The plane had just begun to pull back from the terminal, preparing to whisk the two of us off to Louisville, Kentucky, but Jordin had asked this question at least three times since our arrival at the airport."Waverly Hills," I said. "It's an abandoned sanatorium."Jordin had a brand-new-and alarmingly thick-leather-bound journal in her lap and was writing furiously in it as I talked."So ... crazy people were kept there?"I glanced at my companion, frustrated at her ignorance. But it was such a common misconception, I found it hard to hold on to the grudge. "A sanatorium is a place where people are treated for long-term physical illnesses. The patients at Waverly Hills were treated for tuberculosis, about a century ago." This would be my fourth investigation at Waverly Hills. I knew it very well."And you're sure it's haunted?" asked Jordin, looking up from her notebook for the first time."Some reports suggest that as many as sixty-three thousand people died on the premises," I said. "They tried all sorts of things to cure the disease-taking ribs out, removing entire lungs, and electroshock therapy.
