Former Inmates Still Haunt the Halls of the Missouri State Penitentiary.
At the entrance of the Missouri State Penitentiary, etched in deteriorating stone among an encroachment of moss and grime, is this Bible verse: “He who converteth a sinner from the error of his way shall save his soul from death.” –James 5:20
All who dare enter the supposedly haunted fortress in Jefferson City walk under this verse. Built in 1836, this penitentiary was the oldest operating penal facility west of the Mississippi River before it closed. In the 168 years the prison was open, it was a place of violence and death. TIME magazine called it “the bloodiest 47 acres in America” in 1967.
At its peak in 1935, there were 5,300 inmates imprisoned at the penitentiary. There were many escapees, especially in the prison’s early years, and every time inmates were on the run, they would terrorize the people living in the surrounding areas. In 1905, four inmates killed several guards as they escaped the prison. In the end, one inmate was fatally shot, and the other three were caught and hung for their crimes.
The penitentiary also dealt with a prison riot in 1954 that was largely due to a low staff-to-convict ratio. The riot included around 2,500 inmates and resulted in several buildings being set ablaze. During the riot, one inmate who was in solitary confinement, Walter Lee Donnell, was tortured and murdered by other inmates, and three more prisoners were killed.
After the prison closed in 2004, the state began its immediate demolition. But then, in 2009, after advocates highlighted its historical significance, the rest of the buildings were preserved and tours were offered. The prison now has history tours during the day and ghost tours at night. Tours last anywhere from two to eight hours. The longer tours go overnight and allow visitors almost free range of the facility.
The Women’s Unit
As soon as I stepped into Housing Unit 1, my heart pounded against my ribs so loudly, I feared it would echo into the endless hallway with its cavernous ceiling. I had entered a haunted house, not a prison. Around me, a hundred years of layered paint appeared to slough off the walls like liquid toward the dingy tiled floors. In the unit, there are four floors of prison cells stacked on one another; each layer is bordered by catwalks lined with metal bars topped with blood-red paint and an ivy of rust. On the tour, visitors can stand at ground level and peer up at the tower of cells.
The first woman housed in the prison was Amelia Eddy in 1842, yet it wasn’t until 1905 that the prison opened Housing Unit 1, a women-only block. Before that, women were housed in a 78-cell dormitory, separated from the men’s quarters by a 20-foot stone wall.
Housing Unit 1 operated from 1905 to 1926. During that time, it was home to some notable figures, such as Kate Richards O’Hare, a prison reform activist who served time for espionage, and Emma Goldman, who aided draft resisters in World War I. After the unit closed, women were relocated to Prison Farm No. 1, located near the penitentiary.
During its operation, Housing Unit 1 was a place of cruelty toward women. “Women were punished just the same as the men, some even worse because guards could do anything they wanted in here,” said Jenny Switzer, who has been a tour guide at the prison for 10 years.
Women were forced to have their babies in prison, and the children were required to live on the prison grounds until their mothers were released on parole.
In 1919, 21-year-old Minnie Eddy was locked in a “blind cell,” or in isolation, for 21 days, Jenny said. She was fed once a day with a piece of bread the size of a cracker and given half a teacup of water. She had no toilet, only a bucket. When she was finally able to eat again, she died two days later of a perforated colon. “That child ate herself to death,” Jenny said.
The ghosts of former inmates still make a point to remind visitors that it was a place of nightmares. When the photographer for this story, Kassidy Frommann, was attempting to take pictures inside the unit, her flash suddenly stopped working.
She frantically fiddled with the camera’s settings, feverishly flicking each dial, but it was of no use. Kassidy then crossed the doorway, leading her outside the unit. Click. Her camera’s flash went off without warning.
The Dungeon Cells
As soon as I entered Housing Unit 4, a narrow hall lined with cells, my eyes flicked upward to a giant Cathedral-style window at the back of the hall. While peering at the arched window that let in a touch of moonlight, I felt as stone cold as the cement beneath my feet.
The church-like window seemed like a sick Biblical allusion to heaven, as it towered over “the hole,” also known as hell.
Housing Unit 4, the oldest fully intact building at the penitentiary, was built by post-Civil War inmates in 1868. Originally, the unit didn’t have plumbing or electricity, so inmates used buckets for waste and candles for light.
“When you stepped in here, the very first thing they asked is what did you do for a living, because we have plenty of places for you to work, and we are going to work you to the best of your ability,” Jenny said.
Inmates built the wall that still surrounds the prison today, as well as many mansions near the prison, including the Marmaduke House.
About six to eight men were housed in each 9-by-13-foot cell, meaning the unit had about 700 inmates with only two guards.
“It was a very violent time period in this building: inmate on inmate, guard on inmate, inmate on guard. They had no control in here,” Jenny explained. “There is also the punishment that was dished out in this building. With several whipping posts, guards were allowed to give 99 lashings at a time at their choice and discretion.”
Another ruthless punishment that was given to inmates was being put in “the hole,” or solitary confinement, in the dungeon space below the unit. As I descended the steps toward the dungeon on my tour, I gripped the worn railing and gulped in muggy, stifling air.
Once inside the solitary cells, Jenny counted down.
Three.
Two.
One.
Everything around me turned into a void of black. I inhaled sharply and leaned against the rough stone behind me to orient myself. In the first few minutes, I simply shifted my weight and settled into the darkness.
But the more minutes that ticked by, the more panicked I became. I felt like I was drowning in a sunless sea of cruelty. My stomach lurched as if trying to grasp at any inkling of light.
“Inmates were buried alive,” Jenny said.
“They could be down here for days, weeks, months, years at a time in complete and total darkness. They went blind. They went crazy. They killed each other. They died of starvation, and disease was rampant. Some committed suicide by ramming their head into the walls.”
I could see why.
The Death Row Cells
“Kai, hold my hand,” I fearfully said to my husband, as Jenny led our tour group through a shadowed maze of metal bars in Housing Unit 3.
Housing Unit 3 housed death row inmates and was used from 1914 to 1989. Some of the infamous inmates who were held there were Charles Arthur “Pretty Boy” Floyd, who is known for his murderous bank robberies, and James Earl Ray, who escaped the prison via a bakery truck and then assassinated Martin Luther King Jr. about a year later.
After effortlessly navigating the labyrinth, Jenny directed people into different pitch black cells. Since we were leading the pack, Kai and I were put into the cell closest to the entrance of the seemingly endless hallway of empty steel cages. We took a seat on a cushionless metal bed in the cell.
“Welcome to death row,” Jenny said. “This is an active location, I’m telling you. I’ve probably had more experiences right here on this walk than any other place in the facility.”
Jenny said the source of the recurring paranormal activity is a seven-foot-tall shadow figure they call “Big Boy” and another figure they call “Crawler.”
This is also where I had my most vivid experience.
“Look down there,” Jenny exclaimed, while pointing down the barren hall. As the words left her lips, the lights flickered, and I heard:
Groan.
Scream.
Trickle.
Undeniably clear, I heard a deep groan, a sharp scream, and a trickle of water splatter onto the floor (I even caught the sounds on my phone recording).
Kai, a ghost unbeliever, huddled closer to me and anxiously chuckled, “Uh. I think someone might have peed their pants.” He was referring to the sound of water we both vividly heard.
When it was time for everyone to start filing out of the area, I waited to be the last to leave. I used a flashlight to scan the floor for signs of water … or pee. I found none.
The Gas Chamber
I should’ve had a sense of peace when I saw the large white cross embedded in the center of the brick pathway. Yet, all I felt was dread tugging at my chest. Instead of turning away as part of me desired, I followed the path to a small stone building.
Once I entered the building, my eyes fixed on the white steel tomb before me: the gas chamber.
From 1937 to 1989, the prison had 40 executions in its inmate-constructed gas chamber; 39 were killed here by cyanide gas and one killed by lethal injection. Beside the chamber, there was a photo of each of the inmates who had been executed.
When the chamber used the gas, which was shot from a pipe at the top of the building into the chamber, people living near the prison had to be evacuated for fear that they might be unintentionally killed by the fumes.
The chamber has six gray metal seal valves lining the outside of its oval door. Inside, there are two metal chairs with metal leg straps and cushioned leather headrests. At times, the prison held double executions. A convex mirror hovers above the chairs. Surrounding the chamber were five square windows and a wooden bleacher—so others could watch the inmates take their final breath.
“We don’t get a lot of paranormal activity down here,” said Marianne Thies, our second tour guide. “We kind of think it’s because everybody that was executed knew they were going to die, not like being stabbed up here in a hallway.”
Visitors can choose to sit in both execution chairs inside the chamber. Kai plopped in the chair that had held many lifeless bodies. I flat out refused to even go inside the chamber because it felt … morbid.
The End
As I got into my car to flee whatever haunts the prison’s halls, I reflected on my visit.
The stories I was told about inhuman torture and death happened to real people for more than 150 years. The tour wasn’t just a gimmick to give me goosebumps. The former inmates weren’t just folklore stories to keep people from committing crimes. There were no people hiding in the bushes trying to jump-scare me. It was simply history.
But sometimes, history is scarier than a haunted house.
• All photos by Kassidy Fromman
This article was originally published in the October 2025 issue of Missouri Life.
