The Alienist's Ghost | Willard Asylum for the Chronic Insane

5/31/2018

In 1995, workers discovered more than 400 suitcases hidden in the attic of the abandoned Willard Asylum. These poignant belongings reveal the interrupted lives of patients committed to the vast Victorian institution on Seneca Lake—stories of resilience, loss, and mystery that still echo through its derelict halls.

Aerial view of Willard Asylum

The Founding of a Grand but Somber Institution

In the years after the Civil War, states across the country replaced overcrowded and squalid almshouses with large asylums meant to house both the insane and the destitute who had nowhere else to turn. New York’s Surgeon General, Dr. Sylvester D. Willard, proposed a dedicated state hospital for the insane poor. In April 1865, the legislature passed the bill creating the Willard Asylum. President Abraham Lincoln signed the plans just six days before his assassination.

Construction crews built the facility on a 440-acre site near Ovid that had once housed the short-lived State Agricultural College. They quarried local limestone for the foundations and made bricks on site. The design followed the popular Victorian institutional style, with separate men’s and women’s sides, each containing violent and non-violent wards, and administration buildings in the center. When it opened, Willard became the largest asylum in the United States.

On October 13, 1869, the first patient arrived: Mary Rote, a woman suffering from dementia, transported by steamboat from the Columbia County poorhouse to Ovid Landing. Staff noted her transformation from a neglected, nearly naked state in a cell to a clean and presentable resident. She died in 1876 of tuberculosis. Early rules returned patients deemed incurable after two years to the almshouses they had come from, but many, like Mary, had no one waiting to receive them.

Hadley Hall at Willard c.1890

By 1875, Willard had grown overcrowded, especially on the women’s side. Families sometimes dropped off relatives without completing formal applications. The asylum then housed 985 patients; some slept on the floor. It also accepted criminally insane individuals. Not every resident suffered acute mental illness—some had physical disabilities or what doctors of the era called “feeblemindedness.” Many could have lived in the community, yet their families never returned for them. Willard became a last resort for people with nowhere else to go.

Despite the hardships, the institution emphasized work and activity as therapy. In 1881, the staff assigned 825 patients to farm and household tasks. Patients planted and harvested potatoes, corn, wheat, and hay, and tended 25 acres of vegetables. They participated willingly and moved freely about the grounds, though they could not leave the property. The campus offered a bowling alley, a movie theater, a gymnasium, and classes in sewing and other skills. This approach reportedly improved the health of many residents.

Willard remained a hospital, however. Entire buildings housed treatments such as electroshock therapy and prolonged ice baths, along with operating theaters and a morgue. A large cemetery on the grounds held thousands of graves marked only by numbers, not names.

One striking incident from November 1882, reported in the Commercial Advertiser, described the following:

There is at present, and had been for several months, an inmate of the Willard Insane Asylum at Ovid, a Danish lady of good education, and who, previous to the loss of her reason, occupied a respectable position in society. Her delusion is that she is immensely wealthy—the Queen of the Universe. On all other subjects she converses with ease and fluency. She has an idea that the Willard Asylum is her castle; that it was built for her special benefit, and that all the attendants and inmates are her servants.

In some way unknown to the managers of the asylum, this unfortunate woman some weeks ago succeeded in eluding the vigilance of the attendants and mailed a letter to her brother in Denmark. The letter stated that she had been very fortunate since being in this country, that she had become wealthy, and was living in a magnificent mansion constructed by herself, that she had plenty of means to provide for him and his family, and closed by urging him to accept her hospitality and spend the remainder of his days with her.

Patients at Willard c. late 19th century

Lives Revealed by the Suitcases

The suitcases discovered in 1995 belonged to people admitted mostly between 1910 and 1960. Many were immigrants who had arrived in America alone. Most were white and Christian, with work histories; some were married with children; a few held college degrees. They had entered Willard during situational crises—death of a spouse or child, sudden unemployment, family conflict, or the collapse of fragile support systems. Diagnoses rarely explored the trauma or circumstances behind the distress. Instead, labels often justified lifelong confinement.

Here are some of the individuals whose belongings survived in the attic, presented roughly in order of their admission:

Mr. Lawrence (#14956) arrived in 1918. Born into poverty in Galicia in 1878, he served in the Royal Austrian army, trained as an itinerant tinker, suffered a head injury from a stone, struggled with heavy drinking, and experienced religious visions that led to early hospitalization in Germany. He immigrated to New York around 1907 and worked as a cleaner and window washer at Bellevue Hospital. His loud, boisterous behavior—singing, shouting, praying, and claiming to hear God’s voice—led to transfers through several state hospitals before he reached Willard. Initially volatile and sometimes reclusive, by the early 1930s, he proved a reliable worker when left to himself. He cleaned the superintendent’s house and, in 1937, became the hospital’s unpaid gravedigger. During warm weather, he lived in a shack on the cemetery grounds, returning only for meals. In eight years, he hand-dug more than 600 graves. He petitioned for release in 1945 but remained at Willard until his death in 1968 at age 90. Staff buried him in the very cemetery he had tended for decades.

Sister Marie Ursuline (formerly Fräulein Theresa, #15468) entered Willard in 1919. Born around 1880 in a small Bavarian town, she joined the Dominican Sisters as a teenager, traveled to America, and took her vows in Brooklyn in 1898. She helped establish a mission in North Dakota, but harsh frontier conditions and internal church conflicts ended the effort in scandal. Refusing to pledge obedience to new leadership, she returned alone to New York City in 1917. Wartime mail restrictions prevented her from contacting her father in Germany. Admitted first to Manhattan State Hospital—where staff viewed her religious background as a possible delusion—she arrived at Willard at age 39. Records described her as noisy, resistant, and delusional. Traumatized and dismissed, she retreated into alternate identities, including that of a nine-year-old girl. Physical ailments ravaged her later years. She died at Willard in 1949 at age 69; her body was used for scientific purposes.

Sr. Rodrigo (#15902) also arrived in 1919. Born in 1888 into a prominent Filipino family, he came to America in 1907 to attend school in Salt Lake City. He took an active interest in the Philippine independence movement, corresponded with activists, and wrote letters to newspapers. He later worked as a domestic for a leading doctor in Buffalo while considering the Methodist ministry. Depression and voices accusing him of sin led to his commitment to Buffalo State Hospital in 1917 at age 29. Transferred to Willard two years later, he impressed staff with his sociability, politeness, neatness, willingness to help with yard work, love of checkers, reading, and simple poetry. They noted his knowledge of classical music and poetry despite a heavy accent. In the late 1960s, records observed that years of institutionalization appeared to have been a mistake, as he seemed in perfect mental condition. He declined a group-home placement, later lost his sight, and died at Willard in 1981 at age 93. He was buried in an unmarked grave in nearby Ovid Union Cemetery.

Mrs. Ethel (#20756) and Mr. Herman (#20884) both entered in 1930. Ethel, daughter of a Methodist minister from Ithaca, had endured an abusive marriage, multiple miscarriages and infant deaths, and supported herself as a seamstress after leaving her husband. Committed after she refused to leave her home, she denied hallucinations and seemed amused by patients who “heard voices.” Staff described her as very social, over-talkative, neat, and well-dressed. She sometimes worked part-time in the laundry, at other times kept to herself, reading and crocheting. Her grown children visited briefly, then stopped coming. She received no psychiatric medications during her 43 years at Willard and died there in 1973 at age 82; her brother buried her in the family plot in Trumansburg. Her suitcase contained fine examples of her needlework, including a hand-sewn quilt and embroidered baby garments.

Herman, born in Brooklyn in 1884, had his first seizure at 18, possibly linked to childhood surgery. Diagnosed with epilepsy, he entered the Craig Colony in 1908, where he became a skilled photographer documenting staff and fellow patients. By 1930, after most of his adult life in institutions, he arrived at Willard despite an examining physician’s note that “no reason could be found for this patient being at a state institution for the insane.” He never worked as a photographer again. Staff repeatedly described him as indifferent and disinterested, yet well-behaved and willing to help when asked. In his seventies, he was offered the chance to leave. “Where would I go?” he replied. “No place to go.” He remained until his death in 1965. His family returned his body to Brooklyn for burial in Mount Olivet Cemetery.

Mlle. Madeline (#22040) reached Willard in 1939 after earlier stays at Bellevue, Central Islip, and Kings Park. Born in Paris in 1896 to a well-to-do family, she graduated from the Sorbonne, traveled widely, and worked as a secretary at the French mission on war debts in New York. She later taught French literature at private schools and pursued advanced studies at Columbia and Hunter College. Increasingly drawn to the occult, she experienced unwanted “psychic associations”—the feeling she could communicate telepathically. During the Depression, she became destitute and was referred for outpatient treatment, leading to commitment. Fiercely independent, she repeatedly demanded release, calling her detention an outrage. In the mid-1950s, staff administered antipsychotic drugs; she developed what later became known as tardive dyskinesia, with fidgety movements and facial grimaces that staff misattributed and treated with “attitude therapy.” In 1970, at nearly 80, she moved to a private board-and-care facility and died in Seneca County in 1986 at age 90. Her burial place is unknown. Her trunk held travel photographs and books on philosophy, literature, history, and music.

Utica crib used at the Utica State Hospital which opened in 1843. Many patients from here were sent to Willard

Miss Margaret (#25682) arrived in 1941 at age 48 with 18 suitcases, boxes, and trunks. Born in Edinburgh in 1892, she lost her father to tuberculosis at seven, endured her mother’s remarriage and later neglect charges that sent her and her sister to an orphanage. She trained and worked as a nurse in London during World War I, lost her fiancé weeks after he reached the front, immigrated to the United States in 1921, and pursued graduate nursing studies in New York. A serious head injury during training and later tuberculosis shaped years of recovery and work in TB hospitals. She formed a close friendship—possibly romantic—with fellow patient Arthur Dargavell, whom she named sole heir in her will. Despite resilience (she owned a car, traveled, maintained friends, and earned a good living), stress and a new doctor’s opinion that her physical complaints masked emotional problems led to commitment. She described herself as “a fly in a spider web” and agreed to stay only until a better place could be found. Devoted friends and Dargavell visited and wrote during her first ten years. She received heavy doses of Thorazine but no psychotherapy. She spent her time knitting, crocheting, and reading until arteriosclerosis and other conditions sent her to the medical unit. Margaret died at Willard on August 17, 1973; her grave lies in nearby Ovid Union Cemetery.

Other suitcases belonged to Mr. Dmytro (#32643), a Ukrainian immigrant admitted in 1953 after war trauma, the loss of his wife in a miscarriage, and delusions involving Margaret Truman. He found solace in painting dozens of autobiographical works that staff displayed locally and in Washington, D.C. He was discharged in 1977 and continued painting murals until he died in 2000.

Mr. Frank (#27967), an African American Army veteran and amateur boxer, admitted in 1946 after a minor disturbance outside a Brooklyn restaurant, kept a meticulously ordered trunk containing family letters, photographs, a pressed uniform, and a baby shoe. Staff worked to retrieve it primarily to obtain his discharge papers for transfer to the VA system. He spent the rest of his life in VA hospitals and died in 1984.

The Story of Lucy Ann Lobdell

When Lucy Ann Lobdell was born in December 1829, her parents, James and Sarah Corvell Lobdell, were still mourning their firstborn infant daughter. They pampered Lucy Ann but allowed her to develop her adventurous spirit in the woods surrounding their home. A few years after starting school, Lucy made the acquaintance of an illiterate young man named George Washington Slater, whom she went on to marry.

Lucy soon became pregnant ― but their relationship soured rapidly. After one of their quarrels, he left her penniless with their 2-month-old daughter, Helen (1853-1905). She moved in with her parents at Long Eddy, New York, and helped her family run a sawmill. In 1854, George Slater wrote that he wanted to reconcile. She refused his reconciliation and abandoned her daughter. Disguised as a man, she snuck out without saying goodbye to anyone.

She adopted the name of Joseph Israel Lobdell and passed herself off as a music teacher in Bethany, New York. She became engaged to a young lady; however, their relationship came to an abrupt end when an itinerant lumberjack recognized Lobdell as the famed “Female Hunter,” missing from Long Eddy. She fled from threats to tar and feather her.

Fearing she would be recognized again, she went west and in the summer of 1856, arrived at Meeker County in the Minnesota Territory. She called herself La Roi, The King. She worked for Edwin Gribble and did other odd jobs around town. A woman she was romancing realized, to her horror, she was not a man and denounced her to the authorities. Lobdell was charged with falsely impersonating a man. Authorities released her and were so eager to expel the "wild woman" that they agreed to pay her trainfare back East.

Lobdell once more moved in with her family, who couldn't understand why she insisted on wearing men’s clothes. Her daughter, too young to understand why she’d left, resented her long absence. Lobdell once more abandoned her child, and in the summer of 1860, destitute and depressed, she approached the welfare authorities of Delaware County and asked to be committed to the poorhouse.

This is where she met Marie Louise Perry. The 28-year-old was the daughter of a prosperous Massachusetts family who had disobeyed her father and eloped with a man who turned out to be a deceitful playboy. On their honeymoon in Jersey City, her new husband had run off with the landlord’s daughter, abandoning Perry to her fate. Weak with sickness, penniless, and ashamed to return home to her parents, Perry had surrendered herself to the poorhouse.

The women ran away in 1862. Lobdell then assumed the identity of Rev. Joseph Lobdell and preached in the streets. They became nuisances and were sent to Stroudsburg jail. In 1876, they were living in a cave in the Moosic Mountains, Pennsylvania. Lobdell was arrested again while preaching in Waymart. For most of the 1860s and ’70s, they wandered across New York and Pennsylvania like nomads, sleeping in caves and erecting “rude cabins” for shelter.

Divided from her parents, Lobdell’s daughter, Helen, endured her own misfortunes during these years.
Raised first by her grandmother and then by an aunt, Helen was finally “adopted” by a Honesdale, Pennsylvania, farmer and forced to work as his domestic servant. A few years later, she rejected a farmhand’s marriage offer. At age 17, Helen was beaten, chloroformed, raped, thrown into the Delaware River, and left for dead. She survived but could remember little. The farmhand and two others were arrested, but nothing could be proved.

Photograph said to be of Lucy Ann Lobdell, supplied by her family.

Lobdell’s husband, George Slater, served in the Union Army and was taken prisoner and died. She was eligible for a pension, which she did not learn about until 1877, 12 years after the war ended. With the back pay she received, Lobdell bought a farm outside Honesdale. She then traveled to Hancock, New York, where her daughter lived on her brother John’s property. She stayed with them for two years, and in May 1880, a writ was issued to investigate her sanity, and she was found to be mad.

At age 51, Lobdell was sent to the Delhi poorhouse. With Helen’s written consent, John Lobdell was named executor of Lobdell’s estate, including the homestead in Honesdale.

Perry returned to Massachusetts and spent her final years working in a Whitman nail factory. She died in 1890.

From the Delhi poorhouse, Lobdell was taken to the Willard Insane Asylum. Dr. Wise at Willard observed that upon arriving at the hospital, she embraced the female attendant in a lewd manner and came near overpowering her before she received assistance. The same lascivious conduct characterized her conduct on the ward, and she made efforts at various times to have sexual intercourse with her associates. She later told Dr. Wise that her mother had suffered from mental illness.

Lobdell would spend the last three decades of her life in state mental institutions. She died in a Binghamton asylum on May 12, 1912. The cause of death was given as “manic depression psychosis,” and she was buried, without a funeral, in a pauper’s grave. She outlived her brother and her daughter. Her estate, worth $3,850, was split between two grandchildren she probably never met.

Forgotten tombstones for the Willard dead which only had numbers

Life Inside and the Human Cost

Most people entered Willard under court orders or involuntary commitment. Criteria before the 1950s required only a doctor’s certificate that the person was mentally ill and needed hospitalization—standards that proved remarkably loose. Of the roughly 54,000 individuals who passed through during its 126 years of operation, 5,776 were buried in the on-site cemetery. Another 18,000 died there but were claimed by families or buried locally. Nearly half of all who entered left in a casket.

For more than a century, Willard offered primarily custodial care. Work assignments classified patients by ability. Those deemed violent or unable to care for themselves lived on locked wards with rigid routines. Able patients provided unpaid labor in kitchens, laundries, farms, carpentry shops, and groundskeeping work. New York finally banned it in 1973. Women sewed, cooked, and cleaned; men handled outdoor and skilled tasks. Treatments included hydrotherapy and, from the 1940s, electroshock. Neuroleptic drugs introduced in the mid-1950s helped staff manage overcrowding but showed little evidence of improving patients’ underlying mental or emotional states.

Willard Hospital c.20th century

Closure, Abandonment, and Enduring Mystery

Willard Psychiatric Center closed its mental health operations in 1995 and briefly became a state-run drug rehabilitation program for incarcerated individuals. The Department of Correctional Services closed that program in March 2022, leaving the 550-acre complex entirely abandoned. The site is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. The Seneca County Industrial Development Agency is currently exploring redevelopment proposals that include a resort, housing, and assisted living facilities.

Even in abandonment, Willard refuses to fall silent. Former employees and visitors have reported screams, whispering voices, footsteps, giggling, crying, and slamming doors. Shadowy figures appear in hallways. A woman with long red hair reportedly wanders the corridors or grounds, sometimes emitting spine-tingling screams. It's not sure if she was a nurse or a doctor. During the years it was active as an asylum, lady physicians were working at Willard. Miss Dr. Farnham was hired to replace Miss Wilkins, the lady physician who had resigned because she was moving out west.

One of the Willard suitcases

A teenage girl apparition appears in a fetal position, sucking her thumb, turns, stares, shouts obscenities, and vanishes. Two ghostly male orderlies—one tall and large, one short and slender—reportedly gaze blankly from windows. Witnesses describe floating blue orbs and blistered hands that grab the living.

A demonic figure is seen with piercing green eyes, ruddy complexion, and the top of his head appears to be on fire. He wears a vest and a fluffy white shirt, with slick black pants.

In February 2008, the television show Paranormal State investigated after staff reported entities and refused to stay overnight. Investigators captured potential EVPs, including the name “Lucy,” and explored theories of a presence preventing spirits from moving on. In 1884 alone, over 31 suicides, some of which involved patients jumping into the lake, and homicide attempts were recorded. The accumulated weight of thousands of confined lives has deepened Willard’s enduring mystique.

The people who lived and died at Willard have largely faded into history’s tapestry. Yet the suitcases they left behind, the numbered graves, and the persistent reports of unrested presences serve as quiet, powerful reminders. These were individuals with dreams, talents, heartbreaks, and resilience. In a society that often discarded the vulnerable, their unclaimed baggage now invites us to remember—and to ensure such shadows never lengthen again.