Abandoned Asylum Haunted Attractions: Provocative Preservation or Unethical Exploitation?

Beneath the eerie fog and flickering strobe lights, a controversial trend has taken hold in the haunted attraction industry. Abandoned psychiatric hospitals, once meant as sanctuaries for society’s most vulnerable, now serve as the backdrop for Halloween thrill-seekers eager to have their spines tingled and adrenaline pumped. While these haunted asylum attractions draw hundreds of thousands of visitors each fall, eager to tour the “spooky” halls that once housed the mentally ill, the practice of converting the defunct facilities into fright-filled cashcows has many mental health advocates, historians, and human rights activists crying foul.

The Rise of the Asylum Attraction

In the late 20th century, the United States underwent a dramatic shift in mental health care. Deinstitutionalization, driven by a complex mix of financial constraints, pharmaceutical advancements, and increased concern for patient rights, saw state after state shutter the imposing psychiatric hospitals that had once warehoused patients by the thousands. As the asylums closed, their sprawling campuses fell into disrepair, the grand Kirkbride buildings and surrounding structures crumbling from neglect.

Savvy entrepreneurs saw opportunity in the decay. Throughout the 1990s and 2000s, private developers scooped up the defunct hospitals for bargain prices and set about transforming them into haunted attractions complete with costumed actors, animatronics, and Hollywood-quality sets.

Some of the most notable asylum-based haunts include:

These numbers show asylum-based attractions are big business. At an average ticket price of $25-30 per guest, annual revenues can top $1,000,000. And the popularity only seems to grow each Halloween, with many haunts selling out weeks in advance.

But for those whose lives have been touched by mental illness, the asylums’ reinvention as spooky entertainment is anything but a treat.

The Case Against Commodification

“These haunted houses reinforce every harmful stereotype about mental illness,” argues Rebecca Rolfe, Executive Director of the mental health advocacy nonprofit OC87 Recovery Diaries. “They present a false, stigmatized history that equates ‘mentally ill’ with ‘dangerous and violent’.”

Indeed, the imagery of the “psycho killer” or “deranged lunatic” is a tried and true trope of the haunted attraction world. Actors portraying demented doctors and unhinged patients routinely leap from hidden corners, wielding weapons as they cackle maniacally. The implication that those living with psychiatric conditions are unstable and homicidal would be laughable if it weren’t so pervasive and damaging.

“It’s trauma porn, plain and simple,” says disability rights activist Emily Ladau, co-host of The Accessible Stall podcast. “These attractions turn very real pain into cheap thrills. We’re invited to get our adrenaline rush by gawking at ‘crazy’ people in cages. It’s dehumanizing.”

The real history of the asylum, while indeed rife with horror, bears little resemblance to the overblown Halloween theatrics. Memoirs, medical records, and photographs paint a picture of bleak, overcrowded wards where patients were often neglected, restrained, and subjected to now discredited treatments like ice baths and lobotomies. Conditions worsened as state budgets shrank and staff departed. By the 1960s, many of these institutions served as little more than warehouses; a place to segregate the mentally ill, disabled, and socially undesirable from the rest of society.

In this light, transforming the abandoned asylums into campy Halloween fare feels like a trivialization of lived trauma. “Presenting these places as fun, spooky attractions demeans the very real suffering that occurred within their walls,” says Ladau.

The Preservationist Perspective

Historic preservationists and owners of asylum-based attractions argue there’s more to the story. They posit that without adaptive reuse, these massive, highly specialized structures would have no future beyond demolition.

“The goal in acquiring these properties is to preserve them,” says Rebecca Jordan, heritage consultant and former Historic Preservation Advisor to the Pennsylvania Historical and Museum Commission. “They have immense historic and architectural significance. Demolition would be an irreversible loss.”

Jordan points to success stories like the Richardson Olmsted Campus in Buffalo, New York. The former Buffalo State Asylum for the Insane, a National Historic Landmark, underwent a $102 million rehabilitation to transform it into a boutique hotel, conference center, and architecture center. “Developments like these give abandoned asylums a viable future while preserving their historic character,” says Jordan.

For the owners of haunted asylum attractions, ticket sales offer a much-needed revenue stream to fund urgent stabilization. The team behind the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum, for instance, has poured over $1 million into repairing crumbling walls, collapsed ceilings, and dangerously outdated electrical and plumbing systems since taking over the property in 2007.

“These buildings were left to rot for decades,” says TALA owner Rebecca Gleason. “Every penny we make goes right back into saving this incredible place.” Gleason also offers historic tours and ghost hunts as a “lighter” option for those curious about asylum history.

Finding Ethical Middle Ground

As the debate surrounding asylum attractions grows, many believe a middle ground is possible. Jeff Yeckley, Operations Manager at the Athens Lunatic Asylum, argues his haunt strikes the right balance. “Our attraction is only one aspect of what we do,” says Yeckley. A portion of the proceeds funds the Kennedy Museum of Art, which houses an exhibit on mental health history and an extensive archive of patient-created artwork.

The Pennhurst Asylum offers a model others may emulate. By day, the Pennhurst Memorial and Preservation Alliance conducts informative tours of the unrenovated Mayflower building. Guides share stories of real patients and facilitate frank discussions on the often dehumanizing conditions. In the Halderman building, a partnership with the Pennhurst Memorial and Preservation Alliance has established a museum on the human rights tragedy of institutionalization.

At night, the Halloween crowds descend for a more traditional haunted attraction in the Pennhurst Asylum. But even here, actors portraying patients are directed to avoid stereotypes. “We’re aiming for a creepy atmosphere, not ‘mental patient violence’,” says creative director Yeckley.

Perhaps the most powerful approach lies in meaningful partnership with the communities most impacted by the history of the asylum. The Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum works with mental health organizations to provide crisis counseling information in every ticket buyer email. A portion of the proceeds funds local mental health services. It’s a small step, but one that acknowledges the real, present-day relevance of this history.

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