Mr. P. Explores

Another slice of a recent trip down to Weston, West Virginia to wander and document the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum; in this leg of the documentation, the ward for the criminally insane. Some of the worst cases on the whole campus were housed here, and you can see that the windows were constructed accordingly. There were several jail cells here as well as a caged in guard station. This was the first building I walked through on that hot and steamy West Virginia morning in early September. Enjoy the trip through and stay tuned for more next week! Have a great Friday out there, all! -Mr. P.

A tour through the silent and crumbling remains of what used to be a beautiful library inside a massive, abandoned and century-old Detroit, Michigan area high school. I have been to this building many a time, but truthfully, I am usually hurried through the place and only reshoot the most common locations that are readily noticed. I've never had a real chance to poke around and actually dive deep into the nooks and crannies of this truly wonderful building. Last weekend, I was finally able to do so, and in that multi-hour stop, we came upon a section of the place that we had never seen before; the library. How I missed this over the last six years tells you that a) the place truly IS that big and labyrinthine where you COULD miss it, and b) I've never had enough time to go search for it. As you can see, the place was once built by craftsmen who know their art; the plaster work and the columns, as well as the stone fireplace tells one that this was not just an institutional "media center" the likes of which you'd find in a modern school. No, this was a TRUE library! A place that welcomed students with a fire going in the fireplace, tables at which to quietly read or research using actual books and encyclopedias and (gasp) a CARD CATALOG! Sadly, time has not been kind to it, and you have to wonder what sort of animal or benighted savage would deface a place this beautiful. Imagine students of the 1950's and 60's sitting in this room with a stern but helpful librarian holding court, keeping her domain civilized and studious. Enjoy the set and have a magnificent day out there, all! -Mr. P.

For nearly sixty years, Riverside Osteopathic Hospital stood along the Detroit River in Trenton, Michigan, serving generations of Downriver families. What eventually became a sprawling medical complex actually began with something far more modest: a mansion overlooking the river.

As Trenton, Wyandotte, Riverview, Ecorse and the surrounding Downriver communities grew alongside Detroit's enormous industrial economy, the area badly needed additional medical facilities. In 1943, the family of prominent Trenton businessman Austin Church made their riverfront property available for the establishment of an osteopathic hospital. The centerpiece was Church's large three-story Colonial Revival mansion, surrounded by several acres of gardens along the Detroit River. It was converted for medical use, and Riverside Osteopathic Hospital opened in 1944.

The original hospital was tiny compared with what Riverside would eventually become. It began with roughly 30 patient beds plus bassinets, but demand was immediate. During only its first five months, Riverside registered 775 patients and delivered 133 babies. In 1945, more than 2,000 patients were treated there and 304 babies were born. A pediatric ward followed in 1950.

And Riverside just kept growing. A major 1950s expansion increased capacity, enlarged the surgical center, nursery and delivery facilities, and added an X-ray department and other modern services. By 1959, Riverside had 95 beds, 26 bassinets, 65 doctors, seven residents, six interns and more than 200 additional employees. Further construction during the 1960s added surgical suites, a pharmacy, administrative space and additional patient rooms. By the late 1960s, thousands of patients were passing through Riverside each year and well over a thousand babies were being born there annually.

Architecturally, Riverside became an interesting jumble of different eras. The elegant old Church mansion was gradually swallowed by a much larger collection of mid-century hospital wings, additions, corridors and utility structures. The original house eventually served as administrative space, while the newer portions contained operating rooms, maternity areas, radiology, laboratories, emergency facilities and patient wards. Underground tunnels connected portions of the complex. Later expansions gave Riverside the large, institutional appearance most Downriver residents remember.

The hospital continued modernizing through the 1970s and 1980s. A 29-bed acute-care unit was added in 1978, followed by a heliport in 1979. Riverside became a Class 1 Comprehensive Care facility and earned recognition for its ambulatory-care program. The hospital also developed a specialty birthing center, and in 1984 Dr. Sarah Jessup reportedly implanted what was then the world's smallest pacemaker into a patient. By 1990, Riverside had added a mental-health unit, expanded intensive-care facilities and constructed a fifth floor.

Like many large institutions, Riverside had its difficult moments as well. Nurses struck for several weeks in 1978 over proposed reductions in sick days. Later labor problems and growing financial pressures contributed to difficulties for the hospital's parent organization. Riverside was acquired by Henry Ford Health System in 1995, but despite an initial increase in patients, the aging complex was expensive to operate and maintain. Changes in Medicare reimbursement and other financial pressures made the situation increasingly difficult.

By the late 1990s and early 2000s, Riverside was hemorrhaging money. Between 1998 and 2002 it reportedly lost about $21 million. A proposed merger with nearby Oakwood Southshore Medical Center failed, and Henry Ford attempted to reinvent Riverside as an outpatient surgery and diagnostic facility. That plan failed to generate enough business. On November 15, 2002, Riverside closed, eliminating roughly 500 jobs and ending almost six decades of medical care on the Trenton riverfront.

Then came the long afterlife. For years the hospital sat vacant beside the Detroit River. Patient rooms emptied. Operating rooms went dark. The maternity ward, radiology department, cafeteria, offices and basement morgue remained inside an increasingly deteriorating building. Various owners and developers proposed bringing medical or mixed-use activity back to the property, but the plans repeatedly stalled. Trespassing and the condition of the property became growing concerns for nearby residents.

In 2013, demolition finally began—but only partially. The original Austin Church mansion, the very building where Riverside had begun nearly seventy years earlier, was demolished along with the old power plant. The much larger modern hospital remained standing, creating the strange sight of an enormous abandoned medical complex overlooking some of the most desirable waterfront land in Trenton.

Another decade passed. After years of disputes, redevelopment proposals, safety complaints and deterioration, Trenton reached an agreement with the property owner in late 2021 that put full demolition back into motion. A demolition permit was issued in early 2023, with Wayne County providing $1.5 million in federal ARPA funding toward the work. The project was complicated by environmental cleanup, underground storage tanks and thousands of gallons of contaminated water that had accumulated in the hospital basement.

Heavy demolition resumed during 2023. The remaining hospital structures came down, followed by the slower work of breaking up foundations, removing rebar, crushing concrete, bringing in fill and grading the property. Cleanup continued well beyond the initial demolition of the buildings.

By September 2026, the City of Trenton reported that demolition and site work were complete and grass was growing where Riverside once stood. The approximately ten-acre Detroit River property remains privately owned, and the city says it has not been informed of any definite redevelopment project for the site.

Today, there is little left to suggest what once stood there. But Riverside was far more than another abandoned hospital. Thousands of Downriver residents entered the world in its maternity wards. Others were stitched up in its emergency rooms, operated on in its surgical suites, visited relatives in its corridors, worked shifts in its wards or said goodbye to family members there.

For almost sixty years, Riverside Osteopathic Hospital was part of everyday life Downriver. Then, for more than twenty years, its abandoned shell became part of the landscape. And now even the shell is gone.. We wandered these hallways and rooms in the autumn of 2022, months before the final demolition would commence. As one can see, advanced decay was in effect and the entire hospital was in very sad shape. Another place I'm glad I was able to capture before its imminent demise. Enjoy the set and have a good mid-week out there, all. -Mr. P.

The Rust Belt has a distinct vibe. Old railyards, old brick-paved backstreets and post-industrial grit, among a symphony of other qualities that make it one of the most unique places in the country. And no one embodies that vibe better than Akron, Ohio's own sons, the soaked-in-blues band that IS The Black Keys.

Because The Black Keys aren’t merely from the Rust Belt. They SOUND like the Rust Belt. They ARE the Rust Belt. And their entire career has been one enormous Rust Belt story. So drop by and learn the history of this fantastic and rather raw band that recorded one of their earliest albums inside of an abandoned tire factory in Akron. Lots going on here; give it a read! And if you like what you read, consider following the SubStack and maybe share on your own feed! Thanks for dropping in to have a read and have an excellent night, all! -Mr. P.

EDITED:

BECAUSE META HAS DECIDED TO NOW FORCE CREATORS TO PAY FOR LINKS IN THEIR POSTS, I HAVE TO POST THE LINK FOR THIS ARTICLE IN THE COMMENTS BELOW. SLIP ON DOWN AND HIT IT UP FROM THAT DIRECTION. YOU'LL HAVE TO COPY AND PASTE THE LINK. THANKS! -MR.P.

A wander back through a former candy and confectionary factory in Detroit, Michigan. There were moments when it truly felt as if we were exploring a collapsed civilization while wandering this massive hulk of a reinforced concrete candy plant. As if this place might have been somewhere in the middle of the Amazon rainforests...so it felt. Enjoy the walk-through and have a magnificent Monday out there, all! -Mr. P.

The next leg on last weekend's steamy-humid adventures through the buildings at the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum in Weston, West Virginia. This building, if I do recall, was the geriatrics ward at one point in the distant past, but sadly, I can't be 100% sure, as the poor paper map I was given at the beginning of the day was a sodden mess from being in my pocket all day. If you're familiar with the building, and I'm wrong, please set me straight in the comments! The lower floors of the building seem to have been used for storage. You can almost see what it must have been like here when it was open and operational, and throughout this building, I was reminded of the old movie "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Yet, for all of that, I had an odd feeling of warmth and peace here. Almost welcoming. Hard to explain, but this one building, among so many on the campus, felt...relaxed. Enjoy the set and also your Sunday out there, wherever you may be! -Mr. P.

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A strange and rather unsettling (in a way I could never fully explain) abandoned factory near Detroit, Michigan that had once been a secondhand store, as well as (of all things) a Halloween haunted house. There HAS to be a crazy story behind this place, though I was never really able to find any information on the building, which was sizeable and rather labyrinthine. Twists and turns and nooks and crannies galore made this one where there were surprises around every single corner. Enjoy the strange tour and have a great weekend, all! -Mr. P.

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A look back at the winter of 2023, when the Packard Automotive Plant in Detroit, Michigan still mostly stood; demolition had only begun and we were there to witness the heartbreak of it all. Watching the pneumatic shears slice through the reinforced concrete that had remained firm and solid over almost a century was jarring to witness. Now, there really remains nothing left save for the buildings along East Grand Boulevard, and the footprint is now just a long and weed-strewn empty field, and if you didn't know better, you'd swear there had never been anything there at all. Enjoy the set and have a good Friday out there, everyone. -Mr. P.

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Rising above the town of Weston, West Virginia, like some enormous stone castle from another century, the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum is one of those places where the buildings themselves seem almost too strange to be real. The Kirkbride hospital's sprawling wings, endless corridors, central clock tower and acres of grounds tell a story that began with surprisingly humane intentions, and eventually became something much darker.

The institution was authorized by Virginia in 1858, before West Virginia even existed as a state. At the time, reformers such as Dorothea Dix and psychiatrist Thomas Story Kirkbride were pushing America away from the horrific practice of simply locking people with mental illnesses in prisons, poorhouses and other institutions. The new asylum was intended to represent a better idea: give patients sunlight, fresh air, beautiful surroundings, exercise and structured treatment in an environment designed to help them recover. Construction began in 1858, was disrupted by the Civil War and continued for decades, with the enormous complex finally completed around 1881. Patients began arriving in 1864.

Architect Richard Snowden Andrews designed the main hospital according to the famous Kirkbride Plan. A central administrative section was flanked by long, staggered wings so that rooms could receive sunlight and ventilation. Built largely from locally quarried blue sandstone, the massive structure is regarded as the largest hand-cut stone masonry building in North America. Its Gothic Revival character, huge central tower, carved stone details and immense symmetrical wings give it the appearance of a European palace dropped into the mountains of West Virginia.

And originally, the place really was supposed to be relatively peaceful. It was designed for only about 250 patients. There were landscaped grounds, farmland and opportunities for patients to work and spend time outdoors. The hospital eventually operated its own farm, dairy and waterworks and even maintained its own cemetery. But the dream did not survive the realities of twentieth-century institutionalization. More and more people were committed, resources became strained, and by the 1950s the population had exploded to roughly 2,400; nearly ten times what the Kirkbride building had been designed to accommodate.

The institution, renamed Weston State Hospital in 1913, saw some grim chapters during its long existence. In 1935, a patient set a fire that destroyed six men's wards and caused a cupola to crash through the roof. During the 1950s, patients at Weston were subjected to lobotomies as part of the West Virginia Lobotomy Project. Like many large American psychiatric institutions of the era, Weston eventually became associated with severe overcrowding, deteriorating conditions and treatment practices that today can seem horrifying, even though many of them were considered legitimate medicine in their own time.

By the late twentieth century, the entire philosophy behind giant state psychiatric hospitals was disappearing. New medications, changing standards of care, deinstitutionalization and court challenges to inadequate conditions gradually made places like Weston obsolete. The main building was placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1978 and designated a National Historic Landmark in 1990, but Weston State Hospital finally closed in May 1994. Patients were transferred to the newer William R. Sharpe Jr. Hospital, leaving the enormous old Kirkbride complex largely empty.

And an empty building of this size does not become quiet in quite the same way an empty house does. For years, the old hospital sat largely abandoned; a gigantic maze of peeling rooms, silent wards and corridors stretching into darkness. The property was purchased at auction in 2007, and instead of demolishing one of America's most extraordinary surviving Kirkbride hospitals, its new owners began reopening it to visitors under its old Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum name. Since 2008 it has operated as a historic attraction, with tours, events and preservation efforts helping keep the enormous structure standing. Today visitors can learn about psychiatric medicine, the Kirkbride system, Civil War-era construction and the lives of the thousands of people who passed through the hospital.

Of course, you cannot have a gigantic abandoned nineteenth-century insane asylum without ghost stories. Visitors, employees and paranormal investigators have reported unexplained footsteps, voices, shadowy figures, doors apparently moving on their own and strange sounds coming from otherwise empty portions of the building. Particular stories have become associated with individual wards and former patients, and the asylum now offers dedicated paranormal tours and investigations. It has also attracted television crews and ghost-hunting programs. None of that proves that Weston is haunted, obviously, but walking through hundreds of thousands of square feet of old stone corridors where generations of people experienced illness, loneliness, treatment, recovery and death certainly gives the imagination plenty to work with.

Perhaps that is what makes the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum so fascinating. The ghosts, real, imagined or somewhere in between, are almost beside the point. The real haunting is the history. This beautiful building was created during an era when people genuinely believed architecture, sunlight, landscape and dignity could help heal the human mind. It then became horribly overcrowded and witnessed some of the darkest periods of American psychiatric medicine. It was abandoned when that entire system collapsed, yet somehow escaped the wrecking ball.

Today, instead of being another pile of stone hauled off in dumpsters, the old asylum remains in Weston: part museum, part preservation project, part architectural wonder and, after dark, perhaps something a little stranger. Whatever you believe about ghosts, there are few buildings in America carrying quite this many of them; whether they are wandering the hallways or simply living inside the history.

This first set (and there will be many more to come; I spent seven hours on the campus!) is from the Hospital Ward behind the Kirkbride building. There were still beautician chairs and some wheelchairs still left behind to be seen. It was extremely damp in this building, owing to the torrential downpour that hit this part of West Virginia the night before. Enjoy the set and stay tuned for more as the next week or two progress! -Mr. P.

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There was a time when sending someone a photograph was not instantaneous. You could not pull a phone from your pocket, snap twenty pictures, choose the best one and send it across the country before the moment was even over. Instead, there were postcards; small pieces of printed cardboard that carried pictures, art, historic information blurbs, messages, postage stamps and a little bit of the world from one person to another...

The Rust Belt Through the Art of the Postcard Before social media and instant communication, we shared our adventures through a true art...