kings park psychiatric center

[January 2002]

After the dull afternoon moon brightened to an intense evening white, our group, spying for entry, padded quietly down the cracked asphalt paths circling the buildings of the psychiatric center. These buildings, dating as early as the mid-1800s, are museums with risky admission. Entrance to the elegant structures is strictly forbidden and security here is tight- guards stroll the grounds and slowly cruise the roads in their cars.

As we hurried along, each footstep crunched loudly on leaves and twigs, broadcasting our every move into the still air. Perhaps nothing seemed louder than the thumping of our hearts as we darted across the fields of trim, dead winter grass. In reality, these noises probably faded not far from us, but being at the center of their creation, they seemed to us deafening against the soundless evening.

What once was an enormous center for the mentally ill, even bigger in population than towns in the area, was tonight an obvious memory. Now, buildings lay decaying on the landscape, like the bodies of the unfortunate cats and dogs found littered throughout their hallways. Somehow, like us, the animals had made their way inside from the surrounding woods. The skeletal remains of these creatures reflected their final resting places. Rib cages split and fell like beams of the ceilings. Skulls' hollowed eye sockets suggested the beautiful roundels, now without glass.

After escaping the silent fields and finding ourselves 'safely' in a building, we were enveloped in a muffled quiet. The building's interior was eerily mute. A momentary pause, listening for any signs of company, brought nothing to our ears. As we began to move again, a loud racket surrounded us. Crackling glass and piles of paint chips crushed below our boots echoed sharply down the sloping hallway. Other crunchy debris could be felt through our soles, but we didn't shine our flashlights to see- the windows were too many and the road too close. It would be discovered later that we had also been stepping on ribs, vertebrae and various bones of cats, dogs and raccoons.

Once further into the building, away from the windows, we clicked on our lights and let our eyes adjust to their new surroundings- a large dining and kitchen area, adjacent to an entrance hall. Food service magazines and evaluation forms littered the floor. A large industrial oven's doors hung open, exposing a filthy interior. Molded food trays lay in piles. Why certain items are left behind is always baffling when visiting these abandoned places. Some odd fragments breathe a bit of life back into the locations while adding to their mysteries. Among the mess, I found this note, dated 12-10-84, written in an unsteady hand on a piece of binder paper: