Posted on April 28, 2025

Michigan City Pretends Prison Graveyard Isn’t There

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MICHIGAN CITY, IN — While Michigan City officials dream up sparkling visions of trendy lofts, overpriced smoothie shops, and yoga studios nobody asked for — the kind of “revitalization” that turns historic sites into Instagram backdrops — one tiny little speed bump keeps getting conveniently ignored: the inmate cemetery that still sits on the grounds of the active Indiana State Prison. Yep, the prison’s still open, still operational, and still very much housing people — just a stone’s throw away from the burial site of former inmates who checked in but never checked out. But you wouldn’t know that from the city’s development plans, which paint a future full of mixed-use condos and lakeside brunch spots, while neatly sidestepping the awkward reality that their future urban paradise comes with a side of unmarked graves.

For over a year — since early 2023 — locals have been calling the Economic Development Corporation of Michigan City, a.k.a. the office running this whole clown show, just trying to get a straight answer about what’s going to happen to the graves. You know, the actual cemetery filled with actual human remains that’s still sitting quietly on prison grounds like the world’s most inconvenient historical landmark. Concerned residents have made calls, sent emails, and even shown up in person, only to be met with a stunning combination of blank stares, vague promises, and enough bureaucratic deflection to qualify as an Olympic sport. It's like trying to ask a magician where the rabbit went — except the rabbit is a graveyard, and the magician is just a guy in a suit sweating profusely.

First, officials said to call back in January. Then it was spring. Then it was “soon.” Now? Calling their office is like entering a government-sponsored escape room with no exits, no clues, and a strong smell of printer ink and despair. Some say the phones just ring forever, like a cursed landline in a horror movie. Others report being dropped straight into a voicemail inbox so full it might legally qualify as an archaeological dig site — complete with layers of unanswered questions, fossilized promises, and the faint echo of a bored intern saying, “We’ll get back to you.” Spoiler: they won’t.

One local even claims that after waiting on hold for twenty minutes — long enough to question every decision that led them to this moment — the line finally picked up, only for them to be greeted by heavy breathing and what may have been someone eating Funyuns. No greeting, no help, just a crunch, a wheeze, and the quiet realization that this might be the most honest interaction they’ve had with the EDCMC yet. Was it an employee? A ghost? A very committed prank? We may never know — but somewhere out there, someone’s salty snack habit is haunting the phone lines of local government.

At this point, you’d have better luck summoning the ghost of an inmate, interviewing him under candlelight, and getting a notarized affidavit signed in spectral ink than squeezing a straight answer out of the EDCMC. Honestly, the ghost would probably be more transparent — pun fully intended — and might even offer a PowerPoint presentation before the city does. At least he’d return your calls, which is more than you can say for the folks supposedly running the show.

Meanwhile, public meetings have been bursting at the seams with bright, shiny promises: mixed-use housing with scenic views of where a prison used to be, retail shops no local can afford, parks that will definitely be “finished eventually,” and "affordable" housing that’ll absolutely only cost you two kidneys, your firstborn child, and maybe a vial of unicorn tears.

Funny how none of those sleek PowerPoint slides — complete with stock photos of smiling couples and imaginary rooftop gardens — ever mention the inmate cemetery lurking quietly on the edge of the site, just yards away from where someone wants to build a future Chipotle.

At one meeting, planners described the project as transforming Michigan City into the “gateway to the Lakeshore National Park.” But when a brave soul dared to ask what would happen to the graves, one of the planners immediately defecated himself in what can only be described as a tactical evacuation. There was a pause, a cough, the faint sound of squeaky shoes making a swift exit, and then the meeting was abruptly adjourned due to what officials later referred to as a “shitty emergency.”

Locals are not impressed. In fact, most are teetering somewhere between disbelief and full-blown haunting-prep mode. One resident summed it up perfectly:

"I’m not paying $1,800 a month to wake up with a ghost standing over me, handing me a spoon and whispering, ‘Lick it.’ I don’t care how close it is to the lake."

— Carl H., who recently saged his entire cul-de-sac just in case

Adding to the absurdity, Michigan City doesn’t even officially own the land yet. Former Governor Eric Holcomb signed a letter of intent saying they’ll get it someday — specifically by 2029, assuming nothing catches fire, falls through, or gets haunted beyond repair.

Which means the city is essentially planning a billion-dollar slumber party on land they technically still have to ask permission to borrow — like a teenager sending out prom invites before checking if they can use the gym. And while they’re busy pitching utopian renderings with rooftop gardens and dog-friendly breweries, they’re conveniently pretending the backyard full of skeletons won’t come back to bite them later... possibly literally.

For now, the cemetery sits untouched — quiet, overgrown, and ignored like that one cousin everyone avoids at Thanksgiving. No signs, no plans, no answers. Just rows of forgotten souls waiting patiently while the city dreams of organic markets and overpriced candle shops.

Meanwhile, the EDCMC’s latest project appears to be a bold new initiative called "See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Delete All Voicemails." Their commitment to avoiding responsibility is so strong, it might qualify for historical preservation status itself.

Good luck out there, Michigan City.

Maybe invest in a good EMF detector... and a lawyer. And possibly a priest. Just in case zoning violations start coming with cold spots and ghostly whispering at 3 a.m.