Inside the Phelps Mansion: Exploring Binghamton's Most Historic — and Reportedly Haunted — Home
“You can't investigate a location you don't understand. Before I'm willing to call anything paranormal, I need to know what's completely normal for that specific building — and the Phelps Mansion has 150 years worth of normal to account for.”
— Jason Hawes
Before you can investigate a location, you have to understand it. That's always been my philosophy with TAPS, and it's exactly why I spent time walking every room of the Phelps Mansion Museum in Binghamton, New York before we ever set up a single piece of equipment. Built in the 1870s for businessman Sherman D. Phelps, this place is one of the finest examples of Victorian-era craftsmanship I've ever stepped foot in — and trust me, I've been inside a lot of old buildings.
When you walk through the front doors of the Phelps Mansion, the first thing that hits you isn't a sense of dread or the feeling that something is watching you. It's the sheer scale of the craftsmanship. The woodwork alone is extraordinary — intricate millwork, soaring doorframes, and detail work that took skilled artisans months, if not years, to complete. This isn't just a reportedly haunted location. This is a piece of American history that deserves to be taken seriously on its own terms, and that's exactly how I approached our pre-investigation walkthrough.
I've said it a thousand times and I'll keep saying it: context is everything in this work. If you walk into a location without knowing who lived there, what they experienced, and what the building has been through over the decades, you're just stumbling around in the dark — literally and figuratively. The Phelps Mansion has been standing for more than 150 years. In that time, it housed the Phelps family through triumphs and hardships, changed hands, and eventually became the museum it is today. Every one of those transitions leaves a mark on a building — on its atmosphere, its sounds, its quirks. Before I'm willing to call anything paranormal, I need to know what's normal for that specific structure. What does it sound like when the heat kicks on? Where do the drafts come from? Which floorboards creak and why? That's the groundwork, and this walkthrough was all about laying it.
Room by room, we went through the mansion with an eye toward both the historical and the investigative. The architecture of the period wasn't just decorative — it was functional in ways that can absolutely fool an investigator who isn't paying attention. Thick plaster walls, massive wooden doors, and tall ceilinged rooms create acoustic conditions that can make a sound from one end of a house feel like it's coming from directly beside you. Old homes like this settle constantly, especially with seasonal temperature changes, and Binghamton's winters are no joke. I want my team walking into the investigation phase already familiar with every one of those natural explanations, so that when something genuinely can't be explained, we recognize it for what it is rather than jumping to conclusions.
What makes the Phelps Mansion particularly compelling from an investigative standpoint isn't just the reported activity — it's the depth of the human story connected to this place. The stories that have survived more than a century and a half of retelling tend to be the ones with some emotional weight behind them. Whether that weight translates into something measurable is exactly what the investigation is designed to determine. But you have to respect the history first. The people who lived within these walls were real, their experiences were real, and whatever happened here happened to them. I never lose sight of that. This walkthrough was about honoring that history and making sure our investigation is approached with the seriousness it deserves.
The history tour of the Phelps Mansion only deepened my respect for the location — and my determination to investigate it the right way. The investigation comes next, and we're going in prepared, skeptical, and ready to find real answers. Stay tuned.