Cursed Island, NYC

Interrupting the East River between Manhattan and Queens lives a small patch of land called Roosevelt Island. I'll be the first to admit-- I only realized Roosevelt Island existed recently after moving nearby. Prior to that, I was a commuter into the city every day for a year and a half... and never knew this tiny island was quietly sitting there, inhabitable, and furthermore... haunted.

Moving into New York City during a pandemic is... interesting. We came after the peak (at its worst, NYC had a daily infection rate of 12,274 people) but the city still lives very much under the threat of the virus today. I only recently, however, became aware of our neighbor who had been here long before me, before any of us in the city— a silent observer of this repetition of history that had been watching all this time from only a short ferry ride away.

So I had to visit.

Enter: The ruins of the smallpox hospital at the bottom tip of Roosevelt Island, once known as Blackwell Island. New Yorkers in the 1800s infected with smallpox were sent away to suffer at the Gothic hospital and thus, the island itself became a zoo for the sick. "The sick poor— nearby, but distinctly apart." Social reformer and photographer Jacob Riis called the unwilling temporary residents of the island.

Masked up, I hopped the ferry one evening near sunset to tour the grounds and ironically the island felt like an escape from the virus given how sparsely populated it was at dusk.

That is, except for one black cat. I came up on the dead-end road that lead to the back gate of the old facility and suddenly a black cat jumped in my way. Instead of crossing my path though, it led the way down it, jumped through the gate, and disappeared within the dilapidated, ivy-covered hospital.

Meanwhile I moved around the side of the building, marveling in amazement at how run-down an institution could become after seventy years of going untouched. (Which I think we all can relate to, since it's certainly felt like it's been seventy years since quarantine began.)

I continued to wander around the facility, admiring the remnants... that is, until I saw something a little off. The setting sun was catching the sides of the walls so beautifully, and because of it, one distinct black spot stood out. It was what looked like a silhouette of a man tilting out one of the windows, partially hidden by a streak of ivy. At first, I assumed it was just a shadow. But I took a picture, zoomed in, and saw it clearly had a round head and shoulders, with its left arm drooping downward.

The sweet solitude I had been feeling exploring my myself instantly turned to isolated dread. I didn't wait to see if it would move or not— instead, I quickly turned and skidded my way out back the way I came.

Until I met another guardian of the gate...

...this time, it was a white cat. Just sitting and staring up at me.

But then, like the black one, it suddenly disappeared back into the hospital for shelter. I took this as my cue to disappear myself off the island.

I got off that island in a flurry, but on the ferry ride home felt a deep sense of respect for the abandoned hospital. Though crumbled down and overgrown now in 2020, the reminder of the souls lost from a virus centuries ago— as well as the memory of the hospital workers that strived to heal them— still lives inside it.

Along with a couple living (?) inhabitants.