. Each group would rotate through the main areas of the jail so that every part of the building would be investigated multiple times. The plan was to cover the warden’s quarters, the basement, and the cell blocks. We made sure to stagger our sessions so that background noise would not interfere with the evidence. The first group to head out disappeared down the dark hallway, flashlights flickering against the stone walls.

In the warden’s quarters, the atmosphere was different from the rest of the jail. It was quieter, more contained, but no less unsettling. The furnishings were long gone, but the outline of the old rooms remained visible. As we asked questions and monitored the devices, the KII meters began to flicker slightly, responding as if to our voices. There was no breeze, no power running to that section, yet the lights pulsed faintly when questions were asked. It was enough to make everyone in the room pause.

Down in the basement, the feeling shifted again. The air grew colder and heavier, carrying the scent of old stone and moisture. Our flashlights barely cut through the darkness. This was said to be one of the most active spots in the building, and almost immediately we began to pick up strange sounds. There were faint knocks, what sounded like dragging footsteps, and a low metallic clang that came from somewhere deeper in the shadows. When we reviewed the recordings later, we found whispers that none of us heard at the time.

Eventually, we made our way up to the cell blocks. These long corridors, lined with iron bars, were the heart of the jail. Standing there, you could almost feel the despair that must have filled the place when it was still in operation. The echo of our footsteps bounced down the hall as we prepared for an EVP session. We decided to create a more relaxed atmosphere, so one of the team members suggested softly playing a harmonica of an old tune to see if it would trigger a response. Others began to sing along.

The sound of our voices filled the empty block, gentle and haunting at the same time. As the song faded, the silence that followed was thick and still. Then the recorders picked up something remarkable—a faint voice joining in, out of sync with our rhythm, almost like a whispering harmony. When we played it back later, it was unmistakable. Someone or something had been singing with us, and no one present had made that sound.

More voices followed on the recording—brief responses, quiet murmurs, and one phrase that seemed to answer a direct question. The evidence was some of the clearest we had ever captured. It was as if the building itself was alive with echoes of its past inhabitants, drawn out by the sound of music and memory. The experience left everyone both fascinated and unsettled.

As the night went on, the hours slipped away unnoticed. Fatigue began to set in, and we started gathering our equipment, preparing to close out the investigation. The energy in the building seemed to calm, almost as if it knew we were leaving. But just when we thought the night was winding down, something changed.

The air grew still and unnervingly heavy. Everyone in the safe room stopped moving at the same time, sensing something unusual. Then it happened. From deep within the corridors came the piercing sound of a woman screaming. It echoed through the building, sharp and desperate, and sent chills down every spine. For a moment, no one spoke. Then we grabbed our flashlights and ran toward the direction of the sound.

We searched the hallways, the stairwells, and the old cell blocks, but there was no one there. The sound had been so real, so close, yet there was no source to be found. We replayed the live audio feeds, but the scream was only faintly captured, distorted by distance. Whatever had made that sound, it had vanished as suddenly as it appeared.

Standing in the dark corridor, the silence that followed was almost deafening. We could all feel the emotional charge in the air, that mix of sorrow and fear that lingers long after something powerful has passed. It was a haunting moment, one that reminded us why we do what we do—to connect with the stories, the history, and maybe even the souls that remain.

When we finally stepped outside, the first light of dawn was beginning to break over Newark. The sky was a pale gray, and the world felt calm again. We loaded the van in silence, each of us processing what we had just experienced. The scream, the voices, the strange sensations—they were all part of the mystery that makes places like the Old Licking County Jail so compelling.

As we drove away, the building faded into the distance, its stone walls bathed in early morning light. We were tired but exhilarated, knowing that we had witnessed something truly unexplained. The Old Licking County Jail had lived up to its reputation, offering us both history and haunting in equal measure.

That night reminded us that the past never fully disappears. It lingers in the spaces we explore, in the energy that clings to old places, and sometimes even in the sounds that rise up from nowhere at all. For us, this investigation was more than just another case—it was a glimpse into the lingering soul of a building that refuses to be forgotten.