Spirits of the Abandoned
Maryland
Susan Tatterson
Copyright 2008 by Susan Tatterson The author retains sole copyright to all photographs and artwork contained in this book. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without permission in writing from the author.
Spirits of the Abandoned
Maryland
Susan Tatterson
My favorite thing is to go where I’ve never been ~ Diane Arbus
Contents Introduction
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M a y f a i r T h ea tre Thistle Mill
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Tome School for Boys / Naval Training Academy Bainbridge F o r e s t H a v e n Asylum
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Eastern Shore Farm House Gunther Brewery
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Westport Power Plant Springfield Hospital The American Brewery
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Glenn Dale Hospital
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Charles H. Hickey Jr. School The Enchanted Forest
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Introduction
Spirits of the Abandoned was born out of my fascination with lonely, isolated and possibly haunted places and my lifelong love of photography. I was given a Kodak Instamatic, (with the little square flash cubes), for my seventh birthday and a camera has been my constant companion ever since. By bringing both interests together this book allows me to indulge two passions — what fun! We live in a constant cycle of abandonment and renewal, discarding the old for the new as we strive to build bigger and better facilities — erasing our past in the process. Maryland’s cities, towns and countryside are filled with empty, obsolete and in many cases decaying buildings — hospitals, factories, schools and houses. In many cases, what we’re allowing to rot are magnificent representations of a by-gone era whose replacements pale in comparison. Currently being redeveloped, The Tome School for Boys, empty and decaying for almost 25 years, stands out for me as one such place. The school’s main building, Memorial Hall, remains breathtaking in appearance despite years of water damage and vandalism. I will never forget gazing in awe at the base of the sweeping marble staircase, which dominates the entry foyer, and wondering how such beauty could be ignored and allowed to decay to such a point that repair seems almost impossible. A common thread tying the places in this book together is their dereliction and their metamorphosis into light and texture infused-entities. With the complete absence of human existence
and intervention they have taken on a life of their own and now possess a mythical quality. They tell their own stories with light, color and decay. They inspire us to imagine what went on within their walls and they have led me personally, on a wondrous and thought-provoking journey, into Maryland’s medical, educational, theatrical and industrial past. The photographs were all shot digitally using a Nikon Digital SLR. Light played a crucial role in the composition of every image. Available light was used exclusively, and in many cases this called for exposures lasting several minutes in almost total darkness. Focusing in such low light conditions was sometimes challenging, to say the least, and a flashlight soon became my best friend. I hope the photographs on the following pages communicate, visually, the rich and varied histories these places share. It is impossible to capture the feeling of standing within their walls. I have attempted, however, to capture their spirit, hence the title Spirits of the Abandoned. Many, if not all of them, are off limits to the public and I am grateful to have been given access to them, and to share what hides behind their shuttered facades — may they inspire your imagination as much as they have mine.
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Mayfair Theater
A rusted out lamp house, from an old 35mm projector, blocks a stairwell.
Baltimore’s Mayfair Theater has played as many roles as the actors who once walked its stage: public swimming pool, elegant theater, ice-skating rink, and a theater once again, with Turkish baths in the basement. Today, the Mayfair stands neglected and roofless. On June 17 1880, the Mayfair opened as the Natatorium, a 60 by 244-feet bathing house and swimming pool. In 1885 the Oratorio Society purchased the building, later selling it to James Lawrence Kernan, a Confederate veteran and wealthy philanthropist. The Mayfair reopened, as the Howard Auditorium, on April 6, 1891, and soon thereafter, became known as the Auditorium. Over the next four decades Kernan’s grand plans continually evolved. In the spring of 1893 he had a 50 by 150 feet ice skating rink called the Ice Palace constructed inside the Auditorium. The Ice Palace attraction included an ice cave — complete with dangling icicles, a gallery, and a roof garden with a promenade and an Oriental pagoda. Transformation occurred once again in the spring of 1895. Kernan hired New York theater architect, J.B. McElfatrick, to bring to life his plans for a first class Vaudeville theater. In 1904, the theater, with a Turkish bath in the basement, opened to the public. Kernan’s death in 1912 adversely affected the Auditorium, and future owners never shared his grandiose vision. By 1932 the Auditorium was struggling. By the late 1930’s the doors were shuttered. The second phase of its history, as the Mayfair (a movie house), began on January 31, 1941 and continued for 45 years until April 1986 when, this time, the doors closed permanently. In 1998, the collapse of the Mayfair’s roof made demolition seemingly inevitable. However, the resurgence of interest in the upper west side of downtown may reverse the inevitability of destruction. Plans are under way to turn the Mayfair’s ground floor into retail space and the upper floors, now collapsed, into apartments, while still preserving the historic facade. The original 19th century Auditorium, now the forlorn Mayfair, may have one more starring role yet to play.
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The door to the long vacant projectionist’s room.
The deteriorating roof above the southern stairwell.
Behind the main theater entrance doors lay mounds of rubble from the collapsed roof.
Projection room windows give a view of the unstable fourth floor balcony.
An overhead view of the theater shows row upon row of destroyed seating surrounded by the massive, fallen roof beams.
A disintegrating curtain clings to the stage.
Thistle Mill
Severed pipes protrude from crumbling walls.
A history of devastating floods and destructive fires surrounds historic Thistle Mill. The mill stands on the banks of the Patapsco River, two miles downstream from Ellicott City. Built in 1824 by Alexander Fridge and two Scottish merchants, George and William Morris, the mill still exists while others around it have succumbed to neglect, nature, and redevelopment. In its almost 200 year history, Thistle Mill has adapted to many different phases of industrial development. Originally built on almost 100 acres, purchased from John Ellicott in 1821, the founding partners proceeded to build a dam, millrace and a fifty by one hundred foot, granite, five-story mill to produce cotton. Alexander Fridge soon sold his share to the Morris brothers, who then built a village of thirty to forty granite mill houses—several of which still stand, although only their shells remain. In its heyday the mill had as many as 500 employees, and an 1850 tax record lists the value of the mill at $80,000. In 1866 floods crippled the dam, slowing production and then in 1868 flood waters entered the lower portions of the mill. In the early 1920’s the mill was refurbished and converted to paper-making. The mill was once again devastated when a four-alarm fire ripped through the building in November 1972. As in the past, the mill recovered — and thrived. But just over 30 years later, on June 23, 2003, flames engulfed the mill again — this time there would be no recovery. Today, the Thistle Mill/Simkins Industries Recycling Plant stands as a gutted out reminder of our industrial past. Guarded by 24-hour security, the historic granite building still contains hazardous waste, while the thick concrete floors, which once contained giant vats used to make pulp, are now cratered and crumbling. The power plant on the opposite bank of the river, which escaped the fire, stands alone, stripped of valuable copper and other reusable materials. The mill faces an uncertain future. There are no signs of redevelopment and, inevitably, there have been rumors of imminent demolition to make way for condominiums.
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A 19th century steel fire door used to separate production areas.
Gaping holes within the thick concrete floors, where vats once stored the pulp slurry, are spread throughout the mill.
Sunlight streams into one of the vast, former storage areas.
Each century leaves its mark on the old mill — 18th century granite, 19th century brickwork and 20th century pipes and concrete.
Axle hubs once held the rollers, which rolled out the wet paper, but now stand like silent sentries, guarding the long paper room floor.
This catwalk replaces the one destroyed by Hurricane Agnes in 1972, where a body was found trapped in the wreckage.
The boiler and steam tanks still remain intact on the main floor of the mill’s power plant.
The underside of a massive steam pressure buffer tank.
Tome School for Boys Naval Training Center Bainbridge Hundreds of feet above the quaint town of Port Deposit, on the banks of the Susquehanna River, the buildings of the former Tome School for Boys stand in majestic decay. The Tome School, named after philanthropic founder, Jacob Tome (a Cecil County financier who made his fortune in lumber) formally opened amid great pomp and pageantry on May 15, 1903, five years after Tome’s death. Tome left just over $3,000,000 to build and maintain the school, which for years was considered to be the wealthiest secondary school in the United States. The Great Depression and the onset of World War II drastically changed the school’s fortunes. President, Franklin D. Roosevelt, who was once a guest speaker at Tome, officially approved the purchase of the school land and buildings from the Jacob Tome Institute Board of Directors in early 1942. The once wealthy boarding school, along with more than 70 farms on adjacent land, became the United States Naval Training Center, Bainbridge, named in honor of Admiral Bainbridge. Construction began on May 19, 1942 and by August 14, 500 buildings had been erected. The Bainbridge center comprised four independent regimental areas, accommodating more than 20,000 recruits. The Naval Academy Preparatory School was housed in the Tome School buildings. The USNTC Bainbridge closed its doors on March 31, 1976, leaving the Training Center and Tome School buildings abandoned and inaccessible to the general public. In 1986, Congress authorized the Navy to dispose of the property. The Navy was required to restore the property to Federal and State EPA standards. This led to the removal 138,000 tons of asbestos contaminated soil and 400,000 cubic yards of demolition rubble. Residents of Cecil County fought for years to reclaim the land and on February 14, 2000, at a special ceremony outside the main gates of Bainbridge, the Training Center and former Tome School were turned over to the State-operated Bainbridge Development Corporation for redevelopment. The Tome School and its once magnificent buildings may one day inspire architects, planners and designers to reclaim Jacob Tome’s legacy and create something of lasting value, beauty and utility.
Ornate ironwork is a trademark of Memorial Hall’s staircases.
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Memorial Hall’s once grand entry foyer with its sweeping marble staircase.
The first floor landing of Memorial Hall, where decaying columns stand resolutely — their accompanying balustrades’ long since removed.
The now roofless gymnasium, reduced to rubble by a fire, has a slim chance of survival during the restoration efforts.
A long disused classroom where little remains, except broken windows, peeling paint and a rusted out radiator.
The still bright colors of a chalkboard and storage cupboard, draped in light, give vibrancy to an otherwise desolate classroom.
Memorial Hall’s shuttered facade hides the toll that years of neglect and vandalism have inflicted on the interior.
Forest Haven Asylum
A glass pipette, or chemical dropper, and burner.
Forest Haven, a desolate 250-acre property with over twenty abandoned buildings, once housed developmentally disabled citizens from Washington, DC. Forest Haven’s history, while not hidden, is not readily accessible either. According to descriptions from the time, the U.S. government built the facility in 1925 to banish from society individuals categorized as “idiots.” Frightening in its ignorance the term pales in comparison to the welldocumented, appalling conditions the residents later endured. The facility underwent a long, slow decline from the beginning of the Great Depression until a 1991 federal lawsuit finally closed Forest Haven forever. Today, as in the case of other abandoned hospitals and asylums, myths surrounding Forest Haven are plentiful, particularly among young explorers. A popular rumor claims Forest Haven is the site of an abandoned village, which was deserted by government agents when an experiment backfired, killing the entire town. It’s easy to see how such a rumor exists — it takes little to imagine Forest Haven this way. The dilapidated buildings — unhinged doors flung open, windows obliterated, water sloshing its way down impassable stairwells — are a great setting for a B-grade horror movie. Unfortunately, inside the buildings, evidence of the real-life horror remains intact, dispelling any truth to the abandoned town rumor. Forest Haven may keep its secrets well, yet today any intruder can easily see former residents’ medical records (stamped “confidential”) strewn about the hallways. Medical equipment — not just small-scale blood pressure machines and syringes, but sophisticated dental chairs, x-ray machines and laboratory testing materials — fill room after room as though awaiting their next patient. Currently, a small drug rehabilitation unit exists near the original buildings and a long-standing proposal to build a prison on the land has yet to eventuate. Anne Arundel county residents have argued for the bulldozing of the property since it’s closure — but that was 17 years ago. Forest Haven may well continue to inspire overactive, youthful, imaginations for years to come.
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A Forest Haven “cottage� alongside an overgrown basketball court.
An office in the main hospital building where a discarded typewriter bathes in afternoon sunlight.
A hard-backed chair acts as a doorstop at a decaying stairway entrance.
Broken windows open out to a concrete wall — the only view from an aging, water-logged, sofa.
A rusting x-ray machine occupies the room next door to the laboratory.
Inside the laboratory, unknown chemicals stagnate in large glass bottles.
Forced open file cabinets occupy many of the offices in the main hospital building. Their contents rifled through by destructive intruders.
Former patients’ medical records are strewn throughout the rooms and hallways of the main building.
Eastern Shore Farm House Maryland’s Eastern shore is alive with farming history. Sadly, throughout the nine counties, once elegant farmhouses are derelict and likely candidates for demolition. These farmhouses often stand on highly desirable, yet-to-be developed tracts of farmland, surrounded on all sides by cookie-cutter custom homes and condominiums. In varying stages of disrepair — caved-in roofs, broken windows, collapsed staircases — these homes battle against our insatiable drive to tear down our past and rebuild our future. It’s a battle the houses and the Eastern Shore’s farming heritage are losing. There are some creatures that call these lonely places home — nesting birds seek safety and shelter, while invasive kudzu vines twist, turn, and creep through windows and doors, weaving an impenetrable shield against intruders. The Eastern Shore’s economy mirrors the boom and bust cycle of Maryland’s cities. The end of the last prosperous boom for the small family farmer ended in the 1890’s when a virus wiped out the area’s lucrative peach orchards. By the 1920’s many of the Eastern Shore’s farmers were struggling. The Great Depression of the 1930’s took an even greater toll. With much of the land exhausted, farmers borrowed heavily in order to survive. Most didn’t. The banks foreclosed and the small family farms became consolidated into large holdings. Mergers continued after World War II, the results of which can be seen today. Large farms produce corn and soybean crops for the thriving poultry farms lining the major highways. Closer to the towns, new housing developments are springing up on the last remaining farming properties. The few remaining farmhouses are vacant and neglected. Some were rented for short periods, but the high cost of maintaining the aging homes led to them being abandoned. The future looks grim for these historically significant properties. While they have passionate supporters, most of these historic homes will probably not be restored or preserved. The turn of the century farmhouse on the following pages stands no chance. Less than two miles away, and visible from the crumbling back porch, a housing development creeps ever closer. Urban sprawl and farming conglomerates will seal its fate—probably before the first decade of the 21st century is complete.
The stairs to the attic, dangerously suspended, dangle above the second floor landing.
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Outside, the farmhouse appears lifeless and decrepit, awaiting it’s imminent demise.
An orphaned chair and traditional farmhouse sink stand silently in the abandoned kitchen.
A second floor room with one of the home’s three fireplaces hidden behind an aging door.
Invasive vines grow between the sashes of the closed windows.
A lounge chair long since destroyed by the home’s only inhabitants — birds.
The view from the vine infested back porch, a failing old barn still remains.
Gunther Brewery Situated in the heart of Baltimore’s Brewers Hill district the Gunther Brewery began operations in 1881. Founded by Bavarian immigrant George Gunther, the brewery was one of the areas leading breweries throughout much of its ninety-seven year history. Friendly rivalry existed between Gunther and neighboring brewery, the iconic, National Brewery, located just a stone’s throw away on the opposite corner of O’Donnell Street. National produced the much-loved National Bohemian label with its signature Natty Boh symbol. Both breweries are long since closed but former workers are happy to reminisce — according to a local story, every Friday afternoon workers from the rival breweries engaged in a neighborhood softball match, with the loser having to drink the other’s beer. Gunther Brewery survived Prohibition by producing near beer and remained in the Gunther family. When prohibition was repealed the brewery restarted as Gunther Breweries Inc., and later, in 1935, became simply Gunther Brewing. In 1959, the Theo Hamm Brewing Company purchased the Gunther Brewery. Hamm immediately ceased marketing the Gunther brand and lost favor with locals. Hamm sold out, only four years later, to the F. & M. Schaefer Brewing Company, a large Brooklyn-based firm. The Schaefer Company continued operations until 1978. The National Brewery had moved out three years earlier to a larger more modern facility — and so with Gunther’s closure the once bustling brewery district fell silent. Thirty years later Brewers Hill has begun to experience a renaissance. Redevelopment of the National Brewery is complete and the Gunther Brewery buildings are slated to undergo the same transformation. Under the guidance of the American Brewery’s developers Gunther will continue to hold its place in the history of Brewers Hill. The main brewery building will retain many of its original features when conversion to apartments and retail space is complete. Perhaps one day the new residents, of the once competing breweries, will carry on the tradition started by the brewery workers of the fifties, and engage in a friendly Friday afternoon game of softball.
A mechanism for measuring grain quantities from the silos.
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Mash tubs where grain is mixed with hot water to convert the starch to sugar.
The base of a corroding, grain holding silo.
A spiral staircase in the corner of the refrigeration room where pressurized ammonia was used to keep beer cold after bottling.
The bright red fire door leading out of the refrigeration room to the elevator.
The brewery was continually being remodeled. When more vertical space was required areas of the floor were removed.
The Toone Street entrance to the brewing house where large pipes sucked grain into the brewery from rail cars.
Westport Power Plant Like so much of Baltimore’s brawny industrial past, the former Westport BGE power station, abandoned in the early 1990’s, is now succumbing to the wrecking ball. The deafening sound of the steel ball crashing into the plant’s massive walls, over and over again, day after day, has become the area’s audio signature. Originally opened in 1906 by Consolidated Gas Electric Light & Power Company, the power station was the largest reinforced concrete power station in the world. Built on 23 waterfront acres, the building boasted impressive proportions — it was 255 feet deep by 115 feet wide and 70 feet high. With memories of The Great Baltimore Fire of 1904 still fresh, Consolidated Gas Electric used concrete and steel exclusively. In a booklet they released about the opening of Westport they explain. “Not a stick of wood is used in the construction of the building nor will there be any wood anywhere when it is finished.” Even the framing for the windows consists of solid steel. The carefully planned construction of Westport has no doubt contributed to its century long survival and has become a major factor in the slow pace of the demolition — Westport was not built to come down. The demolition is a Herculean effort to raze a building designed to never collapse. Daily, hordes of workers assemble, blowtorches in hand, to break down tons and tons of solid steel framing and to disassemble mammoth turbines that once powered Baltimore City. Once reduced to manageable sizes the steel and iron will be shipped to New Orleans and then to China. Other laborers arrive to complete the dangerous task of removing asbestos and a multitude of other hazardous materials. Incredibly the immensity of the demolition and clean-up process did not deter developers. Plans for the “new” Westport include up-market retail, housing and office space. Environmentally conscious architects and landscape designers will reinvent the industrial waterfront using green technologies. with plans to create wetlands, planted with native vegetation. Developers expect to be successful in attracting upscale residents who seek an urban lifestyle with appropriately green amenities.
Electric meters measured power flowing out from the generators.
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Southeast view, from the massive turbine building, of the middle branch basin of the Patapsco River. Enormous concrete piers that held the turbines are all that remain.
Huge piles of varying types of iron await removal by ship to New Orleans, where it will be recycled and sent on to China.
Disused electrical bus panels in the power distribution room.
Switches used to control electricity flowing out of the power plant.
An immense boiler, still intact, will be cut down and shipped off for recycling.
Steam pipes and valves wind their way throughout the buildings that comprise the power plant.
Springfield Hospital
A small, numbered, block of granite marks a former patient’s grave.
In 1894 overcrowding at Spring Grove, Maryland’s only state-operated psychiatric hospital, led John Hubner, State Senator for Baltimore County, to introduce a bill to establish a second hospital for Maryland’s mentally ill. The bill passed and a search committee was established to find a property which would meet the following criteria: be at least 500 acres, in pleasant and agreeable surroundings, have an abundant supply of water and free drainage, be accessible by rail and within a 25 mile radius of Baltimore City. After a yearlong search the committee recommended the purchase of the Springfield Estate. Springfield, originally owned by the wealthy Baltimore shipbuilder William Patterson, and then his son George, was passed down to Governor Frank Brown after George’s death. The State purchased the 728-acre Springfield Estate from Governor Brown in early 1896. Expansion took place rapidly as Colonial Revival style buildings were built, starting in the late 19th and into the early 20th century. Rather than following the Kirkbride style of the previous era (massive buildings capable of housing thousands of patients), Springfield was designed according to the “cottage” plan. The hospital hosted smaller patient buildings joined by covered walkways or porticos. By the late 1940’s, into the early 1950’s, Springfield’s population reached approximately 3,000. During the decades that followed patient numbers dwindled. The availability of new treatments enabled many patients to live at home. Springfield was at the forefront of this new trend and established one of the first outpatient centers in Baltimore City. A large portion of the hospital, the Warfield complex, has been sold to the town of Sykesville for redevelopment. The remaining vacant buildings, which are interspersed among active administration buildings and the outpatient center, remain shuttered and guarded. Springfield’s older buildings are protected by the Maryland Historical Trust. The most disturbing reminder of the hospital’s past is the well-maintained Sunnyside Cemetery on the Springfield Hospital Campus, where graves are marked with a small piece of granite bearing only a number, not a name — a haunting reminder of the many lost souls who came to Springfield and were forgotten.
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Distorted reflections of a ward through a broken pane of reinforced glass in the door.
The Colonial Revival architectural style of the hospital features graciously semi-circular stairwells.
A row of basins stands in a huge open space adjacent to one of the wards.
Wooden pillars support the slate covered walkways, which join the Clark Circle buildings.
The entrance to Ward E, closed and overgrown with weeds.
A line of numbered grave markers at Sunnyside Cemetery.
American Brewery Although the golden-era of brewing in Baltimore ended around the middle of the 20th century, many of the history–rich breweries still remain. With its unique architecture the old American Brewery building, in East Baltimore, remains an enduring symbol of Baltimore’s illustrious brewing era. The American Brewery opened in 1863 and was designed by New Yorker, and so called brewer’s architect and millwright, Charles Stoll. During the late 19th century Baltimore’s large German immigrant population supported a flourishing brewing industry—Baltimore played host to over twenty-one breweries. In 1920, the Volstead Act, formally known as the National Prohibition Act was passed, and the first golden age of Baltimore brewing came to an abrupt end. By the time Wiessner’s last surviving son, Henry F., took over presidency of the company in 1925 the brewery had long since closed. All that remained for Henry to do was oversee the assets and physical plant. In January 1931, Henry sold what remained of his father’s brewing empire to the American Malt Company. With the repeal of Prohibition in 1933 the J.F. Wiessner and Sons Brewing Company, now owned and operated by the Fitzsimmons family, reopened as the American Brewery. During the second period of its brewing history this Baltimore icon produced such popular brews as American Pilsner, Nut Brown Ale and Brewer’s Best Beer. By the late 1960’s, the smaller Baltimore breweries found themselves in danger of being swallowed by larger national companies. In 1972 the American Brewery succumbed, like so many others, to the consolidation of the brewing industry — the architectural wonder’s days as a brewery ended. Preservationists and government officials now see the American Brewery building as the cornerstone of a rejuvenation effort aimed at revitalizing a drug infested and deteriorating East Baltimore neighborhood. The former brewery will provide an anchor site for offices, and job training space. The developer’s respect for the historic significance of the building — characterized by the successful inclusion of valuable brewing equipment into the floor plan and faithful reconstruction of the facade — will guarantee the American Brewery and its proud brewing history will live on well into the 21st century.
One of many decorative corbels appear to support the brewery roof.
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The rear of the main brewery building where bricked up windows will soon be restored to allow light to flow through the historic building again.
An artifact from the by-gone brewing era will play a new role in the future office space.
During the brewing process grain was once blown through this airveyor.
A grain hopper will remain in the redeveloped space as a reminder of the building’s brewing history.
A thin sheet of ice covers the third floor of the disused bottling house on Gay Street.
A haunting reflection of a fire door in the bottling house.
Charles H. Hickey Jr. School In the early part of the nineteenth century it was common for juvenile offenders to be jailed alongside adults — even if their only crime was homelessness. In 1830, The Maryland General Assembly passed “An Act to Establish A House of Refuge for Juvenile Delinquents.” The measure was considered very radical at the time, and it would take another 20 years before the concept of the House of Refuge would see signs of reaching fruition. On October 27, 1851, the cornerstone of the building, which would later become the House of Refuge, was laid on Frederick Avenue in Baltimore City. Inadequate funding stalled completion for another 4 years, and the facility finally became operational in December 1855. In 1910, the House of Refuge was renamed the Maryland School for Boys when a new complex was built on an idyllic hilltop in northern Baltimore County. In 1985, the Maryland School for Boys became the Charles H. Hickey Jr. School, in honor of Charles H. Hickey Jr., a former Baltimore County sheriff. Despite the picturesque rural setting, the Hickey School, as it is best known, has a violent and disturbing past. Some of Baltimore’s toughest offenders have been sentenced to Hickey, and a series of scandals involving private contractors rocked the institution. Maryland Governor, Robert Erhlich, ordered the closure of Hickey on June 30, 2005. By November 28, of the same year, the residential program ceased to operate. Bordering a quadrangle of barren basketball courts the abandoned Hickey buildings, contain pitiful reminders of an angry past — a sign pasted haphazardly on a former supervisors desk reads, “If you are reading this you are violating my area, which will lead to disciplinary action.” If this sign is any indication of the hostility directed toward the incarcerated youths, it is little wonder their rehabilitation often failed. The future of the Hickey School and its grounds are unknown, although the land is increasingly valuable and development pressures will likely soar in the years ahead.
Personal items sit on a table in a deserted bedroom.
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A rustic farm fence borders a path leading to the rear of the school buildings, which line the quadrangle.
A row of pews inside the chapel on the grounds of the school.
A barren steel bunk-bed base remains in a third floor cell.
A bedroom, vacated only a few years ago, shows signs of severe water damage and evidence of dangerous black mold.
Entrances to several of the buildings are secured with steel mesh security doors.
A wheelchair stands discarded outside a bathroom in a dark and damp basement.
The Enchanted Forest
Infectious laughter and squeals of joy, from both young and old, once reverberated through the woods of the Enchanted Forest in Ellicott City. What more could a child wish for than to be surrounded by beloved fairy tale and nursery rhyme characters — come to life — and how liberating for adults to be charmed and entertained by memories of magical tales? The Enchanted Forest opened on August 15, 1955, a month after Disneyland. Driven by passion and imagination Howard E. Harrison Sr., and his son created the Enchanted Forest to fulfill a promise they made to Howard Junior’s children — to bring to life the children’s much loved nursery rhyme and fairy tale characters. Under the watchful eye of popular local designer, Howard Adler, a team of workers constructed the charming creations using papiermâché, cement and fiberglass. The Enchanted Forest featured such timeless characters as the Three Little Pigs, Humpty Dumpty, The Dish and The Spoon, Miss Muffet and her Spider, Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, the Crooked House, Little Toot, the Old Woman who lived in the Shoe, and other cherished characters from children’s stories. The park originally occupied 20 acres, later expanding to 52 acres, and then was reduced to 32 acres to make way for the Bethany Woods Housing development. Operating for just over 30 years, at its peak, the Enchanted Forest thrilled some 350,000-400,000 visitors each season from May to October. In 1988, after the Enchanted Forest’s closure, JHP development purchased the site and bulldozed the eastern side in order to construct a shopping mall. Today, few of the original figures are standing on the Enchanted Forest site, and those that remain have significantly deteriorated. Happily, many of the Enchanted Forest figures were rescued, restored, and given a new home at Elioak Farm, thanks to the dedicated efforts of farm owner Martha Clark. Today, beloved figures such as the Black Duck, Mother Goose and her gosling, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Robin Hood and many more, now once again, delight and enchant visitors. While the original Enchanted Forest will not reopen, the spirit of this remarkable place lives on for a new generation.
Large purple shoes, and a robotic frame are all that remain of this once loved character.
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A turret, part of Cinderella’s castle, reaches through the treetops.
A ghostly light illuminates the interior castle walls.
The roof of an ice-cream stand, ready to topple from its crumbling foundation, has suffered at the hands of nature.
Hansel and Gretel’s gingerbread house with a giant ice-cream cone at the entrance.
Glenn Dale Hospital Glenn Dale Hospital’s twenty-three asbestos-ridden buildings occupy 210 acres of serene parkland in Maryland’s Prince George’s County. The hospital, built in 1933-34, and officially established in 1937, treated children suffering tuberculosis, and then later expanded to treat adults. Glenn Dale’s closed doors, boarded up windows and livein police inspire a full spectrum of imaginary tales: medical conspiracies, packs of ghost dogs that are said to terrorize trespassers, and other scary and dubious legends haunt the hospital. So creepy is Glenn Dale’s reputation, it was featured in the Weird U.S. series of books. One rumor suggests bodies were removed from Glenn Dale’s two morgues and taken to the large incinerator building on the grounds. In fact, the incinerator was used exclusively for hospital waste. Another story claims the buildings’ walls are full of disease and will infect anyone who enters. The story isn’t true, of course, but it serves as a very effective “no trespassing” deterrent. Glenn Dale hospital closed in 1982, and has been caught in a perpetual bureaucratic limbo between the State of Maryland, the District of Columbia, and the Maryland National Capital Park and Planning Commission. The biggest obstacle to redevelopment? The $3 to 4 million cost involved to remove asbestos and hazardous waste. And so the ghost hunters and thrill seekers continue to risk arrest and ghost hunt and thrill seek. And the bureaucrats continue to be bureaucrats and 210 acres of precious parkland are off limits and going to waste. Vandals and scrappers have gutted Glenn Dale Hospital. What remains scarcely resembles the thoughtfully designed and progressive institution. Each private room once opened onto spacious and airy balconies overlooking the scenic grounds. Those balconies are now being strangled by ivy and most if not all windows are destroyed. It will take imagination, bureaucratic resolve, and money to find a creative re-use for Glenn Dale Hospital and its grounds. Until those forces come together, Glenn Dale Hospital will remain a haunted derelict.
An exam table waiting for patients who will never return.
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A laboratory hood used to maintain a sterile environment during testing procedures.
These previously glass fronted cabinets once stored sterilized instruments.
Wide covered porches were designed to promote healing. Fresh air and sunlight were believed to help tuberculosis sufferers.
A flooded room in the hospital basement shows the damage caused by years of neglect.
The rear of the adult hospital building at Glenn Dale has been heavily vandalized.
The adult building’s morgue refrigerator reveals an empty body tray.
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