Photo Essay: Lanterman Developmental Center, Pomona, Haunted & Closing

"I wonder what kind of state this place will be in, in five years," I said pessimistically as I wandered through the quiet neighborhood streets of the Lanterman Developmental Center in Pomona, a notoriously haunted place that officially announced its closure in 2010 but won't be totally vacated until the end of this year.

When Lanterman originally opened as the Pacific Colony in 1917 in the nearby town of Walnut, it was devoted to housing the "feeble-minded" as "inmates," protecting society (mostly, the residents of the now-ghost town Spadra) from their "insanity." It moved to its current location in Pomona in 1927. The Colony was renamed the Pacific State Hospital in 1953, when a shift in understanding about disabilities meant that disabled residents were newly considered "patients."

These days, another shift and few new definitions later, disabilities are now seen as "special needs," and Lanterman refers to its residents as "clients."

Lanterman's announced closure in 2010 was heavily opposed by many advocates, parents and family members of its residents, despite its troubled and storied past. During its normal operations, the care facility was heavily criticized for resident injuries and even deaths - some as a result of abuse, others neglect, others under more suspicious circumstances, many not reported. One man was slain, his killer never found.

Walking through the campus on New Year's Day, I could just feel vandals biding their time, waiting for the site to be completely abandoned before coming in and breaking windows, tagging walls, and setting fires. I'm sure ghost-hunters are chomping at the bit.

For now, it's just peaceful and quiet. It hasn't yet become derelict. Some of the buildings are a bit shabby, but nothing is exactly languishing.

Yet.



In fact, most of the grounds still look cared-for: the roses still in bloom, the lawns manicured and fertilized, the gates closed and the doors locked.



But if you figure out how to get into the facility...



...the signs of neglect...



...though in its early stages...



...are evident.



No one waits at the tram stops...



...and the tram remains parked...



...and unmanned.



There is basically no traffic to direct...



...though our car passed a few others, all parked.



On one side of the train tracks, there are operational facilities...



...some still in use, providing support services to the remaining developmentally disabled still receiving treatment.



Some haven't been in use in a long time. The center (including its acute hospital unit) reached its peak in the late 1960s, when its population reached nearly 3000.



It's a huge facility with dozens of buildings along named streets across over 300 acres - much like a military base, much like a planned community, for one reason or another rendered a ghost town. Its current population is less than 10% of its peak.



On the other side of the train tracks, there are staff residences...



...mostly vacated...



...whose lawns need raking...



...whose stoops need sweeping...



...but whose windows remain unbroken, and doors remain locked.



It's interesting to visit a site like this at this stage...



...before it's trespassing...



...before vandalism.



It's pristine.



It's serene.



It's old.



It's dying.



You have to look for the decay - like the flower boxes falling off their widow sills - but it is there.



But there are flowers still, and there is whimsy.



There are plenty of recreational areas, though perhaps no longer being used.



Lanterman Developmental Center must complete its closure and full vacancy by December 31, 2014. It's not abandoned yet, but it will be.

What will become of this sprawling state property and its 120 buildings? Will it be fenced off, or left open for runners and dog-walkers and bicyclists?

Will it attract derelicts and tumbleweeds?

Will the reported hauntings worsen, those who have passed increasingly stirring in their unrest?

Will it be razed? What will be built in its place?

After all, conditions at the nearby facility for the criminally insane, the California Colony, got so bad in the early 1920s that it was shut down, and the LA County Fairgrounds (including Fairplex and the Halloweentime Fearplex) opened in its place, some relics of the former Colony available for occasional touring.
We shall see.

Related Reading:
History of Lanterman Developmental Center (State of California Department of Developmental Services)
The strange but true story of Fearplex at Pomona (InsidetheIE.com)

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Photo Essay: Rancho Los Amigos, Abandoned County Poor Farm, Downey (Exterior)

Photo Essay: Brooklyn's Most Holy Trinity Church, Sanctuary & Triforium, Haunted

Williamsburg, Brooklyn (my old stomping ground) is well-known for its Eastern European populations. These days, it's more for the Polish and the Czechs who have been pushed out of Williamsburg, the East Village, and Greenpoint by encroaching low-income artists and, eventually, young affluents and faux poor hipsters. But long ago, this part of Brooklyn was, like my father's family on the North Side of Syracuse, German.

And not only German, but Roman Catholic.

In fact, there were so many Germans moving into Brooklyn needing religious services, that the Most Holy Trinity Church was rebuilt several times to accommodate the growing congregation - first as a simple frame structure in 1841, in the same place where the present (and third) structure stands.

The second building - brick, with two towers - stood where the current parish school building is today, its cornerstone laid in 1853.



The cornerstone of the current church was laid on Ascension Day in 1882. Because this church was made of sandstone (technically, New Jersey brownstone), it has been and currently is crumbling, so much so that the 20-story-tall spires have been covered to protect them from further damage (and to protect the neighborhood below from flying parts).



There once was a time when a Catholic church could be open all day and all night, but now the church is generally locked outside of its hours of services, although its vestibule is usually open for people to pay a little visit whenever they can.



Any sense of unease may come from the fact that one of the church's former bellkeepers was murdered late one night by robbers (one allegedly a parishioner), so brutally that a bloody handprint was left as evidence on the wall.



Or, perhaps it's because when standing in the vestibule, you're immediately above the crypt where two former pastors are buried, including founding Father Raffeiner, who was buried at a nearby cemetery and then exhumed and relocated to the basement of this church, in approximately the same area he called home and slept nights, in the basement of the first church. (Stay tuned for a crypt photo.)



Aside from its grisly history and cryptic underbelly, the Most Holy Trinity Church also claims its fame as the unnamed "most beautiful church in Brooklyn," as featured in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, the classic novel written by Betty Smith, also a parishioner of the church.



And it is beautiful.



Architect William Schickel modeled it after the French Gothic style of the 13th century, which was popular at the time.



The side walls feature carved Stations of the Cross and stained glass windows from a famed Austrian mosaic glass workshop in Innsbruck.



Most of the ornate windows (except two) depict a number of the important Roman Catholic saints, as well as scenes from the Old and New Testaments. They're all original except one.



There are ornate wood carvings everywhere...





...and an altar made of carved white marble and Caen stone.



The church was designed to look like one that the German immigrants might remember from their hometowns...



...to make them comfortable in their new home...



...and although I learned some new things about German traditions, especially those for Christmas...



...it seemed pretty familiar to me too.



The best part was visiting the areas other than the sanctuary, including climbing the stairs...



...up to the triforium, a catwalk-like gallery level above the ground floor with tri-fold arched openings.



Although the walkway doesn't exactly serve a function (besides housing some radiators for heating), it's a typical feature of Gothic-style churches, meant to lend a sense of mystery to those sitting in the nave below.

And it works. We all couldn't wait to get up there. I spent hours as a child imaging escape routes through those arches.

Stay tuned for more photos from our harrowing trip up even higher into the upper reaches of the church, and down into the dark recesses of the basement.