The (Mis)adventures of Jyl: The Samaritan Foundation Monastery

Jyl takes us to her backyard in Oklahoma, and the town of Guthrie’s Samaritan Foundation Monastery. Did she hear chanting?

Welcome back, misadventurers. This weekend, while I was getting some writing done and spending quality couch time with Betty, I had some random show playing in the background when I heard the name of a town that immediately made me look up from my laptop. The kind of reaction that probably says more about me than it should. Naturally, I paused the show, saved my document, opened a new browser window, and went digging.

That town was Guthrie, Oklahoma. Guthrie doesn’t have to try very hard to feel historic. As Oklahoma’s original territorial capital, much of the city still looks frozen somewhere between past and present. Victorian buildings line the streets, brick roads stretch through downtown, and tucked among them sits a heavy stone structure locals have long called the Black Jail. The name isn’t meant to be dramatic, the building is made of thick, dark limestone and sandstone block walls, giving it a dark appearance.

Built in the 1890s, the building began as the first federal jail in the Midwest during Oklahoma Territory’s roughest years. Frontier incarceration focused on security rather than humanity, and eighteen-inch-thick stone walls held prisoners through brutal summers and freezing winters. Overcrowding and violence were common realities of territorial detention, giving the structure an early reputation as a place defined by confinement and hardship. Operation declined after Oklahoma achieved statehood in 1907, when prison systems were reorganized.

When the jail closed, the building wasn’t torn down. Instead, it was converted into a church in 1908. Stucco covered the dark exterior, classrooms replaced cells, and for decades families gathered there weekly, transforming a former prison into a place meant for community and worship. That chapter lasted until the 1970s, when the congregation relocated and the structure was left vacant once again.

Its most infamous era began in the early 1990s, when the Samaritan Foundation moved in under the leadership of spiritual teacher Linda Greene. They considered the building their “monastery.” The group presented itself as a New Age religious community centered on healing and spiritual awareness, but accounts from former members later described increasingly insular beliefs. Everyday objects were thought to carry harmful energy, food and household goods were ritually cleansed, and followers lived communally inside the deteriorating building despite growing safety concerns.

By 1995, local officials intervened and declared the structure unsafe for habitation. Residents dispersed soon afterward, ending the Samaritan Foundation’s occupation of the property. Around the same time, national attention turned toward the group following the disappearance and murder of filmmaker Allen Ross, Greene’s husband — a case that permanently linked the Guthrie building to one of Oklahoma’s most disturbing cult investigations.

After the group left, the building fell silent again, but its reputation didn’t. Nearby residents reported lights appearing inside despite the lack of electricity. Late-night passersby described hearing voices or faint singing from within the empty structure. Urban explorers who entered the building often described an overwhelming atmosphere rather than clear sightings — sudden cold spots, disorientation, and the unmistakable feeling of being watched.

Paranormal investigators frequently point to the building’s layered past as a possible explanation. Over more than a century, the same walls contained prisoners, worshippers, and an isolated spiritual community shaped by fear and control. Whether supernatural or psychological, that accumulation of human experience seems difficult to ignore. Today, the Black Jail remains one of Guthrie’s most notorious landmarks, caught somewhere between preservation project and cautionary tale.

Jyl Glenn is a writer, editor, formatter, anthologist, poet, and a medical-legal writer and consultant. Her lifelong love affair with horror began at a very early age when she was left unattended on the weekend Poltergeist debuted on HBO. And then she figured out she could read any horror book she liked as long as she hung out at the public library, even if the librarian deemed it not to be age appropriate. Jyl was born and raised in New York and now lives in Tulsa with her dog. She loves creepy art, dark poetry, and pink dinosaurs. When she isn’t dabbling in the macabre—she’s most likely asleep.

PLEASE NOTE: The views and opinions of the staff of Memento Mori Ink do not necessarily represent those of Memento Mori Ink or Crystal Lake Publishing. Thank you for understanding.