Byberry Asylum
F
ear has a way of taking hold as it washes over you. Shallow breathing, rapid heart rate combined with a splash of adrenalin is your body’s way of preparing you to run. Nervous energy, along with a heightened awareness of our surroundings, amplified the sounds of the night as we ventured onward, crunching over dried leaves towards our macabre destination. I grew up a few miles from the
Philadelphia State Hospital at Byberry. Byberry was a psychiatric hospital
photo by Matt Derrick
W R I T E R S B LO C K
in Northeast Philly that opened its doors back in 1907 with the best of intentions to assist the mentally and criminally insane. Lack of funding, scathing reports of mistreatment and deplorable living conditions, among other things, led to its shutdown in the late eighties. With more than 50 buildings, most of which connected via underground passageways, it seemed like a perfect place to go exploring at the time. At the time - no one warned us of the Curse of Byberry Asylum. Nor did anyone warn us that nightmares were real. Mischief night was as good a
time as any to explore our deepest fears. Tortured screams followed by childish laughter joined the choir of muffled voices echoing incoherently inside and outside our heads. As we ventured through the darkness, we suspected we were being followed. Autumn’s crisp evening air crept through my dungaree jacket finding an uncomfortable resting place directly on my spine. In the shadowy glow of a harvest moon, whispers thick as cigarette smoke regaled the troops with stories of neglect, torture and Satanic worship inside the asylum. Trying my best to shake the chill of October from my body, I questioned which of the vacant buildings we would enter first.
Those fortunate enough to grow up in the ’80s are the product of what I’ll gratefully describe as out of sight, out of mind free-range parenting. Don’t ask, don’t tell was a common theme from my generation. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for parents to be somewhat unaware of what their children were doing once they left the house. In fact, everything was fine and dandy. Even when their kids were off confronting their inner darkness inside a house of horrors. All was well as long as they were home by curfew and didn’t track mud across the carpet. We shivered and shook our way from room to room inside the asylum. We swore never to speak about what we witnessed. In the distance, we heard a door slam and the shattering of glass and then we were gone. Back home, sleep eluded me as I laid in my comfortable bed, wide-eyed under several layers of warm sheets. In the proceeding weeks, my imagination created
October / November / December 2021
by DAVID W. CAVA
PRH WRITERS BLOCK
The Curse of
some scary scenarios of what might have happened in those rooms. I often wonder how much worse it really was. I have little doubt that Byberry was haunted by hundreds of restless souls that were mistreated, tortured, and experimented on over the years. Stranger things and unexplainable happenings were well-documented by hospital staff and Philly Police over its 70 years in operation. I realized some years later that what followed me and my friends on that evening and throughout our childhood wasn’t the Curse of Byberry Asylum, but the freedom to explore our creativity. Whether we were building tree forts, racing go-carts, making movies, or holding our annual spook house, my friends and family always provided the spark needed to ignite creativity’s fiery blaze. At times, I try to keep it at bay, but it digs and scratches at me until I let it out to feed. Happy Halloween. PRH
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