CASE #13: THE HOUSE ON CAROLINA STREET: The True Story of the House of 200 Demons

The Demon House and the Ammons Family Haunting

Transcript of episode:

Father Michael Maginot had no reason to believe he would become an exorcist. A quiet priest in a small Indiana parish, he lived a life of devotion and duty. But in 2012, he was called to something far darker. He would become the last hope for a woman named Latoya Ammons—a mother whose life, whose very soul, had been ensnared by a malevolence beyond comprehension.

The story began in the fall of 2011, when Latoya, her mother, Rosa Campbell, and her three children moved into a modest rental house on Carolina Street in Gary, Indiana. It was unremarkable, nestled on a quiet street, its weathered walls bearing no sign of the horrors that would come. The family was close-knit, their bond strong despite the struggles of Latoya’s single motherhood. But by the following spring, their world would collapse, and the Indiana Department of Children’s Services would intervene, citing a reason as strange as it was chilling—"severe spiritual stress." Latoya's children were taken from her. And what she believed, what others would come to fear, was that the cause of her torment was something ancient. Something inhuman.

The tale, when later told, would grip the nation.  When Latoya spoke to The Indianapolis Star, her words ignited a wildfire of intrigue and terror. Her account became the most-read article in the paper’s history, drawing whispers of the supernatural into the mainstream. And the story spread, reaching the ears of ghost hunters, skeptics, and believers alike. Even the country’s most famous paranormal investigator would come forward, compelled to know the house himself. Soon, 3860 Carolina Street would earn a name whispered with fear: The  Demon House.

Latoya and her family had barely settled in before the nightmare began. The first omen came in the dead of winter—a season where nature itself should have silenced the creeping things. But the house had other plans. The flies came in droves, thick black horseflies crawling, buzzing, defying the cold. They swarmed the screened-in porch, their lifeless bodies falling, only to be replaced by more. Latoya and Rose fought them off—laying traps, swatting until their arms ached—but the flies did not stop. They did not die.

Then, the footsteps began. Slow. Deliberate. Climbing the basement stairs when no one was there to climb them. Always after midnight. Always ending with the groan of the basement door easing open into the kitchen. The women would stand frozen in their bedrooms, their breath caught in their throats, unwilling to move, unwilling to acknowledge what their ears knew to be true. Some nights, the silence stretched unbearably, until Latoya, heart pounding, flicked on the light and ventured forward. The kitchen was empty. The basement, silent. Yet the steps came again the next night. And the next. Until they were no longer just steps.

The pounding started. Loud, insistent. And then, the growls. Deep, guttural, reverberating through the walls like the warning of something unseen. Something waiting.

Rosa, weary and terrified, found herself waking in the early hours to a new horror. A figure—a dark, towering shape—paced her living room. She could see it from her bed, its restless movement like that of a caged animal. She wanted to scream, to move, to breathe, but fear held her motionless, suffocating. Morning brought courage, and she forced herself into the living room, searching for any sign of an intruder.

The doors remained locked. The windows bolted shut. And on the floor, imprinted in a trail of moisture, were footprints. Large. Bare. Leading nowhere.

They were not alone.

And the house was just beginning to show its teeth.

March 10, 2012. A night of mourning, of remembrance. The house on Carolina Street was full—friends and family gathered in hushed voices, sharing stories of the recently departed. The air was heavy, grief-laden, but there was something else, something unseen pressing against the walls, lurking beneath the surface of casual conversation.

Then, a shift.

It began subtly—Latoya’s daughter shivered and pulled her blanket tighter, complaining that something had grabbed her. But before anyone could react, her body jerked violently. She was yanked off the couch by an unseen force, dragged as though by invisible hands. Panic erupted, but there was no time to make sense of it. A scream tore through the house.

One of the boys had been thrown. Not shoved, not tripped—but hurled with such force that his small body slammed into the freezer, the impact rattling the appliance where it stood. His breath hitched in ragged gasps as he clawed his way free, eyes darting wildly around the room, searching for something—anything—that could explain what had just happened. There was nothing.

Nothing they could see.

The fear swelled, but the night wore on. Eventually, the guests began to filter out, unease clinging to them like a second skin. The children were sent to bed, the house settling into a restless silence. Then—another scream.

This one was different.

It was raw, shrill, piercing through the walls with inhuman urgency. Rosa ran. She threw open the door to her granddaughter’s room, flicked on the light—then froze.

The girl was falling.

She hit the mattress with a sickening thud, as if some unseen force had let go of her the moment light filled the room. She did not stir. Her cousin, standing in the corner, was trembling, eyes wide with horror. “She was floating,” she whispered. “She was in the air.”

The visitors never returned.

And they were not the only ones who refused to step foot in the house. Latoya and Rosa pleaded for help, knocking on the doors of churches, begging for someone—anyone—to listen. But their pleas were met with skepticism, cold stares, muttered reassurances that were little more than hollow dismissals. The doors of faith, it seemed, had closed to them.

Finally, after one particularly desperate appeal, a minister agreed to visit. He walked the house in silence, his face growing pale, his fingers tracing the unseen presence in the air. His conclusion was swift and dire: the house was troubled by spirits. His instructions were clear—cleanse it. Scrub every surface with bleach and ammonia. Carve crosses into the doors and windows. Anoint the family in oil. It was the first acknowledgment that something was wrong. But it was far from the last.

The name came soon after.

Two clairvoyants, their expressions grim, sat across from Latoya and Rosa. Their words cut through the fragile hope the women clung to. The house, they said, was infested. Not by one, not by ten, but by over two hundred demons. And the source? The basement.

Their warning was absolute. Leave. Take the children and run.

But to where?

With nowhere else to go, Latoya chose the only path left to her. She would stay.  She would fight.

She constructed an altar beneath the house, a sacred space in the heart of the darkness. A white cloth draped over a table. A single, pure candle flickering against the damp basement walls. A statue of the Holy Family standing like a sentinel against the encroaching blackness.

Dressed in white, she moved through the rooms, burning sage, whispering scripture, invoking divine protection. The words of Psalm 91 curled into the shadows, pressing against whatever lingered there. Every room, every corner was marked, claimed. The basement last—where she placed an open Bible upon the altar, the pages splayed, a challenge to whatever force had taken residence in her home.

For three days, the house held its breath.

Then, all hell broke loose.

Latoya would later tell The Indianapolis Star what happened next. That the demons were no longer simply lurking. They had moved in. Into the walls. Into the air. Into them.

The possession did not come suddenly—it slithered into their bones, silent at first, subtle. But when it struck, there was no mistaking it.

Eyes bulged unnaturally, their sockets too wide, too deep, as if something else was staring from within. Lips curled into joyless, dead smiles, grins that never reached the eyes. Voices dropped into guttural, rasping tones, spitting out twisted phrases in languages none of them had ever learned.

They were exhausted. Weighed down by a crushing, otherworldly fatigue. Lightheaded. Nauseous. Their heads pounded with relentless, splitting pain. Latoya’s body felt drained, as though something was siphoning her very essence away, leaving behind only an empty shell.

Her children—12, 9, and 7—each suffered differently. The youngest spoke to something no one else could see. An imaginary friend, he called it. But the things it whispered to him were not the innocent musings of a child. It told him it knew what it was like to be killed.

Her nine-year-old muttered things that made her blood run cold. He spoke of what it felt like to be murdered.

And her daughter?

One night, she woke up screaming. A voice had slithered into her ear, hissing its promise:

"You won’t live another twenty minutes."

The house was no longer simply haunted.

It had become a battlefield.

The house didn’t just haunt Latoya’s children—it chose them. It studied them, toyed with them, pulled them into its grasp in ways uniquely cruel. It knew their fears. Their weaknesses. And it used them.

The youngest was the first. He began speaking of a friend. An imaginary playmate who coaxed him into the closet for hours at a time, whispering secrets no child should know. One night, he sat on the floor, his tiny hands folded in his lap, and told his mother, “I know what it feels like to die.”

Then the middle child. A boy of nine, full of life and energy—until he wasn’t. His words became strange, his voice distant. One evening, he turned to his mother, eyes glassy, and murmured, “Do you know what it feels like to be murdered?”

The oldest, Latoya’s daughter, was marked in a different way. The voice came for her in the darkness, curling against her ear as she lay in bed. “You won’t live another twenty minutes.” A breath of something ice-cold. A presence hovering, waiting. “Your family is going to be taken away.”

Then, the violence.

The headboard in the girl’s room—solid wood, heavy—slammed into her with such force that she needed stitches. The youngest son was thrown from the bathroom, his body hurled by something unseen, skidding across the floor as if caught in the grasp of an invisible hand.

Some nights, the only escape was a hotel. They would pack their bags, retreat from their own home, seeking respite in sterile, unfamiliar rooms. But they couldn’t stay away forever. And when they returned, it was always worse.

When the church refused to help, when the crosses carved into doors and the holy water sprinkled in corners did nothing, Latoya turned to the only other option—their doctor.

At first, he dismissed it. A delusion. A mental break. The notes in their file were clinical, sterile. Hallucinations. Psychological distress. But when he met the children himself, something inside him shifted. He later told reporters that even he had been afraid.

The fear took root when they arrived at his office.

It started with a voice—low, guttural, wrong. One of the boys glared up at the doctor, his lips twisting into something not quite human. Then, before anyone could react, the younger boy was lifted into the air and thrown against the wall. His body struck the surface with a sickening crack before crumpling to the floor.

And then, both boys collapsed.

Unconscious. Motionless.

The room erupted into chaos. A nurse called 911. Police officers flooded in, their faces pinched with disbelief. The boys were rushed to the hospital, their mother screaming after them.

The staff at the ER barely hid their smirks. They had heard the story, the murmurs about the house on Carolina Street. Their skepticism dripped from every word as they dismissed Latoya’s terror. But then, the younger child woke up.

And he had to be restrained.

Five grown men—doctors, nurses, security guards—holding down a seven-year-old boy as he thrashed, snarled, his body twisting with unnatural strength.

Someone made the call. Not to a priest. Not yet.

To the Department of Children’s Services.

A caseworker arrived at the hospital, clipboard in hand, prepared to assess another troubled family. But as she examined the children, something changed. The youngest boy’s face contorted. His lips peeled back in a grotesque smile. Then he lunged—straight for his older brother’s throat. His small hands clamped around his sibling’s neck, squeezing, his eyes rolled back in his skull. It took multiple adults to pry his fingers away.

The caseworker, unnerved, separated the children, bringing them into an exam room with only their grandmother and a nurse present. But there was no safety in isolation.

The moment the door closed, the youngest boy’s expression shifted again.

"It’s time to die."

The words dripped from his lips, low and deliberate.

At the same time, the older boy turned, his movements mechanical, stiff. He locked eyes with his grandmother, then charged, ramming his head into her stomach with brute force.

Rosa grabbed his hand, whispering a desperate prayer.

And then—he smiled.

Still holding his grandmother’s hand, he took slow, measured steps backward. Up the wall. Up the ceiling.

He glided, weightless, defying gravity, his body twisted upside down as he moved over her head.

And then, he landed on his feet.

The nurse ran first. Then the caseworker.

Later, in her report, the caseworker didn’t bother with clinical terms. She wrote plainly that she believed an evil influence was affecting the family.

The next morning was the youngest boy’s eighth birthday. Latoya brought cake, trying to force some semblance of normalcy. But the celebration was cut short when the caseworker returned—not with well wishes, but with orders.

The children were being taken. Immediately. No hearing. No court ruling.

Just gone.

The caseworker’s reasoning? “Spiritual and emotional distress.”

Latoya crumbled.

After everything—after the voices, the levitations, the attacks, the pleas for help—this was her punishment. Not a cleansing. Not salvation. But the ultimate cruelty. The loss of her children.

And then, something unexpected.

A hospital chaplain, having overheard the story, made a call. A request for something extraordinary.

An exorcism.

Father Michael Maginot was not a man of spectacle. He did not seek the limelight, nor did he entertain the dramatic. But when the request came, he did not refuse. He agreed to visit the house. To see for himself.

On April 22, 2012, he arrived.

For two hours, he listened. The lights flickered as they spoke. The blinds swayed though no wind stirred the air. And as Latoya described the agony of the last few months, her voice faltered, her breath hitching—then, her body convulsed.

Father Maginot pressed a crucifix to her forehead.

The reaction was immediate.

She thrashed. Her limbs jerked violently, her face twisting into something unrecognizable.

The priest’s resolve hardened.

This was real.

This was evil.

And whatever had taken hold of this family was not going to let them go without a fight.

Less than a week had passed before Latoya and Rosa found themselves standing once again at the threshold of the house they had come to fear. But this time, they were not alone.

The caseworker had returned, not out of bravery, but obligation. She did not come alone. She had asked a police officer to accompany her—an added layer of protection against something she could not name. Two other officers, drawn by morbid curiosity, insisted on joining.

They moved through the house cautiously, inspecting each room. The living room, the bedrooms, the bath—each appeared still, lifeless, as though nothing unnatural had ever happened there. But the kitchen… the kitchen led to the basement. And beneath the basement stairs, something unnatural awaited.

Latoya pointed to it. A patch of dirt surrounded by jagged, broken concrete. A wound in the floor itself.

"That’s where they come from," she told them. "That’s where it started."

The officers were skeptical—until their equipment began to fail.

One officer's audio recorder, fresh batteries inside, flickered and died. The red power light sputtered, as if something unseen was draining the life from it. Another officer, playing back his recording, heard a whisper not of this world—one word, disembodied, impossible:

"Hey."

Then, the photographs.

One officer aimed his camera at the basement stairs. Click. Click. Later, when he reviewed the images, something looked back.

A pale, cloudy shape curled in the upper right-hand corner of the frame—at first indistinct, but on closer inspection, it became something else. A face.

Another officer enlarged the image. A second figure emerged—green, spectral, feminine. Watching.

One of the officers, a seasoned Gary police captain, would later admit that something inside the house had changed him. Something followed him.

On his drive home, his patrol car’s radio crackled with static, then cut out completely. The garage at his house refused to open. There was power—lights in every window—but the door stood defiant, locked against him.

Then, as he sat behind the wheel, the driver’s seat began to move.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

A slow, deliberate push and pull.

He took the car to a mechanic. The diagnosis chilled him—the seat motor was broken. It should not have moved at all.

Meanwhile, the Department of Children’s Services pressed forward. The court ruled against Latoya. The children were removed, citing neglect—but not because of demons. The official reason? Truancy. A failure to enroll them in school.

It did not matter that their education had suffered under the weight of the horror that had consumed their home. The system had already made its judgment.

The oldest children were sent to St. Joseph’s Carmelite Home in East Chicago. The youngest was placed in a separate psychiatric facility. A clinical psychologist noted that he was stable—until he spoke of the house.

Then his words twisted. His thoughts tangled. He contradicted himself. It was as if something in his mind was deliberately keeping him from telling the truth.

The official report concluded that there was no true psychotic disorder. The psychologist’s final verdict?

"Delusion."

Yet when the children spoke, their stories remained eerily consistent. The daughter described shadow figures moving in the house. Twice, she had slipped into a trance, eyes wide but unseeing.

Her older brother told them the same thing. "Doors would slam. Stuff moved by itself."

The authorities’ solution was chilling in its irony.

They forbade the children from speaking about demons.

Therapy was required. Counseling was ordered. And Latoya was given one final directive—find a new home. Not for her safety. Not for her children’s well-being. But because those in power wanted nothing more to do with Carolina Street.

But the investigation wasn’t over.

On May 10, 2012, Rosa and Latoya returned to the house. This time, they were not alone.

Father Michael Maginot came with them.

Two Lake County officers followed, their police dog in tow.

And a new caseworker—one who had volunteered to replace the last. Because the first? She refused to come back.

They descended into the basement.

A foul, unnatural scent clung to the air, thick and humid. Then, something caught the caseworker’s eye. A strange, viscous liquid oozed from the wall. When she touched it, she recoiled.

It was warm. Sticky.

It should not have been there.

Maginot examined the dirt beneath the stairs, instructing the officers to dig. There were things that should not have been buried there.

The shovel hit something solid.

A press-on fingernail. A sock. A political button. A pair of boy’s socks, the feet cut away. A rusted pan lid. A pair of underpants.

And something else.

A heavy weight.

The priest and the officers exchanged looks. Was this the sign of a curse? Or something worse?

Latoya’s boyfriend had once asked for a piece of her clothing—underwear, specifically. She had refused, but strange things had vanished from her home since.

A missing family photo. Disappeared shoes.

And then, the phone call.

A woman’s voice, angry, full of venom.

"You’ll regret ever being with him."

The Catholic Church has long held that a curse is more than just belief. It requires a tether—an object, a token, something that binds the victim to the intention of the one who casts it.

Was this it?

Maginot ordered the items covered again, and sprinkled blessed salt over the disturbed earth.

Then, upstairs, the caseworker gasped.

Her finger—numb, pale, tingling.

Latoya clutched her own head, wincing at a sharp, stabbing pain. The tension in the room thickened, pressing against them like unseen hands closing around their throats.

The police captain left early.

The others stayed.

That was when they saw it.

The same slick, unnatural substance that had oozed from the basement wall now dripped from the blinds in one of the bedrooms.

They wiped it away, locked the door behind them, and waited.

When they returned?

The substance had reappeared.

Maginot knew what this meant.

The Church has a name for such occurrences.

A manifestation.

A physical sign of demonic presence.

And with that, he had seen enough.

He wrote to Bishop Dale Melczek, requesting permission to conduct an exorcism.

The Bishop’s answer?

No.

Maginot was told to consult others. More experienced priests. Those who had seen this before.

And when he did?

The message was clear:

This would not be a simple battle.

This would be a war.

The house was still.

For the first time in months, the air did not press down on them with the weight of unseen eyes. The rooms did not echo with disembodied whispers. But it was a silence that felt… wrong. As if the thing that lurked in the shadows had simply drawn back, watching, waiting.

Father Michael Maginot did not take chances.

He arranged a series of blessings—powerful, deliberate prayers meant to cleanse the space. But he knew this was not enough. Whatever clung to Latoya and her children was deeper, more insidious. It had roots.

A minor exorcism was needed.

The caseworker, who had already seen more than she cared to, insisted on attending. Two police officers stood by, not out of obligation, but because something inside them needed to see this through.

The moment the ritual began, the temperature in the room shifted.

A presence. Unseen but felt.

The caseworker later confessed to reporters that her life seemed cursed after that night. A motorcycle accident burned her flesh. Broken ribs from a jet ski crash. A shattered hand. A fractured ankle. Misfortune, again and again, as if something followed her.

But the exorcism itself was only the beginning.

Maginot looked at Latoya with grim determination.

"You need to name them."

The demons.

Their identities.

The Church teaches that a demon’s name holds power over it. It is the key to driving them out, to severing their grip on a soul. Without it, the battle is far harder to win.

Latoya tried.

But the moment she began her search, something fought back.

Her computer froze, the screen flickering to black as if something inside it did not want her to succeed. A wave of nausea struck her. The room spun. Her head throbbed. But she pressed on.

And then, finally, she found them.

Names that felt right. Names tied to suffering, to pain, to children.

Father Maginot listened as she whispered them. And then, with a solemn nod, he gave her news that sent a shiver through the room.

"The Bishop has granted permission for a full exorcism."

Three times, the rite was performed.

The first two in English. The last in Latin—the language that demons fear most.

Two police officers stood by, not just as witnesses but as reinforcement. They had seen things. Heard things. And they knew that if the worst happened, if something inside Latoya fought back, it would take more than faith to restrain it.

During the first exorcism, she convulsed violently, thrashing as if something inside her was resisting the ancient words. At times, she fell into unconsciousness, limp, unmoving. Maginot knew the trick—demons lull their victims into a sleep-like state, playing dead to weaken the ritual.

The second was worse.

Her body jerked, her fingers curled into claws. The air in the room thickened. But as the rite continued, something shifted.

By the end, Latoya slumped forward, exhausted but lighter.

Something was loosening its grip.

Father Maginot allowed himself a breath of hope. He went on retreat to prepare himself for the final confrontation.

But the demons were not done.

He knew the second exorcism had not been enough the moment he stepped outside.

The evening air was cool, still. The parking lot empty—save for his own car and, until a few moments ago, Latoya’s.

And then he saw it.

On the pavement, torn apart, scattered like dead leaves—

The Rosary beads.

The same ones he had given her.

Something had ripped them apart.

Maginot's stomach clenched.

The final exorcism was yet to come.

June 2012.

No police this time. Just Maginot, his brother for support, and Latoya.

She convulsed at first, then fell asleep—a deep, unnatural stillness.

And then, it was over.

The entity, whatever it was, had gone.

She left Indiana in the fall, taking her children and her mother to Indianapolis. Far away from Carolina Street. From the Demon House.

Far away from the nightmare.

Three years later, I spoke with Father Maginot.

By then, he had seen things most priests never encounter.

He was not the official exorcist of the Diocese of Gary. There wasn’t one. But this case—this family—had changed him.

"I’ve blessed plenty of homes," he told me. "After a death, after a move. It’s common. But this?"

He shook his head.

"This was different."

He had seen things.

Lights flickering, blinds moving on their own. Footsteps in empty rooms.

He had felt it the moment he pressed a crucifix to Latoya’s forehead.

"That’s when I knew. It wasn’t the house. It was her."

He suspected her ex-boyfriend. There had always been something off about him. When Maginot asked about him, things… happened.

And then there was the woman.

The wife.

Latoya had ended things the moment she learned the man was married.

But the wife had called her. And before she hung up, she left her with one final warning:

"You’ll regret ever messing with my husband."

The Church does not take curses lightly.

It is not mere superstition. It is not coincidence.

It is real.

"If you're spiritually weak, if you're distracted, if you're not grounded in faith," Maginot told me, "these things can destroy you."

"They will find a way in."

A Curse, A Warning, A Reckoning

A curse does not simply hang in the air, waiting to strike. It clings to something—an object, an intimate piece of the victim’s life. A lock of hair, a beloved photograph, a piece of jewelry, an item of clothing. The object becomes the conduit, the vessel for something far darker.

And in the case of the Ammons family, the possibilities were many.

Father Maginot remembers it well.

"We felt there must be some sort of curse, because there were many things that were strange. The first time (the boyfriend) moved in with her, he asked for her underwear. She asked why. He told her it was to ‘remember this wonderful moment’ or some such thing."

But there was more.

Latoya’s expensive Air Jordans—gone. She had assumed one of the kids had taken them, misplaced them, ruined them. But they were never found. Then there were the photographs.

"She wanted a family picture in the living room. But as she looked through her stack of photos, she realized something terrible: pictures of her, pictures of the children—missing. They were just… gone. And she never found them."

It was subtle, easy to dismiss in the moment. But in hindsight, these were not coincidences.

They were rituals.

The Dig Beneath the Stairs

I asked Father Maginot what they found under the dirt floor when they dug beneath the basement stairs—the place where it came from.

He hesitated before answering.

"I believe some of it was tied to necromancy," he finally said.

Conjuring the dead.

"Not directly related to Latoya, but possibly the reason for the ghosts in the house."

Something had been called forth there, long before the Ammons family ever stepped inside.

The House That Would Not Rest

The case should have ended there.

But it did not.

The house—that house—was not finished.

Zak Bagans, the star of Ghost Adventures, bought it in 2014. He claimed to have lived inside, filming a documentary on its horrors.

I had worked with Bagans before. I had friends close to his show, trusted historians and researchers. But when I reached out for an interview, for access, for even a comment, I was met with silence.

And then, without warning, Bagans had the house demolished.

Gone. Erased.

But not before he took something with him.

The basement stairs.

Artifacts from inside.

All of it transported to his Haunted Museum in Las Vegas.

Leaving behind a trail of misfortune.

Something about this case—the Demon House—was different. It didn’t just haunt. It ruined. Those who touched it, who stepped inside, who bore witness to its horrors, suffered.

A longtime paranormal investigator—who had visited the house six times—was struck down by an inexplicable and aggressive brain tumor, passing away.

A psychic medium connected to the case—diagnosed with a rare and aggressive cancer.

Dr. Barry Taff, a seasoned paranormal researcher, returned home after visiting the house to find his organs shutting down. The mounting medical bills and personal struggles eventually leaving him homeless.

Mark and Debby Constantino, the famed EVP specialists in spirit communication, were found dead in a gruesome murder-suicide in 2015. Some claimed their names had been called out inside the Demon House. Bagans himself hinted at a connection, at something far darker than even he expected.

The caseworker who had suffered so many tragic injuries appeared in the news again years after leaving the case. She had stolen an ambulance, and police had arrested her and taken her to the station lock up.  Reporters shared that the woman had become known for psychiatric problems.

And what of Zak Bagans himself?

He left that house permanently damaged, his eyesight destroyed.

A severe case of double vision, untreatable. He now wears prism glasses, forever marked by whatever force lay in wait inside those walls.

October 8, 2021.

Armani Lashon Ammons, the youngest son of LaToya Ammons, passed away at the age of just seventeen.

His passing was recorded publicly in a funeral home obituary, which told the story of a well-adjusted young man who enjoyed his part-time jobs, school,

And his membership at a local Christian church.

No further details were shared by the family.

___________________

Thanks for reading. If you’d like some commentary on this story from a Catholic perspective, check out my blog and Uncanny Catholic video link, where we recap and discuss this case.

For more on the ghosts and hauntings of Gary, Indiana, check out my book, below, which includes the story of the Demon House:

 To watch Zak Bagans’ documentary, “The Demon House,” click below: