The Ufa-Room correspondents communicate with very different people. And unusual... These people tell us interesting stories, which we later share with our readers. This time the heroes and authors of the stories are Ufa psychiatrists and their patients. All the stories are real, therefore, in order not to reveal medical secrets, we will not indicate names... The stories are short, but catchy. By the way, if you have an unstable psyche and are under 18 years old, we do not recommend reading further! It is contraindicated! Contains elements of violence!
Oculist
No, we are not talking about a doctor of the relevant specialty, but about a patient in a psychiatric hospital. He received this nickname due to his peculiarities. The fact is that he amused himself by gouging out the eyes of other patients. Actually, it seems like he wasn’t violent, he was a rather calm old man. But periodically obtaining pencils, pens and any relatively sharp objects in various dishonest ways, he could suddenly gouge out someone’s eye. Since the cases were not isolated, and the man looked askance at the doctors, he was isolated as much as possible from all sharp objects. But ophthalmologist He turned out to be resourceful and got used to gouging out his eyes with his finger. The effectiveness was generally lower than when using a pencil, but it was being improved... It was impossible to completely isolate the patient - procedures and walks were carried out one way or another. Realizing that ophthalmologist does not stop there, they began tying his hands behind his back. For some time, his “ophthalmological” practice ceased... But only for some time. During another walk, when no one was expected to do anything from him (the break was quite long), he managed to gouge out the eye of one of the patients... with his toe! A dedication that is admirable.
Uniform
A story worthy of Gogol's "The Overcoat". One of the patients was a former military man. And everything would have been fine if he had not worn the same military uniform all his life. Always. Day and night. The uniform was already very, very old, worn out, but he was faithful to it! Romance? Don't tell me. After all, when the uniform was taken to the wash, he walked naked, not recognizing any other alternative. The patient was seriously ill, so he practically lived in a psychiatric hospital... Several years passed, and after the next wash, the uniform began to creep at the seams. They tried to somehow restore it, they made a copy, but the man knew his uniform and did not agree to a replacement. When his favorite clothes were gone, he spent the rest of his life naked. Even in winter, when it was necessary to move from one building to another, he walked without clothes...
Sculptor
One of the patients in a psychiatric hospital suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder. He believed that he should constantly create. Otherwise something bad will happen. He drew well, and in general, turned out to be a truly creative person. The problem was that, in his opinion, he had to do something constantly - draw, craft, sculpt... When he had to take a break for lunch, for sleep, he was very nervous. And it also seemed to him that people could suffer from any of his inaction. How, he did not know. Moreover, he understood that this was a pathology and really wanted to be cured. Occupational therapy helped him with this. His creative workaholism turned out to be very useful in winter - he sculpted sculptures from snow, decorated the hospital grounds, gradually distracting himself from the obsessive thought that if he paused, something terrible would happen. This is one of the positive examples when a person was able to get rid of his illness. Or at least minimize it.
Runner with the Wolves
The most ordinary girl saw and heard wolves. They accompanied her almost constantly. A large flock led by its leader. She understood them. Often, while at home, she could hear people howling invitingly in the yard. her wolves. She went out onto the balcony and saw a flock, and sometimes only one leader. When she went out for a walk, they followed her, she could stroke any of them, run her fingers through their thick, beautiful fur. They understood her like no one else... They were real. The girl had no real friends among people, because no one believed in her pack, and how many times did they protect her from attacks by bandits, from bad guys from the street. The girl could spend hours in the forest, where she went to communicate with the wolves, in the forest where they came from... The girl suffered from schizophrenia. After the course of treatment, she said something that made my skin crawl:
Yes, I felt the effect. Now I have no friends at all. Thank you.
Squirrel
One man suffered from alcoholism. Many, many years of continuous drunkenness, which already got to my wife. One day, she solved the problem simply - she prepared various foods, removed everything containing alcohol from the house, left her drunken husband to wake up, and locked him from the outside. And she went to see a friend for a couple of days. Upon her return two days later, she saw an idyllic picture: her husband was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, opposite another empty chair, and discussing with someone the exploits accomplished in the Battle of the Ice. At the same time, he spoke very convincingly, and at his wife’s perplexed glance, he “introduced” his interlocutor:
Masha, this is the devil. I came for you, but you weren’t at home!.. That’s it, you can take her, I’ve already gotten her.
The woman called the appropriate team. Diagnosis: Alcoholic delirium, or simply delirium tremens.
Letter from the heart
This is what one of the patients of a psychiatric hospital wrote when asked, what would you do with your offenders? The answer was received on 2 sheets of A4 format. Most of it has been cut out, but the general gist is this:
“First I would tie it to the battery. Very close to the hot battery. Having deafened him so that he wouldn’t scream, I would have torn his tongue out. Then he won't be able to scream at all. I would put a needle under each nail. Slowly, to prolong his suffering... I would carefully open his veins, and then his stomach, wrapping his intestines around his hand, because there is no need to offend me.”
Girl, 8 years old.
The Truman Show
“Someone is following me. Constantly, I didn’t know who it was or what they needed, but I had bugs all over my apartment, even in the toilet. Can you imagine it? When it’s impossible to even take a step without them knowing about it? Even abroad they accompanied me. At first I thought it was some kind of service, but what do they need? I was afraid, but recently I tried to make contact. They didn't go for it! And then I realized, my life is a show for someone, they just watch how I live, someone might really find it interesting. I’ve calmed down a little, which means they won’t kill me...” Mania of persecution?
We are so different, and yet we are together
A story about one of the patients: “I am a creative person. Yes, I draw and sing well. Many people like it. Maybe someday I'll record my own album. This is my dream". The same patient at a different time: “I have worked all my life as a turner at UMPO, I have a 5th grade. Sing? What are you talking about? I have never been able and am not going to do this nonsense, I am a working man”... In fact, the patient is a programmer with 10 years of work experience. This is the so-called “Plurality” of personality.
Different people, different destinies, different situations, they have only one thing in common - they all know this world from the other side. There are other values on the other side that not everyone can accept, but does that make these values any less real to those who see them? Maybe we are all sick?
Is someone who considers himself the only normal person crazy? If so, then I'm crazy.
© I'm a robot
But let me tell you, friends, a story about how I was in a real psychiatric hospital. Oh, there was a time)
It all started with the fact that from a dashing and carefree childhood I had several scars left on my arms. Nothing special, ordinary scars, many people have them, but the psychiatrist at the military registration and enlistment office, a mustachioed guy with a sly squint, doubted my words that I got the scars by accident. “We’ve seen you like this. At first the scars are accidental, then you shoot your fellow soldiers after lights out!” he said. Two weeks have passed and here I am, along with a dozen of the same pseudo-suicidal people, heading for a final examination to the regional psychiatric clinic.
At the entrance to the hospital, we were subjected to a formal search, all our personal belongings were shaken and all the prohibited items that were found were taken away (stabs, laces/belts, alcohol). They left the cigarettes and thank you for that. Our department consisted of two parts. In one there were conscripts, in the other there were prisoners, mowing down from responsibility. It's such a neighborhood, isn't it? We almost never crossed paths with prisoners, and the most colorful character among us was a hefty Tatar in a Nirvana T-shirt, to whom the nickname “sex” almost immediately stuck. “Sex” was a wonderful, but harmless guy and loved to have a tasty jerk before going to bed. Moreover, he didn’t care about the jokes, requests to stop and direct threats. Without jerking off, “Sex” didn’t fall asleep.
The hospital toilet deserves special mention. The two unfenced toilets were clearly the same age as the pre-revolutionary building itself. But the worst thing was that the toilet was constantly crowded with smoking people. Here you could discuss bark, try to shoot a cigarette, make fun of the psychos from the third floor. Yes, there were real psychos above us and you could have a real rage over them, shouting at each other through the bars on the windows. It was extremely difficult to light a cigarette, because from complete idleness everyone was constantly smoking and tobacco stocks were melting before our eyes, and there was nowhere to replenish them. There was absolutely nothing to do, and when we were kicked out for a cleanup day, everyone was extremely happy. Cleanup work in a psychiatric hospital is a holiday, because on other days they were not allowed to go outside. Oh yes, the toilet. It was extremely difficult to satisfy natural needs, due to the same smokers. Do you think anyone came out? Yeah, right now. Over time, of course, everything settled down, they introduced a schedule and religiously followed it, but in the first days it was completely brutal. Those who were simpler climbed onto the toilets right in front of the smokers, the rest heroically endured and waited for the night.
But nothing lasts forever, our examination period ended and we left the not-so-comfortable walls of the psychiatric hospital. Few of the guys were drafted into the army after that; most were diagnosed with “Personality Disorder,” which greatly ruined their lives in the future. So much for random childhood scars...
“One day he hit me so hard that he broke my cheekbone.”
It all started when I was 17. I fell in love - as it turned out much later, with a manipulator and sociopath. Our toxic, as it is now fashionable to say, relationship lasted nine years. Over the years, I had two abortions, we tried to break up countless times - the reason was his infidelity, spree, even beatings. One day he hit me so hard that he broke my cheekbone. I left, but came back - I don’t know why.
That's how we lived. I latently understood that this was unhealthy and not healthy, and at some point I decided to turn to a psychologist.
This was my first experience, I went to the appointment in full confidence that they would help me.
But at the reception, this lady (I can’t call her a doctor), having learned that I work in a sex shop, immediately switched to “you”, then advised me to change jobs, “drove” over my mother and, as a cherry on the cake, stated that men like me only want to “fuck and throw away.”
“I decided that everything was to blame for my laziness, stupidity and worthlessness”
I no longer tried to go to psychologists. I just ran away - to another city, to Kyiv. For a year and a half I felt very good - every awakening brought happiness, even when outside the window the revolutionaries began to seize the prosecutor's office. Then I had to return - to St. Petersburg and to my evil genius. We began to live together - calmly, with classic borscht and movies on weekends. I was a freelancer, I didn’t need a job. To friends too - during the “emigration” the circle of friends narrowed from the size of the equator to three people who started families. The ground was slowly disappearing from under my feet, and I almost didn’t notice it - I wasn’t upset that in February of this year he finally left, we broke up. And I wasn’t happy. It seems like I stopped feeling emotions altogether.
My average day began to be spent in bed. I woke up, turned on the TV and ordered food to take home. Not because I wanted to eat - I didn’t feel hungry. I simply stuffed everything into myself (twice as much as usual) under the pictures flashing on the screen - their meaning did not reach me, nor did the taste of the food. There were tumbleweeds of dust flying around the house - I didn’t care. It was as if I was being crushed by a concrete slab, I physically couldn’t get up - well, except to go to the toilet, and only when it was really hot.
From time to time, friends still dragged me to some parties, concerts - I agreed and went, but there was no effect. Nothing made me happy, although I used to like both music and company.
Of course, I tried to find the reason, and, as it seemed to me, I found it: I decided that everything was to blame for my laziness, weakness of will, stupidity, uselessness, and the list goes on. Here it is - a trap cleverly set by depression. You convince yourself of your own worthlessness, which makes you lose the last remnants of the will to live. There is no point in getting off the couch anymore.
By the end of the summer, my memory and attention began to fail: I could not even concentrate on washing one plate. I wasn’t scared - this is also an emotion, and I no longer had them. But my friend was scared - after seeing how I lived, she did not tell me that I needed to “get ready and go for a walk” and give other “useful” advice. She also took a course of antidepressants, so she simply sent me to a psychiatrist.
“I was ashamed: a young healthy girl turned into a vegetable”
In the psychoneurological department, the very first question from the doctor put me into a stupor. “What do you even care about”? Never mind! It was very embarrassing to describe my condition - a young healthy girl turned into a vegetable. And then we started talking about Kyiv, about my damned man - and I burst into tears. I talked about familiar things for an hour and a half, choking on tears. At the end of the conversation, the doctor said: “Well, what can I tell you?” “Go to work and don’t give people brains,” I mentally continued for him. And she turned out to be wrong. I was sent to a day hospital at the Skvortsov-Stepanov psychiatric hospital with a diagnosis of adaptation disorder.
For two months I went there as if for work: electrosleep, antidepressants, various types of psychotherapy. The effect appeared immediately, but not from the treatment: being among real crazy people invigorated me, of course. An unforgettable feeling when you sit in line for fluorography among comrades in straitjackets, and then on rounds you listen to stories like “everything is fine today, the voices have disappeared.”
“During art therapy, I realized that I didn’t just need support. I can strangle this support.”
After a couple of weeks, the therapy began to take effect. I was amazed by the body-oriented one: it’s amazing how completing seemingly idiotic tasks like “imagine that you are a grain” or “image a dog” can open your eyes to your own behavior patterns. I realized that it was with great difficulty that I began to make contact, and that I was simply hiding “in the house” from solving problems. During art therapy they asked me to mold myself in the form of a plant - I molded a bindweed, and then it turned out that I not only need constant support and support, but I can strangle this support - a good version, it actually explains a lot.
There were also individual sessions with a psychotherapist. Thanks to this magical woman: having started to work through my suffering on the subject of a forced move and a nine-year love epic, she eventually unearthed a huge number of things that had always prevented me from living. Thanks to her, I learned to say “no”, not to create illusions, to appreciate and listen to myself. After classes, I no longer wanted to bury myself in a blanket; I began to want to do something. The concrete slab has disappeared. I realized that for two years now I haven’t woken up not only in a good, but in a normal mood, without self-hatred! And suddenly she began to smile inside and out. Once a passer-by even said: “Girl, you are so happy, stay like that always.” But nothing special happened, I just became myself again.
Good afternoon, my name is Marina, I am 20 years old. I want to tell you a story that happened to me and a friend relatively recently.
The case concerns an abandoned hospital for psychos in our city, or “asylum”, as people call it. Local youth chose this place for various photo shoots, and Lenka and I were no exception.
One summer day we wandered into the hospital to click with ourselves against the backdrop of the ruins of the former psychiatric hospital. The three-story hospital was already quite shabby: in many places there were huge holes in the floor, the walls with peeling plaster were constantly crumbling, and by that time the roof no longer existed in principle.
We headed to the far northern wing, where criminals were once held for compulsory treatment. This was the only place preserved in the most decent condition. It was a small, shabby separate building. Of course, it was difficult to guess that prisoners were kept here. There are no longer any bars on the windows, just like any frames. I’m generally silent about hospital equipment. All that remained were yellowed, hard-to-read sheets of notes scattered on the floor.
Having climbed to the third floor, we, in fact, did what we came for - we started taking photographs. So an hour and a half or two hours passed. Just as we were about to leave, we heard a strange noise on the second floor, similar to the shuffling of feet. Of course, in an abandoned hospital it sounded creepy.
Ultimately, curiosity prevailed over fear. We followed these sounds down. They were coming from the second floor, from somewhere deep. Going out into the corridor, we saw a strange picture. A bald man dressed in slippers and a straitjacket slowly moved away from us. Her long sleeves were torn off or simply cut sloppily.
Lena tugged at my sleeve and pointed to the man’s right hand. He held a bloody scalpel in it. He scuffed his slippers on the floor, and we realized what sound we heard upstairs. The stranger reached the end of the corridor and, turning right, disappeared from sight. The spectacle was difficult to explain and creepy; we were about to hastily retreat when a girl ran out of the next room towards us.
Her hair was disheveled and her face was slightly swollen from crying. Even as she walked, she sobbed barely noticeably, covering her mouth with her hand so that the sound would not be so loud. The girl stopped in her tracks for a moment, and then rushed towards us.
“They’re all dead, that’s it,” she burst into tears again. - He killed them all.
-Who killed? – Lenka burst out automatically.
- Filimonov, this one is for life. I don't know how it happened. I came in, and Pyotr Semenovich and Vanya were already dead. And then Masha, our new nurse, naked, covered in blood. And then he leaves the room... - the girl grabbed my hand and tears rolled out of her eyes. “I have to run, but Pyotr Semyonovich has the keys to the block.” And this one, this one... He took them.
“It’s okay,” I tried to reassure myself rather than her, “nothing is locked here, let’s just go out.”
I tried to take her by the shoulders, but suddenly my hand went through the girl’s body. She didn't seem to notice, continuing to sob. Lenka and I looked at each other and began to back away until we found ourselves on the staircase. The ghost didn't even notice our disappearance. Something behind her caught her attention.
It was Filimonov. Now we could see it from the front. The straitjacket on his chest was covered in blood, as was part of his face. Seeing the girl, this guy grinned disgustingly, revealing his crooked yellow teeth. His steps became noticeably faster, and for a moment he even stopped shuffling. The ghost deftly jumped up to our “friend”, grabbed her by the hair, and, pulling her towards himself, stuck a scalpel in her stomach.
We stood in shock and didn’t know what to do. The psycho was dealing with the almost dead girl, masterfully ripping open her stomach. Finally he reached in and pulled out the liver. Slurping disgustingly, he began to eat it, occasionally wiping the blood flowing from his mouth with his sleeve. Not having finished eating even half, Filimonov threw the insides aside and walked up to the passage to the staircase. Having pushed some invisible barrier, the psycho turned around and walked back along the corridor, apparently to get the keys.
And only then did we seem to come to our senses. Having flown down the stairs, we ran headlong until we stopped. And then on the bus they couldn’t come to their senses for a long time.
A couple of weeks later, while talking with my aunt, I accidentally mentioned this hospital. She told me that her husband, who worked in the police, was on the investigative team when these murders happened. The entire second floor was covered in blood. If a doctor and a nurse were simply killed with a scalpel, then two nurses got it. One was raped before being killed, and the other was killed, gutted, like a pig.
This abnormal man was killed, he didn’t even leave the hospital. No one understands why there was no security on the floor that evening. But when Filimonov tried to leave the building, he was caught. Or they tried to catch him. You can't run far with a full horn in your chest.
Since then we have not gone to the hospital anymore. There is now talk of demolishing it. It seems to prevent children from climbing through ruins and breaking their limbs. I am completely in favor, but for different reasons. No one should ever see what that thing did to the people there anymore.
Have you ever been to a mental hospital, no! Any hospital itself is an unpleasant place,
and today I will tell you about the three most terrible and terrible mental hospitals in the world! Let's go.
Athens Psychiatric Hospital (Ohio, USA)
The Athens Psychiatric Hospital, located in Ohio, began operating in 1874. Over the years, it changed several names and operated until 1993. The hospital became famous for its notorious lobotomy procedure and the presence of dangerous criminals
. Dr. Walter Jackson Freeman, Ph.D., aka the "Father of Transorbital Lobotomy", performed over 200 lobotomies alone.
Many years ago, psychiatric institutions were considered a unique place, outside our world.
Beatings, torture and other cruel forms of punishment were the norm here. Murders often occurred.
The institution was closed in the 1980s
BUT Some buildings were left open to the public: tours are held here, where they tell terrible stories about the atrocities and horrors of treatment that patients were forced to endure.
One of the most popular stories is about Margaret Schilling.
Shortly before the facility closed, an inmate named Margaret mysteriously disappeared from campus.
A few weeks later, Clarence Ellison, one of the housekeeping staff, was cleaning room 20 when he made a shocking discovery in the attic: Schilling's body, which had been decomposed for five weeks, was sprawled on the floor. The authorities decided that Marge decided to hide in the attic of the building, but was unable to take care of herself and died of starvation.
After the body was removed, officials were surprised to find that the floor strangely retained the imprint of the body. Not just a blurry spot, but a complete picture with folds in her clothes, even showing the hairstyle she wore. The stain cleared but mysteriously reappeared two days later. The psychiatric hospital is also known for the fact that it owns as many as five cemetery
The graveyard consists of perfectly even rows of graves. Most of the tombstones contain only the patient's number. If the latter was lucky enough to have caring relatives, then standard signs were carved on the stone: name, dates of birth/death and insignia of Civil War veterans. Many of them were not crazy, but never overcame post-traumatic stress syndrome. 
In the old area, will-o'-the-wisps are often seen and heartbreaking screams are heard. And in the windows of an abandoned psychiatric hospital, ghostly figures of mentally ill people flash
.
Of course, we must mention The Simms Cemetery, named after John Simms, a local official known for his merciless torture and many hangings (especially African Americans). It is in Simms Cemetery that the Gallows Tree is located. They say that ghostly ropes along with the bodies still hang on it.
In addition to the graves of soldiers and quite famous criminals, there is also a beautiful statue of an Angel, erected in memory of those killed in the war. It was reported that the statue sometimes cried real tears.
By the way, they say that an old man in a hood and with a sickle is wandering here. There is an opinion that this is John Simms, who even after death is looking for criminals in order to subject them to punishment.
Oh my goodness, this is third place, but who is in second. Stock up on diapers.
Trenton Psychiatric Clinic near Trenton and Ewing, New Jersey, USA. Founded in 1848, still in operation
Neurosurgeon Walter Freeman earned $85,000 by piercing the heads of patients with an ice pick. Freeman treated mental illness this way, charging only $25 for each operation. Freeman's method was called lobotomy. Another mental health advocate, Dr. Henry Cotton, made a fortune cutting out vital organs for mentally ill people. The methods of psychiatry often caused horror among contemporaries, but they were replaced by others, sometimes even more terrible.
In August 1925, the small but prosperous American town of Trenton in New Jersey was buzzing like a disturbed hive. In recent years, townspeople have become accustomed to being proud of one of the main local attractions - the Trenton Psychiatric Hospital, which was famous throughout the country. Under the leadership of Dr. Henry Cotton, the hospital achieved amazing results: about 85% of mental patients made full recoveries. At least, Cotton’s subordinates named exactly this figure. But now everything has changed. Newspapers vied with each other to write about the horrors of the Trenton Asylum. The patients were brutally beaten and then forcibly dragged onto the operating table. At first, the unfortunates' teeth were pulled out, and then one internal organ after another was removed until the poor fellows were taken to the grave.
A New Jersey Senate commission headed by Senator William Bright worked in the city, and during the hearings new facts were revealed. Soon a rumor spread throughout the city that Dr. Cotton himself had gone mad. People saw the director of the clinic run out of the commission meeting room without an umbrella and raincoat, although it was cold raining, and started running down the street. When they found him, he had difficulty understanding where he was, and was generally in a state close to insanity. Some felt sorry for the eminent doctor, others believed that his place was in prison, if not in the electric chair. A big psychiatric scandal was in full swing. It seemed that the commission had every reason to put an end to Dr. Cotton's monstrous practice. Unfortunately, the nightmare only took on even more terrible forms over time.
In 1924, some members of the board of trustees became concerned about the state of affairs at the hospital. They turned to Johns Hopkins University for help, and the luminary of medicine at that time, Dr. Meyer, sent his student Phyllis Greenacre to Trenton. A female doctor arrived at Cotton's hospital and began checking local statistics. The result horrified her. Greenacre processed data on 100 random patients, of which, as it turned out, only 32 recovered. 35 people did not improve, and 15 died. It also turned out that mostly those patients who were not treated or were almost not treated recovered, but all those who died managed to be under the knife of Dr. Cotton and his colleagues. In addition, Greenacre discovered that the statistics were kept very sloppily. Doctors either did not know how to count correctly, or deliberately overestimated the percentage of those who recovered. Greenacre concluded that 50% of patients ended up in the cemetery
Soon the New Jersey Senate created a commission to investigate the situation at the Trenton Asylum. By that time, complaints had been received from the relatives of several deceased patients, so the commission had something to do. As it turned out, some patients died without even making it to surgery. Their bodies were covered with bruises and abrasions, which the orderlies attributed to falls, fights between insane people and similar reasons. The commission was inclined to think that these patients were simply too eager to fight for their lives, not allowing themselves to be taken to the operating room.
Too many eminent doctors at one time supported Cotton's method, too many scientific reputations would have perished if Cotton had been convicted. Medical luminaries and even politicians began to put pressure on the commission. As a result, the investigation was slowed down, and Dr. Cotton returned to his terrifying practice with the aura of a winner. Phyllis Greenacre was prevented from finishing her research and was suspended from her work in Trenton. Cotton headed the hospital until 1930, when he retired honorably. Perhaps if Henry Cotton had been convicted in 1925, the mentally ill would have been able to avoid the horror that was brewing in the depths of medical science.
When every person hears the word “Venice,” the same associations come to mind: gondolas, canals, water, carnival, masks... But this city is not as simple and welcoming as it seems at first glance: even it has its own mystical secrets. In the lagoon there is a small uninhabited island - Poveglia, which is guarded around the clock by a marine patrol, and any outsiders are prohibited from entering there. This place is often called Bloody Island.
Why? The answer to this question must be sought in history...
The island has many nicknames: “the gates of hell”, “a dump of pure fear”, “a haven of lost souls”. Not long ago, an article in one of the popular Venetian magazines stated that the hospital buildings dominating the area are nothing more than former rest homes for the elderly.
But while the island remains inaccessible to tourists, doesn’t that seem strange to you? After all, it could be used as an excellent resort.
This island was previously inhabited, and it was inhabited in the 5th century, when Italians fled here from barbarian raids. After another 900 years, fortifications were erected on Poveglia, which can still be seen when sailing close to this piece of land. Then the island ceased to interest people - it was even offered to the Camaldolian monks, but the monks refused for unknown reasons, and there were no others willing to live on it.
For more than a century, this small piece of Venetian land was abandoned, deserted and unclaimed.
Everything changed when Europe was hit by the bubonic plague, which killed millions of people. It was then that inconspicuous Poveglia became a kind of death insulator...
A lot has been written and said about the horrors of that time, but it is hardly possible for a modern person to imagine all the horror that was happening on the streets of European cities. All populated areas were littered with the bodies of dead people, spreading the stench and infection further... There was nowhere to put the dead, and then everyone remembered Poveglia again, making it a kind of isolation ward for victims of the plague. To stop the epidemic, not only corpses were brought to the island, but also living, affected people, leaving them there alone with their death, without help. People, including children and women, were thrown into pits along with their bodies or burned alive to stop the plague with fire. According to the most conservative estimates, more than 160 thousand people were forcibly killed here...
They say that this Bloody Island has not forgotten those times - the top layer of the earth consists of the ashes left after the burning of corpses, so in fact, the people who set foot there walked on corpses, and not reposed, not buried and not inveterate. Even fishermen do not dare to come close to the island.
Monstrous hospital for the mentally ill
Acting as an insulator, as it turned out, was the island’s destiny: in the 20th century it was again used for these purposes. In 1922, a hospital for the mentally ill was opened here, where at that time enemies of the current political regime of Mussolini were also admitted. The chief doctor of this place loved to conduct experiments on his “wards”, using the latest healing methods, which were more reminiscent of medieval torture.
Patients at the clinic often complained that at night they heard strange whispers, moans, crying and even screams. But who will believe the mentally ill? So people who were sick in the head were going completely crazy here. Some forced inhabitants of the island saw people appearing out of nowhere and burning right before our eyes, turning into a pile of ash. All these events went unnoticed until the hospital staff began to hear and see the same things as the patients. The chief doctor died two years later, falling from a bell tower, and the circumstances of his death have not yet been solved: either he committed suicide in a fit of madness, or he was thrown off by crazy people who were tired of enduring bullying.
The body of this cruel man was placed directly in the bell tower, which after that began to ring on its own, frightening everyone who was on this island. The hospital itself existed until 1968, after which all residents left the island, leaving it uninhabited. Now it is closed to tourists, and its territory is heavily guarded against unauthorized intrusion. Who is Poveglia being protected from? Or maybe the government is trying to protect people from it?
Evidence of mystical phenomena
But there are always extreme sports enthusiasts who dream of revealing the secret of Poveglia. The stories of people who risked landing on the terrible island, as a rule, coincide: being on Poveglia is invariably accompanied by an oppressive feeling of vigilant surveillance, which gradually develops into an inexplicable desire to escape as quickly as possible. Many saw ghosts and shadows, heard voices and terrible screams.
In the mid-20th century, one fairly wealthy family received permission to visit Poveglia: they wanted to purchase the island for next to nothing in order to build a country house there. They planned to explore everything and spend the night there, but left before the sun rose. They did not comment on their escape, but one strange and frightening fact leaked to the newspapers: after returning, they immediately sought medical help - their daughter’s face was so disfigured that twenty stitches had to be put in. Who or what drove them off the island is unknown...
There is also “fresh” evidence. In 2007, several Americans decided to quench their thirst for adrenaline by illegally entering the scary island. They later posted a report on their journey on a blog on Myspace. Here he is:
“As we approached Poveglia, we didn’t want to talk. Goosebumps crawled across my skin just looking at this place. And suddenly my friend broke the silence: “Dude, my phone isn’t working!” It turned out that he was telling the truth. All cell phones turned off - not just his. I don't mean there was no reception or anything like that. No, the phones simply switched off and we were unable to revive them. It was as if we had passed through some kind of invisible energy wall.
Finally we landed on the island. Here I must mention that I have a fairly strong psyche: I have visited such places of ill repute more than once and kept my cool. But on the island I felt creepy. It’s difficult to describe the sensations, I just felt some inexplicable evil that surrounded me. You know, when you walk through a cemetery at night or climb into houses that are rumored to be haunted, you feel like someone is watching you, and this, in general, does not bring comfort. But there was more to it than that. “This is probably how people feel when they find themselves in Hell,” my friend said, and I agreed with him. But we didn’t sneak into the protected area in order to escape in a minute, so we had to put all unpleasant feelings aside.
We made our way ashore to start exploring when the boat driver gave us a bit of a scare. I forgot to mention that he had no experience in this kind of work and simply took us to the place for a couple of hundred. So, the driver started waving his hands at us and shouting: “Come back soon! It's time to set sail! We couldn't leave him alone at our own risk - what if this guy panicked and left us on the island, so we decided to leave one of us to guard the boat.
The island turned out to be very gloomy. The silence weighed on my psyche. There were no animals, no birds, no crickets, nothing at all. It seemed that everything that was happening was unreal. We walked up to the main door and took some photos. In the light of the flash, we saw a huge room strewn with various debris. We wandered along the walls for about ten minutes, taking pictures like tourists. My friend suggested climbing inside the building, but the doors and windows were blocked by something. We continued filming the buildings and the bell tower, which, let me tell you, looked quite ominous.
And then there was a scream. It was the most terrible scream I have ever heard. We seemed rooted to the ground and were silent, trying to understand what it was. We were so shocked that we could not speak, and when one of us finally opened his mouth to make a guess, that terrible scream came again. We saw that our driver was simply beside himself with fear, so we rushed to the boat so that we would not be abandoned on this hellish island. I admit that I was also quite uneasy. And that's putting it mildly. For a while it seemed like the engine wouldn’t start, like in a horror movie, but it started and we quickly set sail from the island. These terrible screams still continued. I could not determine the source of the sound - it seemed that the scream was coming from all directions, surrounding us, and we were inside it. And then, when we sailed a little, the bell on that same bell tower began to ring loudly and clearly. This plunged us into even greater horror, because we knew that there was no bell on the tower - it was taken away when Poveglia was closed!
As soon as we moved away from the island, all our phones mysteriously turned on. And then it seemed like it burst through us: we talked and talked like crazy about what had just happened to us. When we returned to Vincenza, we immediately got down to business: we needed to take photographs and tell our story to the world. And imagine our surprise when we saw that we had caught something in the photo! It was a ghost - a clear silhouette of a man who, of course, was not on the island! I showed the photo to my friends - professional photographers, but they could not explain to me what was depicted there. Look closely and you too will see this ghostly guy. 
I must also add that after this memorable journey, quite strange things began to happen to us. It was as if something had followed us from that island. Some simply felt uneasy, others suffered from terrible nightmares, and some clearly heard the sound of falling drops in their homes. They examined every inch of the apartment, checked the pipes, but found no water or leaks. And this did not happen in the same house and not with one person. 
I still don’t know what secrets Poveglia hides, but I’m hesitant to call it just a “haunted island.” It seems to me that real evil lives there.
During outbreaks of the black plague epidemic, one of which covered Europe in the 16th century, Poveglia really turned into hell. Everyone who had already become infected was exiled to the island, be it a commoner or a member of the nobility. It also happened when not only the sick, but also all healthy family members were sent into terrible exile. Thanks to such emergency measures, the number of victims in Venice amounted to only a third of the population, while mainland Italy lost two thirds.
At the height of the epidemic, large numbers of dying people were placed in common burial pits and burned. Undoubtedly, they are present on the island of Poveglia, although no one has undertaken to establish their location. Local historians believe that the part of the island reserved for growing crops was used for such purposes, and 50% of the soil there consists of the ashes of burnt corpses.
These are the discoveries revealed to builders digging the foundation on the neighboring island of Lazzaretto Vecchio...
But let's get back to the horror stories about the insane asylum, built in 1922, and its inhabitants. At least some of the buildings were indeed used as a hospital, as evidenced by the following inscription and the window bars, almost completely swallowed up by ivy and bushes.
The interior decoration of the room adds a vague feeling of a hospital presence: dull, peeling paint, bunk beds and cornices torn from the walls. The picture is complemented by a small chapel with walls green with mold and broken benches, located in the same place.
The boundaries between internal and external space have been practically erased by time: the floor beams have collapsed, the ceiling and window openings have been covered with a dense wall of wicker. If the island itself is hell on Earth, then the psychiatric hospital is the center of hell! There is nothing to add here!
