The first alcohol treatment program I worked in was on the grounds of an old, grim state mental hospital hospital--the administration building looked like something out of a Charles Addams cartoon. The institution still had a great many of the old long-term chronic patients, mostly schizophrenics, before Washington put them on the streets to panhandle (this was in 1974).
On full moon nights there would be unearthly animal-like howls from the back wards, and patients would break away and run around the grounds naked. They would start winding up for this in the daytime before the full moon.
For donkey's years doctors claimed that those of us with arthritis couldn't anticipate a weather change. Those studies also turned out to be blivets.