Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum

Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum

 

Location: Asylum Drive, Weston, WV   Map

Constructed: 1858-1881

Area: 26.5 acres (10.7 ha)

Closed: May 1994

Ghost Tours

 

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.

 

History

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.

 

Architectural Design and the Kirkbride Plan

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.

 

Patient Experience and Controversies

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.

 

Closure and Modern Transformation

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.

 

Cultural and Educational Significance

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.

 

Visitor Experience and Practical Details

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.

 

Challenges and Controversies

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.

 

Critical Reflection

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.