Lost Patient #331: The Hospital That Cannot Forget Her

In the rolling hills of western Pennsylvania, Glenwood Psychiatric Institute has stood since 1912. Once housing over 2,000 patients, the facility now operates at reduced capacity. The abandoned east wing—closed in 1982—remains locked behind rusted gates and boarded windows. Yet according to dozens of staff members, something still walks those darkened hallways—a patient who was officially discharged more than 65 years ago.

Nineteen-year-old Elizabeth Winters was committed to Glenwood on September 14, 1957, assigned patient number 331-57. Her admission papers cited "extreme melancholia, delusional thinking, and self-harming tendencies" following her parents' death in a house fire. Her primary physician, Dr. Harold Bennett, documented a quiet, withdrawn young woman who "stares at walls for hours" and "communicates primarily through drawings of intricate, geometrically impossible structures."

Elizabeth frequently claimed she could "see through the walls" and that "people from elsewhere" visited her room at night. Nurse Margaret Donovan later recalled, "The Winters girl was different. Never violent, never particularly troubled. Just... elsewhere. Like she was listening to something the rest of us couldn't hear."

Dr. Bennett's treatment included sedatives, hydrotherapy, and eventually electroconvulsive therapy. By April 1958, he documented a breakthrough: "Patient #331 has shown remarkable improvement following completion of ECT series. She no longer reports hallucinations or delusional beliefs."

On May 22, 1958, Elizabeth Winters was officially discharged. Her release papers indicated she would reside with her uncle in Philadelphia. This should have been the end of Elizabeth's story at Glenwood.

It wasn't.

The first documented irregularity occurred three months later when night nurse Clara Watson logged: "2:15 AM - Responded to patient calling out in Room 331. Room is vacant. Found patient file for Winters, E. (#331-57) on the otherwise empty bed."

Two weeks later, maintenance worker George Miller reported finding "a young woman in a hospital gown" in the east wing. When approached, she disappeared around a corner. Security found only a patient identification bracelet bearing the number 331-57 on the floor.

Between 1959 and 1962, hospital logs documented Elizabeth's file repeatedly appearing throughout the east wing, multiple sightings of "a young woman in a hospital gown" in areas where no patients should have been, and night staff finding Room 331 with its bed made up despite being officially unoccupied.

In March 1963, following an incident where a new patient in Room 331 suffered an unexplained seizure and afterward insisted she had shared the room with "a girl who came through the wall," administrators investigated. They discovered Elizabeth's uncle had died three months before her supposed discharge, and there was no record of Elizabeth obtaining identification or employment anywhere in the country after 1958.

The most disturbing evidence emerged in November 1968, when the hospital's annual staff photograph showed an unexpected figure: standing at the back of the group was a young woman no one recognized—a thin, pale figure in what appeared to be an outdated patient gown. Staff who had known Elizabeth noted the uncanny resemblance, though administration attributed it to a film processing error.

During the east wing's closure in 1982, facilities director Frank Morgan documented a disturbing discovery in Room 331: "Despite this room being unoccupied for at least 7 months, the bed appears recently used. Room contains personal effects including a journal with drawings similar to those described in Elizabeth's original file. The final page contained a single sentence: 'They're letting me see through now.'"

After the east wing's closure, the phenomena migrated to the central building. Staff continued to document the unexplained appearance of Elizabeth's file in secured areas, sightings of a young woman in outdated hospital attire, and electronic anomalies—particularly around May 22, the anniversary of her discharge.

In 2011, Dr. Maya Patel reported finding a young woman in her office: "When I asked her name, she said, 'Elizabeth,' and told me she was 'still waiting for Dr. Bennett to finish my treatment.' She said, 'Time moves differently when you can see through the walls.' I turned to access my computer, and when I looked back, the chair was empty. Security footage shows no one entering or leaving my office."

In 2018, archivists digitizing historical records discovered conflicting documentation. Elizabeth's file contained not discharge papers but a death certificate, signed by Dr. Bennett, listing her date of death as May 22, 1958—the same day as her supposed discharge—with the cause listed as "cardiac arrest following treatment complications."

A handwritten note from Dr. Bennett stated: "Patient #331-57 exhibited extreme distress during final treatment. Before cardiac event, patient grasped my arm and stated: 'I can see through now. They're showing me how to move through. I won't be gone.'"

County records contain no death certificate for Elizabeth Winters, and hospital burial records from 1958 show no entry for patient #331-57. The conflicting documents—one showing Elizabeth discharged and another recording her death—have never been reconciled.

Today, Glenwood's administration officially dismisses the stories as institutional folklore. Nevertheless, the phenomena continue. The most recent documented incident occurred on May 22, 2024, when the electronic medical records system experienced an unexplained failure affecting only patients in rooms with numbers ending in "31." When restored, each affected file contained the same unauthorized progress note: "Still here. Still waiting. Can you see through yet?" The digital signature read simply: "#331-57."

Whatever happened to Elizabeth Winters—whether she walked out of Glenwood alive or never left at all—her presence continues to be felt within its walls. Her file periodically reappears, her voice occasionally echoes down empty corridors, and every year on the anniversary of her discharge or death, the staff are reminded that some patients, for reasons science cannot explain, simply refuse to leave.