It started as a spontaneous trip — I jumped in my car, drove north from Christchurch, and headed for Hanmer Springs.

I wasn’t planning a holiday; I was retracing steps that my sister once took in her fight against mental illness.

She spent part of her life at Queen Mary Hospital, a place I had only heard about through family stories filled with sadness, confusion, and unanswered questions.

As I pulled up to the historic gates, surrounded by autumn trees and mountain air, I realised this visit wasn’t just about exploring an abandoned hospital. It was about confronting the past — my family’s past — and finally seeing where my sister Linda Warfield had once searched for help, healing, and peace.

The Queen Mary Hospital complex is hauntingly beautiful. Behind the ivy-covered walls lies a history that mirrors the pain and hope of thousands of New Zealanders who passed through its wards. What was once a proud mental-health institution now stands partly restored, partly in ruin — a relic of how we used to treat people struggling with depression, addiction, and trauma.

Exploring Queen Mary Hospital’s Haunted Legacy

In this blog, I explore the tragic history of Queen Mary Hospital in Hanmer Springs, New Zealand — and how this historic asylum connects to my own family’s story of trauma, survival, and loss.

The Hidden History Behind Queen Mary Hospital

Originally opened in 1916 as the Queen Mary Hospital for Sick and Wounded Soldiers, the facility was built for men returning from the horrors of World War I. These soldiers carried invisible wounds — shell-shock, trauma, and psychological scars few could understand at the time. Over the next century, Queen Mary evolved from a convalescent home into one of New Zealand’s most important mental-health and addiction-treatment centres.

By 1922, it came under civilian control and began treating patients with depression, anxiety, and other nervous conditions. Its design reflected the belief that sunlight, open space, and the alpine air could heal the mind — a philosophy that shaped generations of care in New Zealand’s mental-health system.

From Refuge to Relic

The hospital’s role changed throughout the decades. By the 1970s, it was New Zealand’s national centre for alcoholism and drug-dependency treatment, pioneering approaches like Taha Māori, which reconnected patients with their whānau and ancestors. But while the therapies improved, stigma persisted, and funding cuts in the late 1980s eventually led to its closure in 2003.

Today, Queen Mary stands as both a monument to progress and a reminder of neglect — its peeling paint and broken windows echoing the silence of those who once lived and died within its walls.

My Family’s Connection to Mental Health and Queen Mary Hospital

While documenting this hospital’s story, I can’t help but think of my sister, Linda Warfield, and my stepfather, Robert de Hek — two people I loved dearly, both lost to suicide. Their lives tell the story of how fragile hope can be when institutions and belief systems fail to support those in pain.

Robert de Hek — My Stepfather

Robert immigrated from Holland in the 1970s with his brother Bert. He was witty, charming, and the life of every party — yet beneath his humour, he battled depression. He and my mother, Trish Kidd, were Jehovah’s Witnesses, a religion that discouraged seeking professional help for mental-health struggles.

After the 1979 Mount Erebus disaster, Robert’s mental health spiralled. He took his life shortly afterward — gassing himself in his car at our family camping ground. I was nine years old. The congregation elders came that evening to tell my sister Linda and me that our stepfather was gone. My mother was devastated, consumed with guilt and shame.

For years, she cried herself to sleep, clinging even tighter to the religion that had failed us. We were told suicide was a sin — that it showed “disrespect for life.” The emotional damage of that doctrine shaped everything that followed.

Linda Warfield — My Sister

Linda was only eleven when Robert died. By her teens, she was rebellious, angry, and searching for freedom. As adults, we saw her life descend into a storm of addiction, mental illness, and trauma.

She struggled with postnatal depression after her daughter Samantha was born and later required treatment at Princess Margaret Hospital, Sunnyside Hospital, and Queen Mary Hospital in Hanmer Springs — the very same place I’ve explored in this video.

Linda battled with drug dependency and suicidal ideation for most of her life. There were countless emergency calls, late-night rescues, and near-death experiences. I remember one morning arriving at her home to find Pink Floyd’s The Wall blaring through open windows as she cut herself — I had to drag her to the car and rush her to hospital.

She was placed on suicide watch, but even in a controlled ward, she managed to take her own life on 3 December 1999, the same date and age as our stepfather — 36.

Faith, Silence, and Survival

The Jehovah’s Witnesses forbade us from holding a memorial for Robert, and years later, they refused one for Linda too. My mother, still a devout Witness, believes the organisation more than her own son. The pain of that continues to this day.

At Linda’s funeral, I stood before people who wouldn’t speak to me because I was disfellowshipped. I said:

“This is a sad day for us, but a peaceful day for Linda.”

I wanted them to see her humanity — not the “sin” they had been conditioned to see.

Reflections

Queen Mary Hospital is more than a crumbling relic; it symbolises the failures and hopes of mental-health care in New Zealand. My sister and stepfather’s stories live on in those walls — a reminder of what happens when stigma, religion, and silence replace compassion and science.

Their deaths fuel my determination to speak up about the human cost of cults, religious isolation, and untreated mental illness. This journey through Queen Mary is not just about abandoned buildings — it’s about acknowledging the forgotten, the broken, and the brave who lived their final chapters behind locked doors.

If you or someone you know struggles with depression or suicidal thoughts, please reach out for help — in New Zealand, contact Lifeline (0800 543 354) or 1737 Need to Talk. You’re not alone.

About the Author

I’m DANNY DE HEK, a New Zealand–based YouTuber, investigative journalist, and OSINT researcher. I name and shame individuals promoting or marketing fraudulent schemes through my YOUTUBE CHANNEL. Every video I produce exposes the people behind scams, Ponzi schemes, and MLM frauds — holding them accountable in public.

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