We drove down a short winding lane that had a stone privacy wall with the sign Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital imprinted on a weathered bronze plaque. Other than that, the grounds were misleading. It appeared to be nothing more than an old rambling Victorian house—one you might find in a horror movie where the doors lock you in and the ghost of long dead patients hunt you down with medical instruments.

I had obviously watched one too many episodes of American Horror ...