Pennhurst, The Narrative

Josh Kinney The Price of Admission

The first time was a complete success. We stopped at the dead end of Pennhurst Road and weighed our options. There were two routes, the safe orthe risky. We preferred the latter. I took a deep breath and put the car in drive, hastily hit the gas, and sped down the tiny, overgrown, pot-hole plagued road. My tin can of a car, a 1989 Plymouth Reliant K,drove deep into the woods on a road that hadn’t been travelled in years. Niki sat in the passenger seat staring out the window in anticipation and fright, lighting up a cigarette and lifting a muffled prayer of protection, her hair flailing and black rimmed glasses sliding off her oily nose. Jacob and Devon smirked in the back seat, knowing this was going to be quite a precarious venture. In 1968, NBC did an investigative report on the Pennhurst Mental Institution, located a few miles outside the small factory town of Pottstown, Pennsylvania. There were reports of an overcrowded population, the abuse of patients, lack of staff, and the sketchy disappearances of numerous inhabitants. The investigation led to the closure of the institution, leaving a colossal, abandoned building isolated in the shadows of the Spring City Woods. For years it laid untouched, brick and plaster decaying through seasons of dissimilar weather conditions. The doors were left open and unlocked; not one of the windows was boarded up. It was as if everyone had fled the building in haste, leaving behind a mess of books, furniture, pill bottles, broken wheel chairs, and other substances of a disabled and freedom-deprived humanity. This was Pennhurst, and thus emerged the tales of those valiant enough to visit. A few minutes after eight o’clock and the sun was already sinking in the west. I drove slowly, knowing the old Plymouthwouldn’t be able to handle a pot hole that was too deep. The car quickly filled with smoke as Niki exhaled; a cloud forming around her face as Jacob and I gagged. She manually rolled down the windowand breathed in the fresh air. Cricket and bird

chirps echoed throughout the God-forsaken woods. How long had it been since the last visitors explored Pennhurst? The question reeled in our minds; wondering if the police had seen my car when it entered the hidden, dense road. After what seemed like an hour due to our eagerness, we finally arrived. It came up on us like a tower rising out of the woods. That giant, elegant,brick building mounted up out of the trees like a statue from the pit of hell. Brown and green vines covered its immense walls like dried up, petrified snakes that onceattacked the structure and died in the process. The concrete courtyard had weeds growing in-between cracks. It was scattered with plaster, metal, and various debris. A broken down, spray-painted school bus lay alongside the building; twisted and turned over on its side, the foam of the seats torn out and strewn around it. I parked the car right in the center of the courtyard andgrabbed my camera. Niki, Jacob,and Devon followed me to the entrance of the building. Dark blue and quickly dimming was the humid July sky. Time was of the essence if we wanted to get out of there beforetotal twilight had engulfed the area. Jacob knelt down, picking up a distorted, circular, metal object. The three of us gathered around and observed in utter shock. It was some sort of device that was placed on the head of a patient and entered through the mouth. It reminded us of something from the movie Saw II. A rancid aroma of decay and asbestos hovered in an invisible haze above the courtyard. The Breakfast Club, minus the misfit, walked toward the half-way open metal door. Jacob was first. His bulky stature held the splintered door frames as he took a small step inside, gasping. The other three of us retreated backwards. “Dude, just look right and left,” he said, stepping to the side. In front of us was a brick wall, to either side lay two pitch black corridors that led into an abyss of obscurity. Which direction? Through a nervous, squeaky voice, Niki suggested right, and so we proceeded onward, disappearing into the gloom.

Looking back on it now, I can’t help but smile to myself. What an experience and a memory. Surely it was something I could never forget; racing to the mail box foreseeing the arrival of that legal document with my name onit. What a thrill! A few weeks after my second trip to Pennhurst,I discovered on the internet a narrative written by one of the patients. The story described a detailed account of the mistreatment and exploitation that occurred in the years that he was imprisoned at the vile institution. After reading the report, I couldn’t help but sit back in repulsion, knowing I had walked through the very rooms in whichunspeakable, violent, and intolerant acts had taken place. The boy simply had Attention deficient disorder, commonly known as ADD and was placed in a room filled will severely mentally handicapped people. He was picked on, beat up, and raped multiple times,leaving him forever scarred with atrocious recollections. I gave a copy of the story to Jacob, and he, too, was shaken. I still remember it clearly - walking through those hallways with at least two inches of dust and rotted plaster on the floor. The broken lights and chandeliers hanging from the fractured ceilings and the busted wheel chairs flipped over in the doorways. Gazing out the windows was enough to haunt me for years to come, and yet the thrill was incomparable. After exploring the mental institution from top to bottom, the four of us hurried to my car. Slamming the door, I blasted the air conditioner and leaned my tense body against the cushioned seat with a sigh. My blonde hair, stringy and permeating, glowed in the car ceiling light. Stressful but electrifying, the mission had come to a close, dusk falling over Pottstown, and the time had come to get out of there before the police caught sight of us. I drove back through the woods toward Pennhurst road and made my way to the nearest Wawa convenience store. All of us took a breath and sighed with relief, knowing we had made it out alive. The scenes and sounds would forever resonate within us.

Three weeks later, Jacoband I fashioned a brilliant idea. We decided to push the limits and return to Pennhurst, but this time with seventeen of our best friends and my zealous Uncle Jimmy. Our intrigued friends became so obsessed with the pictures we had taken and the story we told of our expedition that they were eager to see this phenomenon for themselves. We loaded up three vehicles, including my old K-car,and hit the Blue route north towards the Pottstown exit. My uncle was the most excited; he sat up front with me wearing dark clothing and holding a brand new flashlight – cracking jokes and telling stories of his childhood. He rolled down the window and let out a piercing holler of excitement as we sped along at 70 miles per hour. Before taking off, I gave the disclaimer, warning everyone of the possible risk of a citation from the police if caught. The three cars stopped at the end of Pennhurst road; all eyes were on the veiled,overgrown street in front of us. My uncle decided it was best if we parked in the driveway of a small abandoned house. All cars emptied out, the twenty of us silently walking down the path en route to the mammoth structure of Pennhurst mental hospital. Darkness enveloped the lobby area that we entered through. All flashlights were out and everyone stood close together, holding each other in dead silence. My uncle had apparently heard something moving. After a few seconds of total stillness and being unable to see even an inch in front of us, he let out a piercing scream followed by a roaring laugh. Everyone jumped and shuttered, too scared to join in on his amusement. My heart was racing with exhilaration. Elena’s tight, moist hand grasped my arm as we made our way through the crumbling, humid hall way. Her sleek black hair plastered in sweat against her cheek revealing one frightened and wandering eye. She stumbled and cursed, pulling me closer, our muggy body’s merging and heavy breathing fusing together with sequentially pounding hearts. My sister held onto Andrew and my cousin Mattie as my uncle led the way forward. All cell phone service vanished, every phone going from full bars to zero at exactly the same time.

This was the first of a few strange occurrences. The second was the image of a silhouette in the window of the dining area. Everyone swore they saw what appeared to be the outline of a human being that quickly vanished. After taking a few pictures with Lindsey’s new digital camera, we found in one photo, the stairs surrounded by smoke. In a picture taken a few seconds later, it had completely gone, yet none of us had seen this smoke inthe first place. We made our way into the basement where tunnels connected the main building to smaller buildings. A broken metal gurney with arm and leg straps leaned against the solid stone wall like an ancient mummified corpse. To me it was like an abandoned Hollywood set for a horror movie that went dreadfully wrong. After over an hour of exploration, we decided it was best to leave. I took my video camera and switched to night vision, capturing a few more images of what hellmust be like. We started back down the path toward Pennhurst Road when blinding oncoming headlights illuminated our path. “Back to the building,” I shouted. Quickly we scurried inside and killed the lights, standing in a close huddle; we stared outthe shattered windowpane. The police car drove by slowly and disappeared behind the building. At that moment we made a run for it, managing to get back to Pennhurst road and towards our cars. It was a trap; we had already been discovered. Two police vehicles were parked on the road beside ours, blue and red lights flashing in a circular motion, awaiting our return. A wave of disappointment swept over me, for I was sure we weren’t going to be found out. Each one of us received a citation for trespassing,including my thirty seven year old uncle who forgot his ID. It was quite a comical scene, the seventeen teenagers, most of whomwere minors. We couldn’t help but laugh at ourselves. What a story we had on our permanent records; an epic to tell our children.

Jacob put his hand on my shoulder and said, “We’re real brothers now, you know. We got in trouble with the law together, and for a great reason.” And that it was. The images we captured were priceless, and the eerie events that took place while inside the hospital thrilled and mesmerized. It was the history of the place that captivated me after months of studying and archiving all sorts of information. That night we stopped again at Wawa. My uncle thanked me for the experience, both of us laughing off the citation. I couldn’t help but think of the hospital’s patients; the degraded,mentally handicapped people who had been abused and denied rights. My citation is framed in my room now. Underneath is a tiny plaque that says “Pennhurst” and the names of all those who accompanied me on the expedition. The second time was a success as well, if you ask me, for Ihad my story.