Location: Asylum Drive, Weston, WV Map
Constructed: 1858-1881
Area: 26.5 acres (10.7 ha)
Closed: May 1994
The Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum, also known as Weston State Hospital or West Virginia Hospital for the Insane, is a historic psychiatric hospital in Weston, West Virginia, operating from 1864 to 1994. Designed by architect Richard Snowden Andrews using the Kirkbride Plan, it is the largest hand-cut stone masonry building in North America, spanning 242,000 square feet on over 600 acres. A National Historic Landmark since 1990, it served as a sanctuary for the mentally ill but became notorious for overcrowding, inhumane conditions, and controversial treatments like lobotomies. Purchased in 2007 by Joe Jordan for $1.5 million, it now functions as a tourist attraction offering historic and paranormal tours, reflecting its complex legacy of medical history, architectural grandeur, and reputed hauntings.
The Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum was authorized by
the Virginia General Assembly in the early 1850s to address the growing
need for mental health facilities, joining asylums in Williamsburg and
Staunton as Virginia’s third such institution. Construction began in
1858 but was delayed by the Civil War, during which Union soldiers
occupied the site, and a gold robbery occurred, with funds intended for
construction stolen. The asylum opened to patients in 1864, initially
under Virginia’s control, but was renamed the West Virginia Hospital for
the Insane in 1863 after West Virginia’s statehood. Construction
continued until 1881, costing $725,000—over $300,000 above budget—due to
its massive scale and intricate design.
Designed to house 250
patients, the asylum was rooted in the Kirkbride Plan, developed by
Philadelphia psychiatrist Thomas Story Kirkbride. This model emphasized
“moral treatment,” prioritizing sunlight, fresh air, and dignified
environments to aid recovery. However, by 1880, it held 717 patients,
rising to 1,661 in 1938, 1,800 in 1949, and a peak of 2,400–2,600 in the
1950s, leading to severe overcrowding. The patient population included
not only those with mental illnesses but also epileptics, alcoholics,
drug addicts, and individuals committed for trivial reasons like
“laziness,” “egotism,” or “domestic troubles.” Women were often admitted
by male relatives without due process, and some children were born or
raised within its walls.
The asylum’s history reflects broader
trends in American mental health care. In its early years, it aimed to
provide humane care, with a farm, dairy, and water supply for
self-sufficiency. However, by the 20th century, underfunding, staff
shortages, and outdated treatments led to neglect. A 1938 report noted
the inclusion of “non-educable mental defectives,” while 1949
investigations by The Charleston Gazette exposed poor sanitation,
insufficient furniture, lighting, and heating. A 1935 fire, started by a
patient, destroyed part of the complex, though a rebuilt wing funded by
the Works Progress Administration was comparatively modern.
By
the 1950s, the asylum participated in the West Virginia Lobotomy
Project, led by Walter Freeman, performing ice-pick lobotomies to reduce
overcrowding. Uncontrollable patients were confined in cages or
seclusion cells, and treatments like bloodletting, insulin coma therapy,
and hydrotherapy were common. The hospital’s population declined by the
1980s due to deinstitutionalization and advances in psychiatric care,
closing in 1994 when patients were transferred to the William R. Sharpe,
Jr. Hospital. Its closure devastated Weston’s economy, as it had been a
major employer.
Designed by Richard Snowden Andrews, the asylum is a
Gothic and Tudor Revival masterpiece, measuring 1,295 feet long with 2.5
miles of hallways and over 900 windows. Its blue sandstone, quarried
locally and later on-site, was hand-cut by skilled German and Irish
masons, making it one of the largest masonry buildings in North America,
second only to the Kremlin globally, according to some claims. The
Kirkbride Plan featured long, staggered wings to maximize sunlight and
ventilation, with a 200-foot central clock tower (clocks on three sides,
for unknown reasons) housing offices, a ballroom, and staff quarters.
The walls, 2.5 feet thick, were designed to muffle screams, reflecting
the era’s containment focus.
The asylum’s design prioritized
patient welfare, with private rooms, high ceilings, and access to
landscaped grounds for therapeutic activities. Separate wards for men,
women, and Black patients (added in 1873) reflected 19th-century
segregation. The complex included a cemetery, farm, dairy, gas well
(drilled in 1902), and a tuberculosis wing, enhancing self-sufficiency.
However, overcrowding eroded these ideals, with rooms meant for one
patient holding multiple beds, and some patients sleeping on floors. The
building’s beauty contrasted with its later horrors, a dichotomy that
fuels its modern reputation as both a historic landmark and a “haunted”
site.
Compared to Plimoth Patuxet’s recreated 17th-century
village, the Smallpox Hospital’s Gothic ruin, or Taughannock Falls’
natural landscape, the asylum’s architecture is a functional yet
imposing artifact of 19th-century ideals. While Plimoth Patuxet and
Taughannock emphasize immersive or natural experiences, and the Smallpox
Hospital is a static ruin, the asylum’s vast, partially restored
interior invites exploration of both history and decay, akin to an urban
explorer’s dream.
Life at the asylum varied from its early promise to
later nightmares. In the 1860s, patients enjoyed nutritious food,
physical activity, and privacy, aligning with Kirkbride’s vision.
However, as numbers swelled, conditions deteriorated. Patients were
admitted for reasons ranging from legitimate mental illnesses to
societal nuisances like “greediness” or “stomachache.” Historian Titus
Swan argues that admissions involved due process, countering myths of
frivolous commitments, but cases like women confined by husbands or
orphans abandoned at the gates highlight abuses.
Treatments were
often brutal. Lobotomies, electroshock therapy, and insulin coma therapy
caused lasting harm, while seclusion cells, confinement cribs, and
straitjackets restrained violent patients. Overcrowding led to violence,
with documented murders, such as a patient named Dean, killed by
roommates who crushed his head under a bed frame. Poor sanitation,
inadequate heat, and lack of furniture were rampant, with some patients
locked in cages by the 1980s. The exact death toll is unknown, but Swan
estimates it in the “five-figure range,” with many buried in unmarked
graves in the asylum’s cemetery.
The asylum’s role in the Civil
War added complexity. Union raids disrupted construction, and its use as
a military site tied it to regional conflict, a narrative explored in
Jayne Anne Phillips’ Pulitzer-winning novel Night Watch (2023), set
partly at the asylum. Notable patients included Orville Brown, the “Clay
County Wild Man,” and the “Philippi Mummies,” reflecting its diverse
population.
Unlike Plimoth Patuxet, which balances colonial and
Wampanoag perspectives, or the Smallpox Hospital, which memorializes
medical isolation, the asylum’s history is raw and unresolved, grappling
with the stigma of mental illness. Taughannock Falls, a natural site,
avoids such human-centric controversies, but all four sites confront
preservation challenges—cultural for Plimoth Patuxet, structural for the
Smallpox Hospital, environmental for Taughannock, and ethical for the
asylum.
After closing in 1994, the asylum faced neglect, with
vandalism and deterioration threatening its survival. A brief attempt in
2000 to open a Civil War museum failed due to fire hazards. In 2007, Joe
Jordan, an asbestos demolition contractor, purchased it for $1.5
million, beginning asbestos removal and maintenance. His daughter,
Rebecca Jordan Gleason, manages operations, funding restoration through
tourism. The asylum reopened in 2008 as a tourist attraction, offering
historic tours, paranormal tours, ghost hunts, and events like the
Asylum Ball, HearseMania, and a Halloween haunted house.
Historic
tours ($10–$30) explore the first and fourth floors, covering the
asylum’s architecture, Civil War role, and mental health practices, with
exhibits of patient art, medical equipment, and restored rooms.
Paranormal tours and overnight ghost hunts ($100 per person) capitalize
on its haunted reputation, fueled by reports of apparitions, cold spots,
and sounds like screams or doors slamming. Alleged spirits include
Lilly, a girl born at the asylum, and Dean, the murdered patient. The
site has appeared on shows like Ghost Adventures and Destination Fear,
amplifying its mystique.
The use of “lunatic” in the name and
events like “Psycho Path” sparked criticism from mental health advocates
for stigmatizing patients, but operators defend it as the original name
chosen by the Virginia General Assembly. Preservation efforts, supported
by the West Virginia State Hospital Initiative (WVSHI), focus on
restoring cemetery headstones to honor the “voiceless” patients, many
buried anonymously.
The asylum is a microcosm of America’s mental health
history, reflecting both progressive ideals and systemic failures. Its
Kirkbride design embodies 19th-century optimism, while its overcrowding
and harsh treatments expose the limits of those ideals. Tours educate
visitors on mental health stigma, though some criticize paranormal
events as exploiting patient suffering, creating a “commercial
playground of fetishized disability.” Others see tourism as a way to
preserve a rare Kirkbride building, fostering historical awareness and
jobs in a struggling region.
Compared to Plimoth Patuxet, which
engages with Indigenous and colonial narratives, the asylum’s focus is
narrower, centering on medical and social history. The Smallpox
Hospital, a preserved ruin, shares the asylum’s Gothic aesthetic and
medical past but lacks its interactive tourism model. Taughannock Falls,
a natural site, contrasts sharply, offering recreation over historical
reflection, yet all four sites preserve distinct facets of
heritage—cultural, architectural, medical, and environmental.
The
asylum’s paranormal reputation, while controversial, draws diverse
visitors, from historians to thrill-seekers, much like Plimoth Patuxet’s
broad appeal to educators and tourists. Its role in media, like Night
Watch or Ghost Adventures, parallels the Smallpox Hospital’s film
appearances, enhancing public interest. However, its ethical
tightrope—balancing education with sensationalism—sets it apart from
Taughannock’s straightforward conservation narrative.
Located at 50 S River Ave, Weston, WV, the asylum is
open April–November for tours, with ghost hunts year-round. Historic
tours (45 or 90 minutes, $10–$30) run hourly, paranormal tours (daytime
or overnight, $30–$100) every two hours, with the last 45-minute tour at
5 p.m. and 90-minute tour at 4 p.m. Arrive 30 minutes early, as tours
are first-come, first-serve. The first floor features a museum with
patient art, a straitjacket, and a hydrotherapy tub, while the fourth
floor and farm/cemetery tours explore unrestored areas. Photography
tours and events like flea markets or the Asylum Ball add variety.
The asylum is 100 miles northeast of Charleston, WV, accessible via
I-79 to Exit 99, then Route 33 east. Parking is ample, and the site is
partially wheelchair-accessible, though unrestored areas have peeling
paint, uneven floors, and no climate control, requiring sturdy shoes and
weather-appropriate clothing. Cell service is reliable, but Wi-Fi is
unavailable. Tours cover 1–2 miles of walking, less strenuous than
Taughannock’s trails but more demanding than Plimoth Patuxet’s village
or the Smallpox Hospital’s exterior viewing.
Tripadvisor reviews
(4.5 stars) praise the “fascinating” history and “eerie” atmosphere,
with guides like Brad Cook noted for engaging storytelling. Some find
paranormal tours gimmicky or disrespectful, preferring historic tours
for their sensitivity. The site’s scale—1,300 feet long, with decayed
wards and isolation cells—creates a visceral experience, unlike Plimoth
Patuxet’s curated immersion, the Smallpox Hospital’s distant ruin, or
Taughannock’s natural serenity.
Nearby Attractions:
West
Virginia Museum of American Glass (5 miles): Showcases regional
glassmaking.
Stonewall Jackson Lake State Park (20 miles): Offers
boating and hiking.
Clarksburg (30 miles): Features historic sites
and dining.
Preserving the asylum is costly, with asbestos removal
and structural repairs ongoing. Joe Jordan’s investment, funded by
tourism, contrasts with the Smallpox Hospital’s donor-driven
stabilization or Taughannock’s state-backed maintenance. Plimoth Patuxet
faces cultural debates over representation, while the asylum grapples
with ethical questions about profiting from patient trauma. Critics
argue ghost tours trivialize suffering, while supporters, including
historian Titus Swan, emphasize their role in preserving patient stories
and restoring dignity to unmarked graves.
The asylum’s paranormal
focus risks overshadowing its historical significance, unlike Plimoth
Patuxet’s balanced narrative or Taughannock’s environmental focus. The
Smallpox Hospital’s memorial proposal aligns with the asylum’s cemetery
restoration, both seeking to honor forgotten individuals, but the
asylum’s active tourism model amplifies its visibility and controversy.
Mental health stigma remains a challenge, with the term “lunatic”
drawing criticism, though defenders note its historical accuracy.
The Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum is a paradox: a
monument to humane ideals undone by systemic neglect, now preserved
through a blend of education and sensationalism. Its Kirkbride design,
once a beacon of hope, became a prison for thousands, reflecting
society’s failure to address mental illness equitably. Unlike Plimoth
Patuxet, which actively engages Indigenous voices, the asylum’s patient
narratives are fragmented, reliant on historians like Swan to recover
them. The Smallpox Hospital’s ruin evokes medical isolation, but the
asylum’s intact yet decayed interiors confront visitors with human
suffering directly. Taughannock’s natural beauty offers escape, while
the asylum demands reckoning.
The paranormal tours, while funding
preservation, risk exploiting patient trauma, a tension absent in
Taughannock or Plimoth Patuxet but echoed in debates over the Smallpox
Hospital’s memorialization. The asylum’s story is incomplete without
acknowledging the voiceless—patients, often marginalized by gender,
race, or poverty, whose lives were shaped by societal failures. Its
preservation, like Plimoth Patuxet’s evolving narrative or Taughannock’s
conservation, requires balancing accessibility with respect for those it
represents.