Hempstead House on Long Island’s gold coast at Sands Point, New York.

Click here to view large or order prints.

Jay Gould was a New York business man, reviled as a Jew by those who were of an anti-semite bent, but was a Scottish/English mongrel as I recall. He was one of the main stockholders of the Erie Railroad, and an associate of the infamous Boss Tweed.

“Just who was Boss Tweed?” Miss Bronwen asked.

“Corrupt New York politician of the time, so crooked he had to screw his pants on in the morning. Convicted, sent to prison, released, arrested again, thrown in prison, escaped, recaptured and later died in prison. Pneumonia,” I replied.

She handed the large, plastic shopping bag to me as we strolled across the lawn of Hempstead House and Castlegould, heading for the center of the expansive field of grass which separates the two buildings.

“Anyway, Gould had this brilliant idea. He and James Fisk, another lovable character started buying up gold, cornering the market, which in turn drove up the price of wheat. At that point the wheat futures were dismally low, so the western farmers were holding onto their crops. But once the prices went up due to Gould and Fisk’s manipulation, they began shipping it east, on, you guessed it, the railroads, which is where Gould made his fortune. Gould had a reputation as the dirtiest of the 19th century American robber barons. He invented the practice of declaring bankruptcy as a strategy, ala Donald Trump. The New York City press alleged that Gould’s dealings in the tanning business drove his partner Charles Leupp to suicide, which may or may not be true. After being forced out of the Erie Railroad, Gould started, in 1879, to build up a system of railroads in the midwest by gaining control of four western railroads, including the Union Pacific and the Missouri Pacific Railroad. In 1880, he was in control of 10,000 miles of railway, about one-ninth of the length of rail in the United States at that time, and, by 1882, he had controlling interest in 15% of the country’s tracks.”

“And this was his estate?” Miss B asked.

“Nope,” I continued to bore her, “Gould also obtained a controlling interest in the Western Union telegraph company, and, after 1881, in the elevated railways in New York City. Ultimately, he was connected with many of the largest railway financial operations in the United States from 1868-1888. During the Great Southwest Railroad Strike of 1886 he hired strikebreakers. According to labor unionists, he said at the time, ‘I can hire one half of the working class to kill the other half.’”

“Gould was pretty much universally despised, considered at one time the most hated man in America, and eventually ended up ostracized by proper society, as well as most other levels of society in the country as well. At any rate, he spent most of the last ten years of his life coughing up blood and dying a horrible death from tuberculosis.”

“You enjoyed that part way too much to be considered healthy,” Miss Bronwen said, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand and scanning first to the stables, now known as Castlegould, and the main house, the fabled Hempstead House.

“Well there really isn’t any horror to this tale except for that I’m afraid. Scandal, yes, the golden age of Long Island of course, but nothing really gruesome or macabre,” I said, sounding a bit dejected at the thought. “And it’s a pity, as it’s a wonderful spot for it.”

She grunted her assent and held out her hand, I gave her the large bag which she had insisted I carry. I was expecting a picnic, and quite eagerly as I hadn’t eaten yet that day, so you can imagine my surprise when she hauled out what looked to be a mass of paper and wood. She knelt on the ground and worked intently, the tip of her little pink tongue poking out now and then in concentration, and before long I understood what it was. Suddenly she sprang to her feet, holding the device out in front of her, shoving it nearly in my face.

“A kite!” she exclaimed brightly.

I eyed it warily. I had never seen one quite of this design, and to be honest doubted greatly that it would get off the ground, and said as much.
She looked at me for a moment, looked at the kite then thrust it back in my face.

“Take it,” she said, “and run.”

I took the kite from her hands, I had little other choice. It was take it or wear it.

“I don’t run,” I replied, unless I’m being chased by something big and mean.

“Run,” she repeated again, this time more forcibly.

“Woman, I do not run for any woman. If you want to give this device some lift, I suggest you run with it yourself.”

She looked me in the eye. There was no mistaking the look. It wasn’t hurt, disappointment or sadness. It was menace. Her eyes locked on mine and I detected the glint of steel there, and once more she said, this time cooly and calmly, “Run.”

I’m no idiot. I ran. I felt like an idiot, clumsy and awkward. I had forgotten the technique, and it took a few attempts before I finally caught a breeze and the damn thing shot up, much to her delight, as her squeals and giggles attested to.

“You didn’t think it would work!” she laughed.

“I didn’t,” I replied.

“I made it myself, my own design,” she said proudly.

“I thought as much.”

“You doubted.”

“I doubted.”

“You scoffed!”

“Yes Miss Bronwen, I scoffed”

“I told you so, I told you so,” she said in a sing-song fashion.

“You told me so,” I sighed.

“Nanner nanner,” she said and let out some more string. The breeze was stiff and the kite sailed higher. “Go on with your story, I’m listening.”
I watched the kite sail higher, still amazed it actually flew. But I shouldn’t be. Miss Bronwen is smarter than me. Smarter than about anyone I know, with the exception of a person or two that might hit genius status. But of course, they are cracked as an old teacup, lack anything resembling common sense, and are a menace to society, and probably themselves as well.

“So why the kite?” I asked.

“Duh,” she replied affectionately. “As you no doubt know, one of the visitors who according to legend, on this very ground, nay, this very spot, taught the Guggenheim children to fly a kite, was Orville Wright.”

“This very spot?” I queried.

“Aye,” she rejoined. “This very spot.”

I looked at her skeptically, but one learns not to argue with Miss Bronwen.

“Alright, where was … no, this very spot?” I asked again. “How do you know …”

Her eyes darted towards me. “Are you scoffing again?”

“No, it’s just,” I looked around for a marker and saw none, and decided some things are best left unknown.

“Okay, so old man Gould had six children, one of whom was Howard. Now Howard doesn’t seem to be remembered for a whole lot, other than this house and his wives. Specifically his first wife.”

“Howard Gould, a yachtsman and globetrotting chum of European royalty who developed a weakness for actresses, married Katherine Clemmons, a.k.a. Viola Dayan in 1895. Miss Clemmons was an actress who had hitched a ride on William F. “Buffalo Bill” Cody’s wagon, as an actress in his traveling show. And at some point, Buffalo Bill moved her into the bunkhouse with him. Cody and Clemmons had been together twelve years, but had split the sheets just prior. Cody had been the lady’s prime supporter, paying for her to attend the Boston School of Oratory when she was still an unknown, as well as bankrolling her in two stage flops – The Lady of Venice and Mrs. Dascot. At the time, having two flops in two seasons was considered extraordinary, and it was said that the stage was simply too expensive a hobby for Cody to continue to finance. It appears she dumped the old cowpoke, bemoaning that he had done nothing for her during her recent Fifth Avenue engagement short of picking up her $40,000 tab for assorted expenses. At any rate, people whispered that Buffalo Bill’s spiraling descent into illness, alcoholism and death was hurried along, if not suffered mainly at his despair of Katherine leaving him for Howard Gould. As Buffalo Bill was an American legend and icon, this did not endear Miss Clemmons to the general public.”

“One can imagine,” Miss Bronwen replied, pulling the kite into a perilous dive before letting the string out once more and squealing again as it climbed into the heavens.

“So anyway, the happy couple went through with their nuptials and set off for Europe aboard Howard’s yacht. Not a small boat, the Niagra was a steel, twin screw bark rigged vessel, 282 feet long and with a gross tonnage of 1,443.”

“Quite gross,” she said.

“Absolutely. And when fully decked out, she had a crew of 72. Something of a mutiny in 1905, as they were being served too much salt fish and boiled potatoes it seems, but at the time of the honeymoon, all was as right as rain.”

I continued, “Anyway, they toured Europe for some time, hobnobbing with royalty and the rich and famous, and somewhere along the line Mrs. Gould developed a fondness for castles. So when they returned to the states, she batted her eyes at Mr. Gould and he bought this land at Sands Point and built her a castle, which is the stables over yonder.”

Castle Gould, the stables at Sands Point Preserve on Long Island’s Gold Coast. Click here to view large or order prints.

“Howard grew up in Lyndhurst, the great gothic pile on the Hudson river over by Tarrytown, so he was no stranger to castles. This one was modelled after Kilkenny Castle in Ireland, though Howie scaled back the plans as originally proposed. Which might have been a mistake in hindsight. Mrs. Gould didn’t like scaling back. Anyway, she took look at the finished product when it was finished in 1904 and proclaimed ‘blech. It will make a nice stable, don’t you think?’ Just not up to her concept of snuff.”

“Well,” Miss Bronwen said, reeling in the kite. “It is a bit gauche, you have to admit. It looks like a stage set.”

“A bit over the top. yes. So they decided to try again. This time with a design based on an English Tudor mansion …”

“As opposed to a four door mansion,” Miss Bronwen smirked, folding the kite and putting it away. She handed me the bag and pointed towards Hempstead House. “Walk.”

I groaned, took the bag and walked with her toward the house. “But by then things were skidding out of control. Rumor has it that even though Mrs. Gould didn’t care for Castlegould, Mrs. Gould was more than fond of the architect. According to the story, she made him into her own little stable boy and mounted him like Roy Rogers mounted Trigger. Mr. Gould obviously didn’t care for this once he got wind of it. So he files for a separation, there’s a squabble, then other lovers start popping out of the medieval styled and very expensive woodwork. Pretty soon you have a full blown scandal, complete with feature articles in the New York Times. Back issues of the Port Washington News reports private detectives, charges of bigamy, infidelity, and according to one story, Katherine finally making off with the architect himself.”

“But still, Howard kept on building the manor house, at a cost of over a million bucks, which was unheard of at the time. As you entered the foyer, organ music played, and the sound didn’t come from the oaken pipes which were strictly for decoration, but was actually pumped through the floor. High above you hung a gothic chandelier. Medieval tapestries hung on the wall, oriental carpets on the floor. The sunken Palm Court once contained 150 species of rare orchids and other plants. An aviary housed exotic birds in ornate cages among the flowers. The walnut-paneled library was copied from the palace of King James I; relief portraits of literary figures still decorate the plaster ceiling. The billiard room featured a gold leaf ceiling, hand-tooled leather wall coverings, and carved oak woodwork from a 17th century Spanish palace.”

“But the problems with the trial piled up. Way too much information was put out in the papers, much to Howard’s chagrin. Two maids of the Bellevue Stratford hotel testified that they had seen a man, one Dustin Farnum coming from her suite at the hotel. Gould started refusing to pay her bills, and she bemoaned in court that it was hard to dress well in Manhattan on $40,000 a year.”

Detail from Hempstead House at Sands Point Preserve on Long Island’s Gold Coast. Click here to view large or order prints.

“I run into that problem all the time,” Miss Bronwen said. We looked up at the entry to Hempstead House. “What are all these faces about?”

I gazed up with her at all the faces gazing down on us. “I don’t know, I haven’t been able to find out. They go all along up there, and are scattered hither and thither all over the place. The strangest ones are over the entrance, weird monks, serpents and a very strange figure of death on the other side. Whoever designed these, I’m guessing, wasn’t a very happy person.”

Death, a detail from Hempstead House on Long Island’s Gold Coast. Click here to view large or order prints.

“I’d say the product of a rather grotesque imagination,” she said inspecting the little figures, walking around the porch, engrossed in it all.

“Eventually the divorce was finalized, 1909 I believe. Howard Gould didn’t stick around long at Hempstead House though, and you have to wonder how much being America’s most famous cuckold had to do with it, and he ultimately sold the estate to Daniel Guggenheim in 1917 and set off for the continent. He had put over a million dollars into its construction, who knows how much furnishing it, and sold the whole kit and kaboodle for just over half a million,” I said as I led her towards the back, where the view over the lawn, which was once a formal garden, at a spectacular view of Long Island Sound.

“How pretty!” she said, a smile breaking out across her face.

“Quite so. And by all accounts, the Guggenheims were quite happy here. They kept on decorating, their touches included stained and leaded glass, red velvet draperies, Flemish tapestries, and artwork by Rembrandt, Van Dyck, and Rubens. In its prime, the estate employed 17 house servants, numerous farmers and groundskeepers, a golf pro, tennis pro, and a riding master. And of course there was all of Gould’s little touches still around. TIffany-style glass ceilings, a library which was a replica of the Bromley room at South Kensington Museum, and the great hall was in the style of a railroad station in Paris. In addition, Gould had built a bowling alley, guestrooms and an underground swimming pool for his guests. And we passed the stone carriage house which still contains a guilded carriage, now decaying on wooden blocks. Gould threw down another million bucks on a casino which stood near the water – where it can be assumed he found a bit of luck. That’s long gone now of course.”

Hempstead House on Long Island’s Gold Coast. Click here to view large or order prints.

“So the place did finally bring happiness? Finally, you’ve come across a happy ending,” she said as she smiled and leaned over the balcony at the far end of the yard, looking down towards the beach. “I could get used to this place I believe.”

“It was party central during the jazz age. Guggenheim who had a bit of luck in copper mining, re-christened the place Hempstead House, trying to purge the estate of the Gould baggage. In addition to Orville of the Wright brothers, the guest list included Lindbergh, and Herbert Hoover,” I said as I leaned over the balustrade as well, far out and spit, watching it fall to the sand far below.

“You’re really quite disturbing you know? What about Fitzgerald? I heard he was catting about the whole area at one time,” she turned and started back towards the house. “You didn’t spit out here too did you?”

I ignored the question. “Oh yes. I’ve heard F. Scott and Zelda both barfed all over the shrubbery on several occasions. The house he used as a model for Tom and Daisy Buchanan’s house, Land’s End is just down the beach there, slowly falling into ruin the last time I saw it. About $24 million and described as a real fixer-upper. Beacon’s Towers, the inspiration for Gatsby’s House, is just a few minutes down the road,” I said as I hurried to catch up with her.

“Say, we could go down into the preserve. There’s a nice little lake there with trails. Quite private,” I waggled my eyebrows suggestively.

“That could be quite nice,” she answered. “You can make your move, I’ll throttle you, weight you down with stones and dump your body in the deepest part,” she smiled sweetly and I swooned. You’ve gotta love a woman who issues death threats when you make a pass at her. We started down the trail and into the forest.

“Guggenheim lived here with his wife, Florence, until his death in 1930. Florence Guggenheim opened Hempstead House to child refugees from the Battle of Britain in 1940, and its high tower served as a 24-hour local aircraft warning observation post during World War II. After the war, the U.S. Naval Training Devices Center used the property to design and test electronic equipment used for training fleet personnel in the use of new weapons. In 1971, when Daniel Guggenheim’s son Harry kicked the bucket, the estate, including Harry’s home Falaise, was turned over to Nassau County as a museum. Since then it’s opened on occasion for tours, and has been the setting for a few movies. Parts of the Godfather was filmed here. Pacino in The Scent of a Woman. That truly awful version of Great Expections with Gwyneth Paltrow naked all over the place. And oddly enough, Malcolm X.”

“Malcolm X?” she asked. I doubt that there was a ever black person here back in the day who wasn’t wearing a white jacket and carrying a drink or hors d’oevre tray. Or perhaps, playing the trumpet. And a naked Gwyneth? I feel so dirty now.”

“While you’re feeling dirty …” I said and moved closer.

“I believe we’re about to have a murder to add to the story of Hempstead House,” Miss Bronwen said with a smile, pulling the straight razor from her purse …

Building 93 at Kings Park Psychiatric Center. Click here to view large or order prints.

“What could be more romantic than a leisurely stroll through an asylum?” I asked Miss Bronwen as we got out of the car, which was parked along the Nissequogue River, in Nissequogue River State Park, also known as the campus of the Kings Park Psychiatric Center. She arched her eyebrow and handed me my walking stick as we got out of the car. Walking stick is a bit of a misnomer, for it’s actually a trek pod – an ingenious if over-priced device which not only extends up and down, but the bottom folds out to make a tripod for photography. Quite handy for places like this, which as I just read, after the fact that photography of the grounds is forbidden. Oops!
We set off towards Long Island Sound, veering left at the marina onto a lovely wooded trail. The trees were almost at the apex of their fall colors, the day was a trifle warm but still distinctly fall-like. As the trail reaches the harbor, it veers to the left and begins a gentle climb. Once at the top of the bluffs, it skirts the edge for a bit, with nice views out over the water, and we watched as people worked to put their boats away for winter.

Our reverie was broken as a jogger came hurtling down the trail, nearly tossing us off the bluff into the drink, so we made our way further along, till the trail opened onto an expanse of green grass, a large open lawn and a scattering of old, abandoned brick buildings, firmly boarded up. This was our entrance onto the campus of the center proper, and to be honest, I never know for sure when I’m in public or when I’m in restricted territory. Typically it’s only when I come up to a fence and notice a sign on the opposite side which informs me that I’m trespassing. But these buildings are set back from the main area, and judging from the lack of information about them online, not high on the list of urban adventurers.

Sightseeing at Kings Park isn’t for everyone. There’s an air of creepiness and oppression that hangs over the place. Kings Park Psychiatric Center was established in New York City in 1885, and was originally called Kings County Asylum. Originally in Brooklyn, it was a farm colony, where patients worked in farm related activities. Overcrowding forced the relocation to Long Island in the community of St. Johnland. The hospital grew to over 150 buildings, and at its peak housed nearly 10,000 inmates.

Farming activities eventually gave way to frontal lobotomies and electro-shock, which gave way to Thorazine and other drugs. These drugs in theory allowed patients to live in the general population, and by the early 1990s, Kings Park was nearly empty.

Building 135 walkway at Kings Park Psychiatric Center. Click here to view large or order prints.

Today most of the buildings remain, and much of the grounds have been converted into Nissequogue River State Park. Asbestos and other pollutants complicate destroying the buildings, so they remain empty, increasingly falling in. People come from all over the country to sneak into and explore, and the site is well documented online.

“So the concept was to turn the inmates into farmers? Doesn’t say much for my skill at gardening now does it?” Miss Bronwen spoke as we made our way through some bushes and onto a corridor, open on the sides which led from one building to another. The space was rather pleasant at first, a nice little breezeway, till one noticed the heavy door with peeling paint, and bars over the window.

“I’ve heard that Kings Park was the original source of the term funny farm actually, though I don’t know how much you can believe about anything you hear about the place.”
We cut across the lawns from that complex of buildings across a gently rolling landscape. The campus is huge, once covering about 600 acres, with scores of buildings still standing. We passed Building 136, once used as the medical center and surgery building, and as I pointed this out to Miss Bronwen I caught her shudder at the thought of what types of surgery might have taken place there. Psychiatric care in the late 19th and early 20th centuries could be quite barbaric, and to be honest it wasn’t till the latter part of the twentieth century that it got much better. If you can call turning people into zombies on Thorazine and other drugs better. It’s always been a delicate balance between treating those with a gentle madness with a heavy hand. Who can fairly answer the question of when do you cut away the highs to balance the lows, and leave a person with a bland, even and colorless existence?

And then we were into the wards, past Building 138 which is huge by itself. It’s far too easy to imagine as you walk past the howls and screams and laughter of the inmates, especially after having your perceptions of asylum life distorted by movies all your life.

“So, I’m assuming these places are haunted? Isn’t that why you brought me here today?” she asked.

I thought for a moment before answering. It’s always more fun to play up the ghostly elements of a story, but really, in a place like Kings Park Psychiatric Center, is it necessary?

“Well, there are certainly stories. But my thought in most cases at least, it’s a question of people seeing and hearing what they want to believe. On certain weekends, from what I understand, and certainly to hear the locals talk, it’s a veritable throng inside some of these buildings. And among those who find their way inside, you hear stories about footsteps shadowing you as you wander through the darkened halls. Which is entirely possible, but also entirely probable that it’s simply another group of urban explorers, who may or may not even know they are following you. But I think a lot of it is psychological. It’s illegal to be inside, and there is always the chance of getting busted inside the buildings by the police. So you’re on edge for that, listening for footsteps, finding your way through rubble and debris by flashlight. And of course, I’ve heard rumors that certain elements are engaged in such dastardly pursuits as underage drinking, the smoking of marijuana cigarettes and much worse. Things which I of course would never practice myself, nor condone under any circumstances.” I looked at Miss Bronwen solemnly and nodded.

“Of course,” she said, casting a doubtful eye my way.

We came out onto a surprisingly busy road and scampered up a wooden hill, and yes, by the time I reached the top I was winded, once again trumped by the seemingly inexhaustible well of perkiness possessed by Miss B. I hacked our way through a batch of briars and thistles and we came out in the woods beside Building 40, also known as Infant 1. I imparted this bit of knowledge and we stood looking at the building, with it’s colonial style architectural elements. And as if to drive the point home, I pointed to the ground in front of us, where there lay a small boot, of a style older than even those found in my generation. It must have seemed particularly poignant to her, as her eyes began to well at tears as she looked away from the boot, and made her way to the courtyard which was formed by the surrounding buildings.

A child’s shoe at Kings Park Psychiatric Center. Click here to view large or order prints.

Perhaps I should have told her then, but Miss Bronwen has a temper, a particularly biting temper at times, though it is one that wears off quickly, and I suppose I hoped that if she reads the truth here, that I let her believe a story which affected her so deeply, and which of course wasn’t true, that I’d avoid having her wrapping my trek pod around my deserving throat, and that the next time I see her all will be forgotten. I am what is called an optimist.

Building 40, known as Infant 1 was built in 1932. It originally housed inmates, but as the population of Kings Park dwindled it was turned into a daycare center for the hospital’s staff. Much of the staff of the hospital lived on the grounds themselves, and it’s rather harrowing to think of children being raised here. Just across the sidewalk from the playground are three buildings which housed patients. At best, it must have been frightening for children to be raised and cared for, surrounded by insanity. And one must also wonder at the patients watching the children playing from their windows, seeing and remembering themselves long ago.

I broke the silence by telling her a story. “As a child, a friend of mine was mentally retarded, and we accompanied his family the weekend that he went away to a ‘special school.’ It’s hard for a child to understand the difference between retarded and crazy, and for years when faced with the unexplained I kept my mouth shut. The house I grew up in was haunted, and all through my childhood I would on occasion see the figure of a man, sometimes inside the house, sometimes outside. When I asked my parents about ghosts, they said there were no such things, and so I reasoned that they were either wrong, or I was crazy. So I never told them about what I saw, for fear they think me crazy and send me away to that ‘special school.’ It wasn’t until decades later as an adult that I finally brought up the subject, only to find out they knew the place was haunted all along. That’s why the kids slept upstairs, as my dad to this day, still won’t sleep up there alone.”
She looked at me surprised, and with no small degree of sympathy. And I felt about two inches tall for letting her get all emotional. “Did you ever find out who the ghost was?”

“Nope, never did. Still don’t have a clue. But come along. We’re burning daylight and if you find yourself in the asylum as the sun goes down, you can never leave.”

She rolled her eyes and we set off again. Across the road Building 93 scowled down at us. Everywhere you go on the campus, it seems that you can never get away from its watchful eye. We cut back to the road and crossed to another, trying to avoid being run down by passing cars and wishing for a sidewalk. To the right, a road, not much more than a path led into the woods and we set off down it, finding the sign advertising the cottage too enticing to pass up. Of course we never found a cottage, nor any other dwelling on that road. So we turned back the way we came, and spotted a lake shimmering in the afternoon sun, just through the trees.

It was hard to believe that a spot of such beauty could be in the middle of such a horror show. The trees surrounding it were blazing reds and oranges, and we walked a ways around it. It was obviously someone’s favorite fishing hole, and for a while we just sat, watching the reflections of the color on the surface of the water. A stiff breeze had sprung up, and it was eerie to hear it coming through the trees in the surrounding woods, then seeing the water rippling towards us, shattering the mirror’s reflection.

And then we plunged deeper into the woods, her misguidedly trusting me to find our way through. Eventually we did reach a clearing, and through someone’s backyard and we found ourselves standing in the midst of a startlingly new subdivision. Kings Park has grown up around and in some cases inside the campus of the hospital. And one must wonder how it feels to live there at night, looking out the window of your kitchen as you do dishes at the towers of Building 93.

“People in this subdivision all have dishwashers I’m betting,” she said, as I pulled out the phone and tried to call up a map of where we were. And at last the GPS kicked in and we snuck between two houses and back into the woods.

Potters Field at Kings Park Psychiatric Center. Click here to view large or order prints.

“The creepiest place out here is the Potter’s Field,” I told her. “You go down a dirt road which they use to pile up mulch and other debris. And finally you come out with a rather idyllic hill on one side, which you can see all the way to Long Island Sound. On the other side is just a large open field, and on the far edge is another subdivision, just rows of houses. And out in the field are the unmarked graves of hundreds of people, forgotten by their loved ones, or without friends or relatives, the only memorial to their existence being one tiny stone, placed in memory of them all, well after the fact. If any place out here is haunted, that would be it.”

“How did they know where to dig the graves, if they aren’t marked at all? Did they have a map at least?”

“I don’t know, and to be honest I don’t know that it really mattered to them.”

About that time we came out of the forest and onto a seemingly endless mass of brick building, and a handful of pubescent boys all gathered around one who seemed to be sawing away at a length of pipe. It was hard not to laugh as they jumped. To the left and to the right, about twenty yards away they had posted lookouts, and obviously never expected intruders coming through the woods.

“Busted!” I said and grinned, as Miss Bronwen and I continued on down the road, leaving the boys to their task, and ignoring the comments they were making about her shapely bottom.

“What were they up to?” Miss B. wondered aloud.

“No good. Foul play. A gaggle of miscreants no doubt.”

We were walking the perimeter of the Quad, a group of four building which met in the center, like spokes of a wheel shooting out from a hub. The number of windows was staggering, made even more ominous by the metal bars covering each. We went through the open fence and approached the side entrance. It was really quite beautiful, covered with a red vegetation, an ivy perhaps, like Harvard University for the insane.

“There’s a certain, romantic quality about it really,” I said, as much to myself as her.

“Obviously someone thinks so, bring many of your dates to this spot?”

I looked to her and caught her smirk, then she looked down and I followed her eyes to the used condom laying on the ground.

“I’m guessing many a Kings Park youth has lost their virginity on the grounds here. Which isn’t surprising. When I was in high school, we used to take our dates to cemeteries to neck.”

“Um, neck? You, Ritchie, Potsie and the Fonz would all bring your dates?”

“Yeah, and if Chachi had asked you, you’d have gone in a hot New York moment no doubt.”

She laughed quietly and we turned and kept walking. “It’s well documented that scary situations, and as many a teenage boy knows, horror movies makes many young ladies, er, frisky. So country graveyards, in addition to being secluded, have a certain built-in aphrodisiac effect. And I imagine Kings Park is the same way at night.”

“Well in that case, I must insist we head back to the car now, as I certainly have no wish to find myself here with you after dark, and unable to control my licentious urges.”

Entrance to the Quad at Kings Park Psychiatric Center. Click here to view large or order prints.

We went down the sloping hill towards the road, crossed over and up the opposite side, toward a couple of other buildings, mainly used for maintenance and surprisingly, professionally and clearly marked, as part of a heritage trail. We skirted Building 93 in silence for the most part. Finally she spoke.
“It feels like it’s watching you. Like someone inside there, many people, are watching us. How big is it?”

“Thirteen stories appropriately enough. It was mainly used for the elderly, and as a hospital I believe. And it’s the most popular building for people to break into, more so because of the way it looks I think than for any particular reason. It just has that feel about, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s so, Victorian creepy in a way. It looks hollow, soulless, evil.”

“Inside are murals, really bright and beautiful in a way, probably painted by one of the patients. No one knows who painted them, though they’ve been there as long as the oldest of the employees of the place still alive can remember. Which means back in the sixties at least. There was a famous cartoonist, Percy Crosby who did the Skippy cartoons from the 1920′s to the 1940s, and it could have been him. Other’s say it was a female patient, who no one remembers her name. The style is that of the early twentieth century, and some say that the patient must not have been medicated, which would mean prior to 1955. At any rate, if they finally sell of the place, which eventually is pretty much a certainty, the building will come down, and the murals with it.”

Building 93 at Kings Park Psychiatric Center. Click here to view large or order prints.

“Probably so, at least some of them. But this one is already beginning to lean dangerously. Bricks are falling at an alarming rate. There used to be a garage attached, but they had to bring it down as the building is listing so much it was no longer attached. The place is full of asbestos, which would cost a fortune to clear out. Even to tear it down and clean it up has been too expensive for anyone to move forward. And of course, politics has gotten in the way. The history of the place is tragic enough, but the thought of these building being torn down, and more sprawl taking their place, is more tragic still. There’s a lot that this place has to remind people about.”

“It’s like this place was a city to itself,” she said as we made our way from the shadow of Building 93.

“It was. It even had its own rail spur for bringing in patients and supplies. It was a city to itself. A city of the insane.”

And suddenly we were watching a soccer match, between two teams of little boys. The parents were crowded around watching, all with the facade of the madhouse looming over them. Kings Park as a town grew up inexorably linked to the asylum. And now that the inmates, as well as the jobs are gone, the face of Kings Park has changed as well. Instead of working locally, Kings Park has turned into a city of commuters.

With the advent of medication which kept the patients more or less functioning, under the administrations of Ronald Reagan and the first George Bush, mental patients were released into society, a society they far too often weren’t ready to rejoin. But the move was less about what was best for the patients, and more about saving money. A large percentage of the homeless and lost who wandered the streets of New York City were former inmates of Kings Park.

Some time after the patients at Kings Park Psychiatric Center were released, a worker was clearing out the records in one of the buildings. As he worked deep inside the building, he heard pounding from the front. Startled at first, he went to check it out, only to find a group of former patients outside the door. They had been living outside of the asylum for the first time in years, and wanted to come home again.

Bridge to the stage at Rosemary Farm (Conklin Farm), Huntington, New York. Click here to view larger or to order prints

“A poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
William Shakespeare, Macbeth

Across this bridge, some of the greatest performers of their generation walked – Sarah Bernhardt, John and Ethel Barrymore, Tyrone Powers, Helen Hayes and the entire 300 piece John Phillips Sousa Orchestra. The moat was once filled with water, and hidden in the moat were jets which would send water cascading up sixteen feet in the air, hiding the island that served as the stage from the rest of the 4,000 seat amphitheater between scenes. The moat was fed by a waterfall to the side of the stage, and the view was beautiful, not only of the stage, but of Long Island Sound further down the hill.

This wasn’t a theater built by a city, a corporation or as a business, it was a labor of love, built by a man for his wife, at the bottom of the hill from their house. It was built by patrons of the arts for their community and for the artists.

Today the stage is silent, shadows fall and like the rest of the amphitheater, overgrown with vegetation, grown taller than a person. The statues are gone, much of the stone which was used to build it is fallen from it’s original form, now just rubble. But the feeling is still there, when the brightest stars to be seen were on the ground and not in the sky.