Any decaying structure that has once harbored children seems to become the loneliest place on earth. Perhaps it is the happy paintings on the walls flaking and melting into grotesque shapes, or the once brightly colored toys and dolls turning dull and rusty in a stagnant pool of water.
But Pennhurst, where children were unable to control their actions and incapable of defending themselves, seemed like a seething pit of despair to many long before it's doors closed. The stories of abuse and neglect swim through your head while walking the pitch black tunnels that connect the buildings together. Relics left behind can only tell a part of the story; children's Halloween costumes rotting in the attic, sheets and clothes strewn about, and wheelchairs and gurneys with restraint straps at their sides are only shadows of the people who have lived their entire lives withing the confines of these wards.