Creepiest Places 50 TRUE Abandoned & Isolated Horror Stories 😱

Creepiest Places 50 TRUE Abandoned & Isolated Horror Stories 😱

Elias resided in a substantial urban sprawl, 
a stones throw from a bustling metropolis. The town was bisected by active rail lines, a 
constant thrum beneath their existence. Where the main thoroughare met this iron serpent, an old, 
forgotten correctional facility, lay dormant, it predated Elias’s own memory, a looming structure 
largely hidden from public consciousness. Only his tight-knit circle, particularly Maya, an 
avid urban explorer who had delved into countless forgotten industrial sites in neighboring cities, 
was privy to its existence. Upon learning of such a prime target within their own local, Mia’s 
enthusiasm was contagious. The trio, Elias, his lifelong friend Ben, and Maya, eagerly seized 
the chance. While Elias had never embarked on such an adventure, his initial excitement soon mingled 
with a sense of unease as the access route became clear. The prison’s rear bordered a residential 
development established barely a decade prior, forcing them to leave their vehicle discreetly at 
the end of a culde-sac. From there, their journey led them across a shallow trench and into a wild 
expanse of uncultivated land. A narrow track, barely discernible beneath a shroud of towering 
weeds snaked its way towards their destination. Despite a profusion of weatherbeaten private 
property notices, the path’s persistence confirmed its regular use. They pressed on for what felt 
like endless minutes, eventually emerging onto a barren clearing where a cracked asphalt road 
stretched out, seemingly inviting them in, yet stopping just short of the main compound. As they 
finally breached the perimeter of the abandoned facility, Elias’s gaze fell upon a derelict 
conservatory. Its glass panes shattered, likely once a storage area for supplies or perhaps even a 
meager attempt at horiculture. Beyond it, skeletal watchtowers crowned with coils of rusted barbed 
wire pierced the sky. Dotting the grounds were smaller squat buildings which Elias speculated 
might have served as instructional spaces or medical facilities. They opted to systematically 
investigate each structure, beginning with what appeared to be an old schoolhouse. Its interior 
had been stripped bare, save for a grimy blackboard on which faded names were scrolled. The 
sight of those names sent a shiver down Elias’s spine, a sensation that persisted throughout 
their visit. However, it was the small windowless chamber at the rear of that building, a probable 
storage closet, that truly unnerved him. He kept his apprehension to himself, but a distinct 
presence seemed to cling to the shadows within. Though his eyes strained in the encroaching gloom, 
he perceived nothing tangible. Having set out in the waning afternoon, the trek to the prison meant 
dusk was already gathering as their exploration   truly began. The unsettling aura intensified, 
prompting Elias to linger outside as Ben and Mia ventured deeper. Yet the etched names on the 
blackboard remained vivid in his mind, lending an unsettling authenticity to the palpable gloom. The 
realization that human lives, whether extinguished or simply moved on, had once transpired within 
these walls deepened the creepiness. Pushing further into the central yard, they discovered a 
cluster of modest brick dwellings, their facades marred by discarded, ruined furnishings. Inside 
these dilapidated structures, a recurring tableau awaited them. shattered glass, crude graffiti, 
and drawers overflowing with faded paperwork bearing names and fragments of personal histories. 
Most striking, however, were the modern remnants, spent fireworks, and crumpled fast food rappers. 
These contemporary traces, while intriguing, were equally disquing, suggesting recent 
unauthorized visits. Elias silently hoped these prior trespassers shared their innocent 
curiosity, not something more sinister. This unsettling pattern continued until they entered a 
particular small house where an innocuous detail profoundly affected Elias. Beneath a fractured 
floor tile, a tattered document lay partially exposed. Elias retrieved it without much thought, 
but as he replaced it and stepped out into the chill air, an inexplicable shift occurred in the 
atmosphere. A profound weight settled upon him, a sensation he recognized from past encounters 
with certain objects, a cherished family heirloom, for instance. It was a peculiar sensitivity he 
knew was difficult to articulate or prove. Yet, it was undeniably real. This time, the 
object imbued him with an overwhelming wave of desolation. A profound sadness permeated 
the very fabric of the derelict building. A sorrow so immense it felt less like a residue and 
more like an active presence. It wasn’t hostile, not truly, but a melancholic yearning, a silent 
plea that seemed to seek recognition. This place, I intuitively understood, harbored a story, one it 
desperately wished to share, demanding attention for its neglected history. Such a site shouldn’t 
languish in forgotten shadows. Its narrative deserved either preservation or a purposeful 
reinterpretation. Despite these potent internal stirrings, I chose to maintain a cheerful facade 
for Ben and Maya, intent on keeping our excursion light-hearted. Yet, my friends, ever perceptive, 
recognized the shift in my demeanor, the quiet reservation that had settled upon me. From that 
moment, a profound reverence guided my every step. I felt instinctively that any disrespect, 
any flippant disregard for the weighty energy present would shatter the fragile equilibrium. 
The afternoon light was now rapidly fading, casting long, spectral shadows as we advanced 
towards the main prison block itself. Its central hall offered little in the way of intriguing 
discoveries. It had been thoroughly stripped,   its vast expanse echoing with emptiness, save for 
the surprisingly intact original timber flooring. As we ventured deeper, a corridor unfolded before 
us, adorned with what appeared to be the emblem of a long-defunct local government entity, 
an archaic design I barely recognized. But it was the other markings that truly arrested my 
attention. Stark, sprawling graffiti, the insignia of formidable gangs I knew were prevalent 
across the US and parts of South America. The remoteness of the prison made their presence 
unsettlingly in congruous, a stark reminder that this isolated spot could be a magnet for any 
number of illicit activities, and that we too were vulnerable should others appear. Adjacent 
to the gang tags, etched with chilling precision, was a detailed pentagram. Of all the strange and 
unsettling sights we’d encountered, this image, with its occult implications, struck the deepest 
chord of fear within me. a ritual here. I couldn’t entirely dismiss the thought, though I desperately 
hoped it hadn’t escalated to anything as gruesome   as a sacrifice or a dark spell. Our progress was 
eventually halted by a formidable locked bar door, the kind straight out of an old western movie. 
Predictably, Ben, with his characteristic impulsiveness, grabbed the camera from me. “Get 
a shot,” he grinned, me pretending to be trapped behind bars. “It’ll be hilarious. Just as he 
stepped up, positioning his face between the rusted iron, a deafening crash ripped through the 
oppressive silence of the prison’s interior. A massive glass window had shattered somewhere 
deep within the building, its unseen impact   reverberating through the heavy stone. In that 
instant, the atmospheric pressure shifted once more. The energy wasn’t malevolent towards me, but 
a subtle fury now pulsed through the air, distinct from the sorrow I’d felt earlier. It was as though 
Ben’s mocking gesture, his casual trivialization of the confinement endured by the souls whose 
names we’d seen on blackboards and documents,   had ignited an undeniable wrath. Our protective 
veil, I realized with a chilling certainty, had vanished. “Let’s go, guys,” I heard myself 
stammer, the words barely a whisper. “I don’t feel safe here anymore.” Without another 
moment’s hesitation, we turned and fled. As we retraced our steps along the overgrown path, 
I couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched. An unseen presence observing our retreat, purging 
our departure from the prison grounds. A quick glance over my shoulder revealed nothing. Yet, the 
profound melancholy returned. A wistful sorrow, as if the very essence of the place pleaded with 
me not to abandon its story entirely. Back in the car, I tried to articulate the profound shifts 
and feelings I’d experienced. But Ben and Maya, while acknowledging the coolness of our finds, the 
antiquated documents, and grim prison equipment, remained largely unconvinced by my more abstract 
musings. They saw history. I felt it. That very night, consumed by a restless curiosity, I 
initiated a quick online search for the prison. My initial query autocorrected, “Haunted prison.” 
Indeed, a Wikipedia page appeared, offering a chilling backdrop to its history. Opened in 
1909 during a period of intense racial tension following reconstruction, the facility primarily 
housed African-American prisoners. The story grew even darker. A recent federal excavation 
had unearthed a non-contemporary human bone, leading to the discovery of an unmarked 
burial ground containing over 95 bodies. My earlier desolation, my sense of an unheard 
story, was now horrifyingly validated. My freshman year of college in North Dakota began with the 
usual low periods of downtime offering little   to stimulate the mind in a place I’d called home 
my entire life. I recount this memory now, fully aware of its improbable nature. Yet, I assure 
you, every detail is etched into my experience. This particular saga unfolded with Ben and Maya, 
our small circle of friends. One unremarkable evening. North Dakota, especially late on a 
weekday night for someone 18, doesn’t exactly brim with exciting opportunities. We’d initially 
sought refuge from boredom at a friend’s place. But restlessness soon set in, prompting us to take 
the car out for a drive. Our expedition led us down a road I’d never followed to its conclusion. 
One that gradually shed its asphalt skin to become a desolate dirt track winding through endless 
fields. Several miles into this rural expanse, amidst a forgotten conversation, I remember 
uttering a foolish wish. Man, I am mused. I wish something truly terrifying or unexplainable 
would happen to us. from the passenger seat. Ben, ever the pragmatist with a hint of something 
more shot back, “Be careful what you wish for, Elias.” I know, I know it sounds like a cliche 
straight out of a horror movie setup, but at the time, I genuinely dismissed it as idol chatter. 
We navigated that labyrinth of dusty trails for another hour or two before finding our way back 
to paved roads and eventually home. The night   having offered nothing beyond a scenic, albeit 
uneventful, detour. The following night, the same pervasive boredom descended upon us around 
2:00 in the morning. Our aimless drive brought us back to the general vicinity of the previous 
night near the 52nd Street where an infamous landmark beckoned. It was an abandoned property, a 
decrepit house, half a bus with its rear violently ruptured, and a garage that carried a faint 
unsettling scent of strawberry candy, a telltale sign, I’d later learn of a makeshift meth lab. The 
local kids had long since vandalized the place, but the eerie aura was less about mere mischief 
and more about a profoundly tragic history. The bus, we knew, had been the epicenter of a meth 
lab explosion, a blast that had claimed lives. Our morbid curiosity wasn’t about seeking thrills 
at others expense, but a strange draw to places steeped in dark energy, much like the prison. 
As we drove past a brightly lit Walmart, Maya, who possesses an almost uncanny sensitivity to her 
surroundings, suddenly exclaimed, her voice tight with unease. Did anyone else see that? A black cat 
just darted across our path. We should turn back, Elias. I have a really bad feeling about this. 
Ben and I, less inclined to superstition, exchanged glances and pressed on, dismissing her 
apprehension. Upon reaching the abandoned house, the need for a bathroom break became unavoidable. 
Ben and I headed north closer to the dilapidated structure while Maya ventured south towards the 
denser shadows of the forest. Having relieved ourselves, Ben and I were just returning to the 
car when from behind a large pile of rubble in the middle of the overgrown clearing, we distinctly 
heard a soft rustling like someone slowly shifting in dry grass. We froze, eyes wide, before bolting 
back towards the car. As we reached it, Ben and Maya, their faces pale, were already there, their 
eyes mirroring our terror. “Two really heavy footsteps,” Ben stammered, one right after the 
other, like someone was trying to walk quietly, but just couldn’t help but make a massive sound 
with their second step. “We quickly corroborated our stories, everyone scrambling to get into the 
car. But Ben and I, fueled by a misguided need to rationalize, hesitated. “Let’s just throw some 
rocks,” I suggested. “Prove it’s an animal.” We each grabbed a handful of pebbles and counting to 
three, hurled them towards the invisible source of the noise. The pebbles skittered across the 
clearing with a faint rattle, then silence. For a tense 2 seconds, nothing happened. Then 
the distinct sound returned slower this time. A deliberate roll in the dry grass followed by 
what sounded like something beginning to rise. That was all the confirmation we needed. We were 
out of there. I spun the car in a tight circle, exiting the makeshift parking area at a cautious 
10 m an hour. As my headlights swept over the rubble pile, I instinctively slowed, allowing 
the beams to fully illuminate the area for a few agonizing seconds. what I saw in that brief 
horrifying tableau remains etched in my mind to this day. About 20 ft beyond the mound of 
dirt, roofing debris, and tall reedy grass, between the dense shrubbery, a head tentatively 
emerged. It was a perfectly human-shaped head adorned with an utterly featureless all-white 
mask, not a crude slasher film prop, but something unnervingly smooth and blank. It peered over 
the debris, its blank gaze seemingly fixed on us before swiftly realizing my car wasn’t leaving 
as quickly as it had anticipated and ducking back down into the concealing shadows with incredible 
speed. The spectral head, a perfect human shape devoid of features, gleamed an unsettling, 
eggy white, utterly hairless, it moved with the calculated stealth of someone caught unawares in 
the glare of headlights, peeking over a dirt mound   before swiftly retreating. My friends, however, 
were already focused on their desperate escape, missing the fleeting horror as I instinctively 
slowed the car for a final terrifying glance. Shaken to my core, I couldn’t process what I’d 
seen. And my companions, having missed the visual, seemed largely unconvinced by my stammering 
account. As we drove past the bright beacon of Walmart, a stark silhouette materialized in the 
middle of the road. A black cat, perfectly still, save for the casual, almost mocking flick of its 
tail, waited patiently. I eased the car to a halt, pointing out the peculiar obstruction. Maya, her 
earlier premonitions returning, began to visibly tremble. For what felt like an eternity, the cat’s 
intense gaze locked onto mine, a silent communion. Then, with an almost deliberate lack of urgency, 
it turned and padded into the concealing depths   of the cornfield, heading precisely towards 
the abandoned house. We reversed quickly into the Walmart parking lot, seeking refuge from 
its uncanny path before grabbing gas and some muchneeded snacks at a nearby station. A peculiar 
mix of bravado and scientific curiosity compelled us to return to the abandoned site. This time, 
choosing a different approach, avoiding the   cat’s last known direction. Armed with a pocket 
full of larger stones, we attempted to provoke a reaction to prove our experience was nothing more 
than an animal. But the clearing remained silent, the air still. Nothing happened. Defeated 
and anticlimactic, we eventually called it a night. The strange tale of the lurking figure 
and the sentinel cat relegated to an unresolved, slightly embarrassing anecdote. The following 
night, the familiar grip of late hour boredom returned, drawing me into another aimless 
drive. This time, my companions were Shawn, Jared, Christian, and Colin. As we cruised along 
in my car past 2 in the morning, I recounted the unsettling events of the previous evening. 
Yet, despite the narrative’s eerie undertones, I hadn’t truly grasped the depth of its 
implications. It’s astonishing, I reflected, how much we can witness how many unsettling pieces 
can fall into place without ever truly connecting them into a coherent hole. I mentioned a deserted 
church shown to me once by a friend roughly 45 minutes away. With sleep far from anyone’s mind, 
the decision to investigate was unanimous. After a drive just under an hour, we passed a familiar 
restaurant off Highway 10 and turned onto a winding dirt road that ascended into the desolate 
countryside. The church, a solitary sentinel, stood at top a large hill, seemingly in the middle 
of nowhere. For some inexplicable reason, ground light still cast an ethereal glow upon its ancient 
facade. A dilapidated trailer, its former purpose long forgotten, slumped in a field that served 
as an improvised parking lot beside the church, beyond which lay nothing but endless fields and 
towering trees for half a mile in any direction. It was now almost 2:45 a.m., the silence profound, 
broken only by Jared’s amusing observation that he could smell fresh pizza from the distant 
restaurant. As we surveyed our surroundings, a subtle dip in the landscape drew our attention. A 
small valley leading to another higher hill about half a mile away. From its crest, an unnerving 
spectacle unfolded. An array of orange lights flickering wildly like a chaotic bonfire danced in 
the distance. And if we strained, truly strained, our ears, we could almost discern faint rhythmic 
sounds like distant voices rising and falling. The dancing shadows around the lights evoked images 
of a primal pow-wow, a ritualistic gathering. Partially obscured by the intervening trees, 
the vision was too compelling to ignore,   especially with the other hill promising a better 
vantage. Compelled, we began our trek towards it, leaving the quiet church behind. At the edge of 
the church’s overgrown field, a well-worn path revealed itself. A silent invitation leading 
precisely towards the mysterious lights. We plunged into the profound darkness, following 
the gentle incline of the trail for a/4 mile. It was then, excitement buzzing from my newly 
acquired camera that I decided to snap a Polaroid. I positioned my friends with the church far behind 
them, too distant to be anything more than a blur   in the frame. Another quarter mile of climbing 
brought us to the summit of the second hill, the one we had seen so full of life and activity. 
But as we crested it, a chilling silence met us. There was no one there, no lights. We hadn’t heard 
a single sound since we began our journey down the path. Our forced attempts at levity had evaporated 
on that barren hilltop. The laughter and teasing meant to stave off the gnawing fear had masked the 
stark silence that now enveloped us. We had been too busy trying to pretend we weren’t scared 
to register the lack of any sound, any human   presence as we climbed. There was no trace of 
fire, no discarded belongings, just empty space. The realization was stark. With heavy hearts, 
we retraced our steps, taking a ciruitous route back to the deserted church. Inside, 
the church was a shell of its former self, desolate and tinged with a faint, unsettling aura. 
We didn’t linger, exchanging a few nervous jibes before retreating back into the night. Jared and 
I gravitated towards my car, while Christian, Shawn, and Colin were momentarily distracted by 
a medium-sized black dog. they spotted chasing it playfully across the field. I should have 
recognized the recurring motif of black animals, then the unsettling pattern that seemed to follow 
me, but the thought didn’t quite click. As Jared and I leaned against my car, he drew my attention 
to a curious inconsistency. “Elias,” he began, his voice lowered. “There aren’t any houses 
nearby. How did we smell fresh pizza so distinctly earlier?” I reasoned it must have been from the 
distant restaurant we’d passed. But he continued, glancing towards the dilapidated trailer near the 
church. When we drove by it earlier, it looked like it had been closed since at least midnight. 
A chill snaked up my spine. He was right. Then my mind connected another unusual detail. Where 
would a domestic dog, clearly not a farm animal, come from at this hour in such a remote location? 
My playfulness evaporated. Everyone back in the car. We’re leaving. I reversed my car from our 
discrete parking spot, swinging it around to exit the field. As my headlights swept across the open 
expanse, a lone figure stood frozen in the middle of our path. The black dog. The others, now back 
in the car, collectively tensed. It simply stood there, an unblinking sentinel, staring directly 
at us. I edged the car forward, needing to pass, but it remained motionless. As I drew within 20 ft 
of the creature, which appeared to weigh between 20 and 30 lb, a horrifying realization dawned on 
me. It wasn’t a dog. It was a rabbit. A colossal, impossibly large, entirely black rabbit. The 
biggest I had ever seen. The car screeched to a halt. In that instant, as if it sensed our 
discovery, the giant rabbit bolted. Not into the fields, but directly towards the rickety trailer. 
It stopped beside it, turning to face us again, its dark eyes fixed, almost inviting us to 
follow. Shawn, ever the thrillseker, muttered, “If a mythical rabbit beckons, perhaps we should 
answer.” Colin, however, was vehemently opposed. Yet an undeniable pull, a strange magnetism, 
urged us forward, leaving the engine idling, we disembarked. The rabbit waited patiently, 
allowing us to jog within 10 ft before vanishing, not into the sparse trees behind the trailer, but 
inexplicably underneath it. I quickly activated my iPhone’s flashlight. The beam cut through 
the darkness, illuminating the underside of the trailer, revealing nothing but shadows and 
dust. The rabbit was gone, leaving no trace. The small clump of trees behind offered no plausible 
escape route. Our search yielded nothing. We were, however, now standing right beside the trailer. 
It was ancient, at least two decades old, propped on bricks with its wheels blocked, its 
structure visibly crumbling. I peered at the main door. “It’s locked,” I announced from 
the outside. Just as we prepared to leave, Shaun’s voice cut through the stillness. “Wait,” 
he said, an idea sparking in his eyes, he spotted an empty SevenUp can in my car. “Elias, remember 
that trick from 9th grade?” “With a soda can, you can pick a lock with it.” I knew the trick, 
cutting an M shape from the can, folding it, and jiggling it into a combination lock. a 
long dormant skill now strangely relevant. I agreed to try. I fashioned a makeshift pick 
and approached the trailer. The trailer had a fold down spring-loaded step boosting me up to the 
level of the door. I stepped onto it, the rusted metal groaning under my weight, and inserted the 
canpick into the lock. I worked for no more than 10 seconds, my fingers nimble, when a deafening 
bang reverberated from inside the door, a violent tremor that I felt as much as heard. I recoiled 
instantly, leaping off the step, leaving the pick still embedded in the lock. My friends, stunned, 
had no idea what had happened, but my instinct screamed danger. Something hit me from inside 
the door. I stammered, my voice barely a whisper. We didn’t need another warning. We scrambled back 
into the car and tore away, speeding onto the highway, hitting 60 m an hour and not looking 
back. About 10 minutes into our frantic drive home as I tried to process the event, I began 
to voice my theories. Perhaps the rabbit had somehow climbed through a hole in the floor of the 
trailer, causing the noise. But then Jared spoke, articulating a thought that chilled us all to the 
bone. Elias, he said, his voice grave. The trailer was padlocked from the outside. What if there was 
someone in there? Someone tied up, gagged, unable to scream for help, and all they could do was bang 
on the side. The implication hung heavy in the air, a horrifying possibility that eclipsed every 
other strange encounter of the night. The chilling implications of Jared’s words hung heavy in the 
air, a silent accusation of our morbid curiosity. We were speeding the fear a tangible passenger in 
the car when Shawn suddenly shouted from the back seat, “Dear!” My eyes snapped up. There, in the 
dead center of our lane on the two-lane highway, stood a black silhouette. Not startled, not 
crossing, but facing us, perfectly still, like a sentinel awaiting our approach. It was 
another one, another unnervingly placid animal. Instinctively, I slammed on what I thought was 
the brake, intending to swerve onto the shoulder, but my foot, trembling from adrenaline, hit the 
accelerator instead. The car surged forward. That deer, an immovable statue moments before, didn’t 
flinch until my swerve began. Then, inexplicably, it bolted in the same direction, running alongside 
my car as if intent on a collision. The accidental burst of speed became our improbable salvation. 
I watched, horrified, through my driver’s side window as its frantic form raced mere inches 
from the glass. I swear I could have reached out and touched its coarse fur. We barely cleared 
it, the near impact shaking us to our cores. The drive home was a blur of silence, punctuated by 
ragged breaths, the eerie incidents of the night relegated for the moment to a strange, almost 
unbelievable adventure. My fascination with forsaken places, however, remained undimemed. 
Urban exploration was more than a hobby. It was a compulsion, a quest for forgotten narratives. 
I kept tabs on online communities, always on the lookout for fresh, untouched sites. That’s how 
I stumbled upon it. A post detailing an immense industrial complex nestled about 90 minutes from 
my home. It was described as a sleeping behemoth, largely overlooked with a reputation for 
surprisingly lack security, especially under   the cover of night. A veritable treasure trove 
for a photographer like me. That very weekend, my backpack loaded with equipment, I set out, 
the lure of the unknown pulling me further into the darkness. I left my car tucked away amongst 
some dense foliage, ensuring it was invisible from the road, then navigated a short stretch of 
overgrown clearing to get a better vantage. The factory was colossal, a sleeping titan of brick 
and steel, its exterior still faintly illuminated by sporadic aged lights. I could discern a lone 
security patrol vehicle slowly circling on a rough dirt track, a testament to its official, if 
prefuncter, vigilance. The online tip, however, promised a loophole. I soon located a sturdy 
outdoor staircase that inexplicably remained unsealed. Ascending its creaking steps, I reached 
the rooftop, the whispered gateway. The view from above was breathtakingly grim, a sprawling canvas 
of industrial decay. Photography was my fervent passion, and this was an unparalleled subject. 
I spent a good while capturing the desolate panorama, adding to my private archive of urban 
ghosts. Then, flashlight beam piercing the gloom, I began my descent into the facto’s heart. It was 
a cavernous, unsettling space, a photographers’s dream of shadows and textures. Every step was a 
careful deliberation. Sections of flooring had long since collapsed, and others were bridged 
by precarious makeshift planks laid by previous trespassers. Bats flitted silently overhead, 
their presence marked by the pervasive smell of droppings and the skeletal remains scattered 
amongst the rubble and discarded trash. Graffiti adorned every surface, a riot of rebellious color 
against the grim concrete. But my true objective lay deeper, the basement. I was convinced it held 
the darkest secrets, the most compelling visual stories. I just captured a few blurry shots of 
the circling bats. They never quite came out right when my gaze fixed on the phone screen. I 
missed it. The floor simply vanished. One moment I was walking, the next I was plummeting into an 
abyss of absolute darkness. A searing pain ripped through my leg, then my back. I think I blacked 
out, if only for a few disorienting seconds. When consciousness returned, my flashlight 
lay tantalizingly out of reach. A solitary, impotent star glimmering at the far end of what 
felt like a vast subterranean chamber. I was deep down. Every instinct screamed at me to retrieve 
it, but the darkness was absolute, and as I tried to crawl, my hands instinctively recoiled from 
something. The fall ended not with a soft landing, but a jarring thud, immediately compounded by the 
sickening crunch of something brittle beneath my   weight. I lay spled across a treacherous field 
of shattered glass, the casual destruction of previous trespassers. The very air seemed to 
prickle with invisible slivers. My flashlight, a vital beacon, lay agonizingly out of reach in 
the oppressive darkness. Every inch of my slow, deliberate crawl towards it on hands and knees 
was a calculated risk against further injury. When my fingers finally closed around the familiar 
cold metal, I switched it on, bathing my immediate surroundings in a shaky, uncertain being. What it 
revealed stole the breath from my already aching lungs. The pit I’d fallen into wasn’t a singular 
void. It was merely a treacherous ledge in a much larger chasm. Barely a few feet from where I lay, 
another gaping m plunged into absolute darkness, a terrifying drop straight into the facto’s 
deepest recesses, the basement I had sought. It was a fall that would have undoubtedly claimed 
my life. Some unseen debris, a pile of forgotten industrial detritis, had fortuitously broken my 
initial plummet, leaving me battered but alive, spared from a far more gruesome fate. My 
flashlight confirmed the grim reality, there was no obvious way out. Panic clawed at 
my throat. While the thought of being discovered by security was preferable to being trapped 
indefinitely, the spectre of legal charges, fines, or even a lawsuit loomed large. A sharp stab in 
my back reminded me of my physical limitations. Resigning myself for a moment, I clicked off 
the beam, conserving the precious battery, knowing its depletion would signal the true end. 
The darkness swallowed me whole as I wrestled with desperate options. Should I risk the deeper 
plunge to the basement? My legs throbbed, my back screamed in protest. Could my body even survive 
such an impact, let alone navigate a potentially sealed or even more dangerous subterranean 
level? A quick sweep with the flashlight before I powered it down had confirmed it. I was 
in a natural fissure, a gaping wound in the earth, and there was no handhold, no crumbling pipe, 
nothing to aid an escape. A flicker of hope ignited my cell phone. Why hadn’t I thought of 
it sooner? Fumbling it from my pocket, I tried to dial, only for a stark, no signal message to 
mock me from the shattered screen. Adding insult to injury, the impact had cracked the display, a 
minor inconvenience compared to my predicament, but a cruel irony nonetheless. The phone confirmed 
my terrifying isolation. For what felt like an eternity, but which the phone’s broken clock 
later confirmed to be a grueling 24 hours, I sat in that oppressive dark, alone and utterly 
terrified. My shouts for help were swallowed by the cavernous space, met only by the echo of my 
own despair. This heavily patrolled facility, usually deserted during daylight hours, offered no 
solace. The hours crawled by in a blur of pain and agony. It’s in such desperate moments that the 
most chilling thoughts take root. What if I’m never found? What if this is where I end my days? 
A forgotten skeleton in a forgotten factory. The grim reality of my potential demise, of becoming 
another ghost in this industrial graveyard, began to weigh heavily, slowly, terrifyingly, convincing 
me this could be the end. Providentially, my story didn’t end there. A distant sound, faint 
but distinct, pierced the suffocating silence, footsteps in that massive echoing complex sound 
traveled far, and the hope of rescue surged through me. I didn’t care who it was. I simply 
screamed, my voice raw and desperate, pouring every ounce of remaining energy into a plea for 
help. Two figures materialized above, their forms silhouetted against the dim light filtering from 
the upper levels. They were two men built and seemingly well equipped, fellow explorers drawn 
by the same morbid curiosity. Within minutes, they located me, then swiftly retrieved a rope from 
their truck, an incredibly fortunate convenience. One of them, bracing himself, descended into 
the pit. As he helped me, I realized somewhat sheepishly that the drop hadn’t been quite as 
formidable as my panic-stricken mind had made   it seem. I still wouldn’t have managed it alone, 
but with assistance, escape was entirely feasible. They hauled me out, asking if I was capable of 
driving. After a few tentative steps, the initial shock wearing off, I confirmed I’d be able to 
manage. My gratitude spilled out in a torrent of thanks. One of the men, perhaps sensing a kindred 
spirit or simply being friendly, asked for my number, which I provided without hesitation. The 
long drive home was a blur. It was Sunday night, and I had endured close to, if not more, than 
24 harrowing hours trapped within that decaying behemoth. That terrifying ordeal marked the abrupt 
end of my urban exploration days. The thrill, the compulsion had been violently extinguished. 
Even now, years removed from the thrill, the compulsion to explore, I find myself replaying 
those moments that solidified my decision to step away. The factory was the breaking point, yes, but 
it wasn’t an isolated incident. There were others, quieter perhaps, but equally insidious, chipping 
away at my resolve, subtly twisting my perception of reality within those derelict walls. One 
particular memory from a time I was still chasing the rush, comes to mind. It’s why I now 
caution others, urging them to prioritize safety, to always bring equipment, and never to venture 
alone, for the hidden dangers of these abandoned spaces are always greater than they seem. 
My fascination with the forgotten corners of our city ran deep. I’d always had a knack for 
spotting the overlooked, the obscure entry points into structures long given up for lost. Our small 
city, though not teeming with queen students, as some others might be, still held its share 
of decrepit, intriguing sights. I’d hone my skills over countless outings. My relatively lean 
frame often allowing me to slip through gaps that others couldn’t. My prior encounters with the 
inexplicable had certainly deepened my caution, but they hadn’t yet extinguished the drive. 
I remained largely unscathed by human malice, though the non-human kind was proving to be 
another matter. Not long before my ultimate retreat from urban exploration, I’d been keenly 
observing a particular building for weeks. Gaining entry proved surprisingly easy. Despite my 
usual companions, Ben and Maya, being unavailable or disincined for this particular venture, I 
convinced a less adventurous acquaintance to join me. I was a risk-taker, but not entirely reckless. 
I knew better than to go entirely alone. However, this friend proved far more susceptible to 
the inherent creepiness of the place than   I anticipated, opting to remain near the main 
entrance while I ventured deeper. Arguing would only cause a ruckus, potentially alerting unwanted 
attention. So, I simply grabbed my flashlight and camera bag, and pressed on. The building was far 
larger than its exterior suggested, a labyrinth of forgotten rooms and shadowed corridors. As I 
moved through the oppressive gloom, my flashlight beam cutting through the thick, almost tangible 
dust moes, I stumbled upon a tattered journal. Its pages were filled with strange angular script that 
I couldn’t place despite my passing familiarity with several languages. It was undecipherable, 
accompanied by intricate mathematical formulas that employed symbols I’d never encountered 
in any calculus class. These equations were interspersed with detailed astronomical charts 
depicting planetary alignments and the zodiac. A cold knot tightened in my stomach when I noticed 
my own birth sign was heavily circled, underlined, and repeatedly scrolled within the margins. It 
was a bizarre, intensely personal detail that immediately put me on edge. I tried to rationalize 
it, convincing myself it was a mere coincidence, yet the inexplicable sense of being watched 
intensified with every passing moment. My friend wisely had remained by the entrance, a 
decision I now understood more fully. I continued my methodical search, determined to explore every 
room. The air in the building was thick and heavy, almost a physical presence that I felt I had 
to push through like an unseen fog. I’d grown accustomed to the common detritus of abandoned 
places, old clothing, tattered books, discarded furniture, evidence of previous squatters seeking 
temporary refuge. In all my years, however, I had never directly encountered someone living within 
a building I entered, nor had I been approached   by them. Driven by an unyielding curiosity, 
I pushed further, descending a set of rickety stairs into a damp, dark hallway. The further I 
moved from the entrance and my nervous companion, the more my senses sharpened. A new putrid odor, 
one I hadn’t noticed upon entry, began to permeate the air around me. a sickly sweet decay that 
made my stomach churn. Trapped in the narrow confines of the hallway, I chose the lesser 
evil, pushing open a door to my left, hoping to escape the encroaching stench. The smell, 
however, had followed me in. The rancid odor, a clawing blend of decomposition and something 
sickly sweet, intensified as I pushed open the door, hoping for a reprieve. Instead, I stepped 
into a scene that instantly curdled my blood. The small chamber wasn’t empty. It was a 
squalid nest. Mattresses, stained and torn, were stacked precariously against the walls, 
forming a grotesque barricade. The floor beneath my feet was a minefield of discarded hypodermic 
needles glinting malevolently in my flashlight beam. But it was the juxtaposition, the horrifying 
detail that slammed the brakes on my composure that truly stopped me cold. Amidst the filth and 
drug paraphernalia, an array of children’s toys lay scattered carelessly. Their bright plastic 
forms a grotesque counterpoint to the surrounding   decay. This, I knew, was my absolute limit. 
Finding signs of past occupants in an abandoned building was one thing. Stumbling upon evidence of 
ongoing tragic domesticity, especially involving children, was another entirely. My internal 
alarm bells didn’t just ring, they shrieked. I spun on my heel, a desperate, silent command 
echoing in my mind. Get out now. The air, already thick with the putrid stench, now felt heavy with 
an unspoken threat. It wasn’t just the smell. It was an undeniable presence. The indistinct sounds 
I tried to dismiss earlier, the rhythmic drip of water, the soft thump thump, solidified into 
something far more sinister. Footsteps. slow, deliberate, and undeniably human. They were 
coming from the deeper shadows of the room I had just entered. And I knew with a certainty 
that chilled me to the bone, that I was no   longer alone in this forgotten space. My path back 
through the labyrinth and mess of the building, past the noxious odors and the unsettling symphony 
of subtle noises, became a desperate escape. Every nerve ending screamed, but adrenaline, 
a cold, sharp blade, cut through the terror, sharpening my senses to an almost unbearable 
degree. I could feel them. Someone no more than 6 ft behind me. I perceived their very breath, the 
almost imperceptible shift of air. As they moved, my pace quickened, a controlled urgency, not 
a panic sprint. Yet, every fiber of my being urged me to break free. The moment my eyes fixed 
on the distant outline of the entrance hole where my friend waited, a profound, almost spiritual 
euphoria washed over me. I burst through, gasping, “We need to go now.” But before my foot 
could clear the threshold, before I could fully embrace the relief of escape, a sudden, brutal 
grip clamped around my right calf. My heart, which had been hammering against my ribs, seized 
in my chest. The world narrowed to that crushing pressure. the silent invisible hand. I hadn’t 
seen anyone, hadn’t heard them approach beyond the general sense of being followed. But now, 
undeniably, I was caught. They hadn’t wanted me until I tried to leave. I didn’t even look back. 
Instinct took over. I screamed. A raw primal sound ripped from my throat, kicking wildly, desperate 
to break free. My friend, startled and terrified, joined my cries, then reached out, grabbing both 
my hands, pulling with all her might. The grip on my leg was tenacious, fierce, and when I finally 
wrenched myself loose, the imprint of fingers, red and angry, was starkly visible on my skin. We 
tumbled out of the hole, scrambled to our feet, and fled. Not a single word exchanged until 
we were miles away. The memory too fresh, too horrifying to articulate. I actually tried 
to change the subject, my voice still trembling, unable to shake the image of that unseen hand or 
the terrifying knowledge that someone had been   silently stalking us. We were fortunate we weren’t 
followed further. My friend, still attempting to process the incomprehensible, later suggested it 
might have been another explorer or a prankster teenager trying to scare me. But I knew better. No 
casual visitor would emit such a sickening stench, nor would they possess the patience to trail 
me so silently, only to strike at the moment   of my departure. This building had been deserted 
for nearly 3 years, a quiet shell of brick and dust. Yet someone had been within its walls, 
someone who left me with a chilling souvenir,   a constellation of purple bruises blooming on 
my calf the next morning. reporting it was out of the question. Admitting to trespassing in 
an abandoned structure wasn’t exactly a good   look for legal purposes. The experience remains an 
enigma, but one thing is certain. I’m incredibly grateful to be alive. That night cemented an 
unbreakable rule. Never explore alone. Had my friend not been there to pull me out, I doubt 
my own desperate kicks would have been enough. So to the shadowy inhabitant of that creepy 
abandoned building, I offer this fervent wish. Let us never cross paths again. This deeply unsettling 
incident was far from an isolated warning, however. Other moments, less violent but equally 
profound, chipped away at my urban exploration resolve. One particular winter afternoon, cruising 
on my bike through the sprawling industrial heart of my east coast hometown, a city renowned for its 
historic brass manufacturing, I was searching for new, forgotten spaces. This southern district 
was a tapestry of disused factories and the humble worker housing that clustered around 
them. Opposite a brass works I’d frequented countless times, a solitary house caught my eye. 
It was unmistakably vacant, an empty shell, its three stories clad in asphalt sighting shingles, a 
distinct patchwork of deep red, brown, and beige, screaming 1970s architecture. The first two floors 
were skeletal. Every window shattered, even the heavy sash weight scavenged for scrap iron. 
Yet, strangely, the entire third floor’s windows remained perfectly intact. Intrigued by this stark 
contrast, I dismounted my bike, drawn inexorably towards the structure. Entry was surprisingly 
simple. The front door, the only viable access, offered no resistance. However, the interior was 
a stark contrast to its unassuming facade. The ground floor was a veritable wasteland, choked 
with discarded garbage bags, piled so high they reached my waist. It was a tedious, unpleasant 
slog just to navigate the apartment. After a slow, cautious climb through the refuser strewn lower 
level, I ascended the main staircase to the second   floor. Here, the scene was identical. Every room 
was impassible, buried under an ocean of trash. My gaze was drawn to the rear, where I hoped to 
find external stairs leading to the upper levels. Indeed, a rickety structure of back porches 
extended upwards, a common feature of these older homes. I navigated them, reaching the third floor 
landing, only to find the door stubbornly locked. As I pulled away, my eyes snagged on an anomaly, 
a thick orange extension cord, crudely spliced into the telephone lines running from the street 
poles. The exposed segment of the cord, bleached a faded yellow by the sun, spoke of its prolonged 
presence. The rest, a grimy orange, disappeared through a roughly drilled hole in the wall, 
confirming my suspicion this abandoned shell had power. With the back door sealed, I retreated to 
the second floor, pushing through the suffocating piles of rubbish to find the internal stairs to 
the third floor apartment at the front. As I began my ascent, a profound sense of unease began to 
settle over me. A palpable warmth emanated from the door. It wasn’t the mere absence of winter 
chill. It was an unnatural enveloping heat. My gloved hand closed around the doororknob, turning 
it with excruciating slowness. No resistance, no sound. As I gently nudged the door inward, 
a gust of hot, humid air assailed me, instantly fogging my glasses. Through the hazy lenses, I 
glimpsed the unmistakable glow of electricity. Pushing the door fully open. I found myself in a 
small kitchen. On a battered table sat remnants of a recent meal, a still smoking cigarette 
smoldering precariously in a cup. The source of the oppressive heat was starkly apparent. All four 
burners of the gas stove were blazing on high. The attic apartment was cramped. The kitchen a mere 
10×10 ft space, awkwardly L-shaped due to the encroaching stairwell. Off to one side, a darkened 
living room. a single bathroom. To my left, at the very front of the house, a bedroom, and 
from within that bedroom, I distinctly heard sounds. Voices. I froze, straining to identify the 
murmur. Judge Judy. The realization sent a fresh wave of dread through me. Cautiously, I advanced 
towards the bedroom, catching glimpses of a flickering television screen through the partially 
agar doorway. When I reached the threshold, I gently pushed the door open a fraction more, 
braced to bolt if I encountered anyone. There was no one. But what was there was arguably 
more disturbing. The room was barely larger than the bed it contained. A small television was 
precariously balanced on a stack of milk crates in the corner, flanked by an assortment of damaged 
computer speakers and other salvaged electronics. A veteran dumpster diver myself, I recognize 
the provenence of these goods, the Office Max dumpster. Beyond multiple sets of speakers, some 
even boasting subwoofers, an antique VCR nestled among the crates. Cables snake from it, not just 
to the TV, but also towards the opposite corner of the room. Following their trail, I discovered 
yet more crates overflowing with camera batteries, chargers, an aged TX CD, DVD duplicator, and 
crowning the topmost crate, a slightly bent tripod. Pieces of a horrifying puzzle began to 
align. In my mind, the full chilling picture crystallized as my gaze fell back upon the bed. 
No blankets, just a solitary pillow and a stained sheet covering the mattress. And on that sheet, 
near its center, dark, ominous red splotches. Then the final gut-wrenching detail, a pair of 
handcuffs dangled from the bedpost. My blood ran cold. This was it. Every instinct screamed at 
me to flee. I moved as swiftly and silently as my trembling legs would allow, bypassing the garbage 
filled apartments on the lower floors entirely, heading directly for the ground floor exit. The 
unlocked front door was a godsend. I burst out, grabbed my bike, and didn’t stop pedaling until I 
was miles away. A profound sense of relief washing over me. 3 months later, a news report confirmed 
the abandoned house had burned to the ground, a grim end to a terrifying chapter. Despite 
the harrowing encounters, my insatiable draw to forgotten places remained potent, though a 
new, more solitary approach began to define my ventures. This particular escapade unfolded a few 
weeks after that chilling incident in the trash fil apartment building. The thrill of discovery, 
the quiet hum of history in derelict spaces still called to me, but now with a heightened sense of 
caution. I was 20, still driven by an impulsive curiosity, but the lessons of unseen hands 
and spectral presences were slowly sinking in. My search for new haunts led me online, sifting 
through local forums and obscure historical societies. I wanted something close, something I 
could tackle alone without straying too far from familiar territory. After hours of virtual sole, 
a name surfaced that both surprised and intrigued me. Ivywood Manor, an abandoned mansion tucked 
away just a short drive from the outskirts of my town. How had I never heard of it? Local lore 
whispered of a dark past. The manor, I learned, had once belonged to a prominent psychiatrist in 
the early 20th century. His career, it was said, took a catastrophic turn after he vouched for the 
sanity of a female patient, only for her to commit a heinous act, a brutal stabbing in the nearby 
town shortly after her release. The public outcry, the impending legal action, had been too much. 
He’d vanished, leaving the mansion untouched. abandoning his life to escape the fallout. 
The exact details were murky, lost to time, and exaggerated by gossip, but the essence 
of tragedy clung to its name. I decided to reconoider the following day. It was late by the 
time I’d unearthed the manor’s history, and a good night’s rest felt prudent. The next afternoon, as 
dusk began to paint the sky, I set off. Ivywood Manor sat surprisingly close to a main road, so 
a twilight visit seemed ideal, less chance of drawing unwanted attention. The drive was brief, 
maybe 15 minutes, ensuring I’d arrive just as the last vestigages of daylight clung to the horizon. 
Halfway there, while my radio hummed with local chatter, the sky tore open. Rain, a deluge, 
began to lash down, drumming violently against my windshield. I silently hoped the manor, for all 
its history, still boasted a sound roof. Pulling up just past 700 p.m., the rain had already 
plunged the landscape into a premature night. My plan for a daylight survey was utterly washed out. 
I found a discrete spot around a bend, shielding my car from the main thoroughfare, and waited. 5 
minutes stretched into 10, the relentless downpour showing no sign of abating. I sighed, pulled up my 
hood, and decided to brave the elements. Rounding the corner, I stepped into the driving rain, 
heading towards the imposing silhouette of the   manor. Just as I reached its crumbling facade, a 
string of cars, their headlights cutting through the gloom, swept past. Paranoid by nature, I 
waited for the last one to disappear before vaultting the low, overgrown fence. The front 
door, surprisingly, yielded to a gentle push. It groaned open, revealing a cavernous darkness. 
Inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of decay and damp earth. Fixtures were ancient, broken, 
bearing the scars of both neglect and youthful vandalism. Graffiti splattered across every 
conceivable surface. I opted for a systematic approach, starting from the top and working my way 
down. The main staircase, grand but precarious, led to a landing. I turned left. The corridor to 
the right looked unstable, its floorboards warped and sagging. The room I entered on the left had a 
palpable strangeness to it, an unsettling quality I couldn’t quite pinpoint. I attributed it to 
the sheer age, the unknown stories seeping from its walls. Oddly, the ceiling above me appeared 
pristine, perfectly plastered, as if untouched by the decades of abandonment. I didn’t venture 
far into the room, wary of the floor’s integrity. There wasn’t much to capture my photographic 
interest either, a few ghostly shadows,   but nothing tangible. A flicker of disappointment, 
a familiar companion on such solitary ventures, settled over me. I retreated, carefully making 
my way back down the stairs to explore the rest of the house. The lower floors were mostly 
unremarkable, a monotonous canvas of dust and debris, until I reached the back of the manor. 
There, a vast derelic swimming pool lay exposed to the elements, an emerald green expanse choked 
with overgrown vegetation and scuttling rats. It was a macob miniature jungle, almost alien in its 
vibrant decay. I was utterly absorbed. My camera focused on capturing its bizarre beauty. Then it 
began. A rhythmic, insistent thump, thump thump echoing from somewhere deeper within the house. It 
wasn’t loud, but it resonated, burrowing deep into my subconscious. A wave of profound, unadulterated 
dread washed over me, a primal terror that screamed danger. Every fiber of my being, the 
instinct to flee, ignited. Despite my 6’2 frame and sturdy build, all thoughts of confrontation, 
of scientific curiosity, evaporated. All I wanted was out. Now the insistent rhythmic thump 
thump thump propelled me through the manor’s dim passages, my heart a frantic drum against 
my ribs. I navigated the labyrinth and rooms, a cold dread clinging to my every step until 
I reached the kitchen. There, the unsettling thumping was suddenly accompanied by a sound that 
froze my blood. A low guttural cackle echoing from somewhere unseen, a sound straight from a 
nightmare. Tears welled, but I choked them back, forcing myself to peer down the doorway leading 
to the main room. A faint amber glow emanated from the darkness below. Terrified yet morbidly drawn, 
I reluctantly edged around the corner, my eyes seeking the source. Through a narrow gap in the 
floorboards, a passage I hadn’t noticed before, leading to a section of the basement I hadn’t 
explored, I saw it. A single tealight candle flickered, its fragile flame dancing in the chill 
breeze that whispered through the desolate house. The cackling had ceased, leaving an eerie silence, 
which brought a momentary, tenuous relief. I crouched, peering through the gap, and my breath 
hitched. In the shallow light of the dying candle, a figure emerged from the shadows. It was a man, 
unnervingly pale, clad in what appeared to be nothing more than tattered, scant clothing, his 
gaze fixed intently on the struggling flame. My jump back was involuntary, my foot catching an old 
rusted gas canister, sending it clattering loudly. The man snapped his head towards the sound, his 
movements impossibly swift, spinning towards the stairway that led up to my position. In that 
same instant, perhaps from the sudden rush of air, the candle guttered and died, plunging the entire 
house into an absolute suffocating darkness. I scrambled backwards, my heart pounding a frantic 
rhythm against my ribs, inching my way up the precarious stairs, trying to make not a single 
sound. The floorboards creaked under my weight, each grown a deafening roar in the sudden 
silence. Then from the basement directly below, a violent crash reverberated through the decaying 
structure. The unmistakable sound of a heavy   chair being thrown or toppled with immense force. 
That was all the confirmation I needed. I bolted, bursting through the front door, scrambling over 
the overgrown fence and tearing around the bend   where I parked my car. I fumbled with the keys, 
started the engine, and glanced frantically in my mirrors. No one. I was safe. Or so I thought. 
As I cautiously pulled to the end of the road, a foolish curiosity, or perhaps a stubborn streak 
compelled me to turn left, which would lead me back past the manor’s front facade. My blood 
ran cold, and the hairs on my neck bristled as my headlights swept across the doorway. A man 
stood there perfectly still, his arm raised, slowly waving. But the true horror was above him 
in the upstairs window. the very one leading to the room I had explored earlier. Two more figures 
stood, watching, their silhouette stark against the gloom. I pressed the accelerator, determined 
never to revisit Ivywood Manor. After the chilling encounters in various abandoned loces, a change 
of scenery, a cleansing of the urban grime felt necessary. My aunt, our trusty dog in tow, and 
I embarked on a multi-day trek along a section of the Pacific Crest Trail. For 3 days, the 
wilderness offered its own untamed beauty and challenges until we reached an impassible river 
crossing. With our canine companion unable to navigate the rapids, we had no choice but to turn 
back. The thought of retracing our arduous path over the mountain passes we had just conquered 
was disheartening. Pulling out our weathered map, we found a promising alternative. A seemingly less 
traveled route through the Anel Adams wilderness, which would eventually loop us back to our 
starting point. First, we sought respit. At a small resupply outpost, we enjoyed a hot dinner 
and a muchneeded shower. We inquired about a ride up a remote logging road that supposedly led 
to our new trail head, hoping to save precious   daylight. No one goes up that road anymore, 
the local declared. dismissing our request for a four-wheeler. Just as our spirits began to 
flag, a vacationing family offered assistance, we piled into their truck, driving for what 
felt like an eternity, only to be halted after a mere 2 mi. The road was utterly washed out, a 
chaotic mess of fallen rocks and eroded earth, impassible even for their robust vehicle. 
Gratefully, we thanked them and continued on foot. We hiked another three miles, the wilderness 
growing wilder with every step until we reached what the map designated as the trail head. It was 
a scene of utter destruction, obliterated by a chaotic tangle of fallen trees. No sign of human 
passage, no worn path, nothing to suggest anyone had traversed it in decades. It became apparent 
that this was an ancient logging road, abandoned 50 or 60 years prior, long before the area was 
designated a wilderness preserve. We began our descent, hiking another four miles until we made 
camp for the night. Along this forgotten trail, the only signs of life were the undeniable prints 
of bears and deer. No human footprints, no horse tracks, nothing. We even stumbled upon a bear in 
the midst of its morning routine, surprising it into a hasty retreat from our camp. The road soon 
devolved into a brutal obstacle course, a grueling six-mile stretch that required us to clamber 
over one colossal fur tree after another, each a formidable barrier. Finally, after what felt like 
an eternity, we broke free, emerging into a small clearing. We followed this unexpected opening for 
another mile, disbelief mounting with every step. Then an utterly impossible sight materialized 
before us, a two-story building, inongruously standing in the heart of this remote wilderness. 
15 mi from the nearest human settlement 50 from any semblance of civilization. It radiated 
an almost palpable eeriness, a structure that felt transplanted from a Gothic horror film. This 
dwelling, too, must have predated the wilderness designation, a forgotten relic of a bygone era. 
It was here that the true strangeness began. Beside the house, a faded sign clearly marking 
our trail, pointed directly into an impenetrable thicket of dense brush and bushes. It was in that 
moment, staring at the impossible path ahead, that we knew unequivocally we were in trouble. We 
decided we needed to. The decision to forge ahead was made by default. Turning back was no longer 
a viable option, and our GPS, a digital lifeline, promised to guide us, even without a visible 
trail. We plunged into the dense thicket, pushing through tangled branches along what was 
once a path now reclaimed by the wild. After another mile, perhaps more, a jarring discovery 
brought us to an abrupt halt. Human footprints. Up until this point, the ground had been a scroll 
of bear and cougar tracks, a testament to the untamed wilderness, but these were undeniably 
human. I placed my size 11 hiking boot over one, confirming the eerie congruence in size and 
shape. My aunt, her face, mirroring my disbelief, affirmed my sanity. They were indeed human. 
Another 500 yardds of trekking, following the ghostly human impressions, led us to a disturbing 
site. It was either a crude dump or a makeshift camp, a hap-hazard collection of humanity’s 
detritus, a tattered tarp strung between trees, overflowing trash bags, and garbage strewn across 
the creek bed. My stomach clenched. Any lingering urge to investigate vanished. This was not a 
place to explore. We fled, hiking as fast as our legs would carry us, scrambling up the hill and 
away from that unsettling tableau. The oppressive feeling of being watched clung to us like a second 
skin for miles, a phantom presence urging our retreat. We pressed on, navigating the trackless 
expanse for another 12 m until finally we emerged onto a well-maintained trail on the other side of 
the pass. The landscape here unfolded into areas of stunning beauty, likely untouched by human eyes 
for years. But the memory of that desolate camp, a squatters den, or perhaps something more 
primal, like a Bigfoot’s lair, eclipsed any   aesthetic appreciation. That experience, only 3 
months passed, continued to gnaw at me. My family owns a cabin, a rustic haven passed down since 
the 60s, a place I’ve frequented my entire life. It’s nestled in a tiny town of under 2,000 souls, 
enveloped by endless forests and rolling farmland. Cows graze lazily in pastures. Stray dogs 
wander, eager for a friendly path. You might encounter 30 people on a busy day in the town’s 
handful of quaint shops and mom and pop eeries, the quintessential small country town. Having 
spent my formative years there, I know almost everyone and my family shares the same deep rooted 
connections. Men wear the uniform of the west, sturdy jeans, faded work shirts, and belts adorned 
with colossal buckles. Women favor jeans and tank tops, often emlazed with a local farm’s logo. They 
are all kind, if a little reserved. One evening, I was driving up to meet my parents, who had gone 
ahead the previous night to prepare the cabin for   spring. My boyfriend had also flown in, eager to 
meet my relatives. I had taken the wheel until darkness fell about 2 hours and 10 minutes from my 
house before he relieved me around 10 p.m. Nearby lay a national park roughly 15 square miles of 
untamed land. Since I drifted off and couldn’t provide directions, he plugged the cabin’s address 
into my GPS. I usually took a specific route, but the GPS in its digital wisdom guided him 
through a back road that cut through the park, a path I never traversed. So when he eventually 
woke me asking for the next turn as the device offered multiple options, it took me a moment to 
shake off the sleep and orient myself. There were no lights, no other vehicles for the entire 15-mi 
stretch. Just us, swallowed by an endless tunnel of towering trees. The road a ribbon through the 
dark, occasionally punctuated by the shadowy form of a deer or two. I’d insisted on switching 
drivers because I knew this particular road. It led directly to an intersection that 
climbed through a small community towards the   mountain where our cabin stood. But it was also 
notorious for a specific type of roadside trap, the toy baby scam, where a doll is left to lure 
unsuspecting drivers out of their cars only for something sinister to unfold. The darkness was 
so absolute, the forest so impossibly dense that we even joked about cult members lurking 
within the shadows. It wasn’t entirely a joke. We knew without a doubt that stopping was not 
an option. We eventually passed through a small clearing that wasn’t our intended intersection. 
To the side of the road, a dimminionive concrete building, its single light casting a weak glow, 
stood beside a car parked on a slanted gravel patch. As my boyfriend drove forward, we saw two 
figures. My stomach immediately twisted into a knot. A wave of ice cold dread washed over me. A 
sickening premonition. The unsettling premonition, a cold knot in my gut, intensified as we 
approached the small, dimly lit concrete structure. Two figures emerged from the gloom. 
Stepping away from what appeared to be an ancient battered El Camino, a classic 1965 model. Its body 
scarred by years of neglect, the paint long gone, replaced by a uniform coating of rust and dirt. 
They were just kids, teenage boys, perhaps 15, utterly out of place in their vibrant city attire, 
Nike shorts, and brightly colored athletic gear that screamed urban sprawl, not remote wilderness. 
The sheer inongruity of it all was jarring. As they saw our headlights, they started waving, 
a wide, unwavering smile plastered on their faces. That smile, devoid of genuine warmth, 
was what truly sent a shiver down my spine. I had no idea who these boys were, and my mind 
raced. There was a gas station barely a mile up the road. They could easily walk there. 
The abandoned building they’d come from, now sporting an inexplicable light, raised another 
red flag. They continued their peculiar charade, stepping out into the middle of the highway, 
effectively blocking our path. My boyfriend instinctively slowed, fearing a collision. Their 
arms continued to flail, those unsettling smiles fixed as if uttering unheard invitations. “Should 
we stop?” he asked, his voice tight with nerves, his hand hovering over the gear shift, a nervous 
glance in my direction. “No, just keep driving,” I retorted, my grip tightening on the door handle, 
then fumbling to doublech checkck the lock, though I knew it was already secured. “But Elias, they 
could be in trouble. I don’t care. I don’t know them. My gut screams at me to leave. That building 
shouldn’t have a light on. It’s abandoned. And their car. That thing’s been out here for months. 
I swear. Just drive, please. He quickly maneuvered around the two figures, pressing hard on the 
accelerator, trying to inject some distance and   calm into the rapidly escalating tension. The 
whole bizarre encounter had filled me with a specific visceral dread. Images of me getting out 
of the car only for one of them to slip into the back flashed through my mind. I risked a glance 
in the rear view mirror. They remained there in the center of the road, a perplexing mix of 
frustration, anger, and an unnerving calm on their faces, unmoving until the road curved, finally 
snatching them from our sight. Who were those kids? Why, the city clothes? They looked far too 
young to be driving. And I was absolutely certain about that car. It wasn’t theirs. I remembered my 
dad pointing out that very El Camino last summer, detailing its model, sparking my teenage dream 
of owning one someday. It had been deserted then, too. We eventually reached our intended 
intersection, leading to the familiar gas station. I immediately insisted on taking the wheel, my 
boyfriend not arguing. About 10 minutes later, we arrived at the cabin. The previous encounter 
a source of nervous, half-hearted laughter   during the drive. When I recounted the story to my 
parents, they didn’t scold us for not stopping. It was almost midnight after all, and not nearly cold 
enough for those boys to be in any real danger of freezing. They agreed without hesitation that the 
entire situation was profoundly unsettling. Should I have stopped? Perhaps. Could I alter my decision 
now? No. Did I feel comfortable stopping then? Absolutely not. My boyfriend and I embarked 
on another one of our ventures. This time, an exploration of an abandoned wine makaker’s 
mansion in Portugal. It was a place of haunting beauty. A century old villa perched gracefully on 
the banks of the river Doru. Now slowly succumbing to the relentless embrace of nature. Vines choked 
its crumbling facade. Exotic vegetation swallowed its once manicured gardens, and proud palm 
trees stood sentinel, their fronds swaying in the gentle breeze. A truly stunning local, 
yet one that upon closer inspection provoked a myriad of unsettling questions. We had first 
discovered this captivating ruin the previous year, spending a significant portion of a day 
delving into its secrets. Returning this summer, we found the wilderness had intensified its 
claim. The untamed vines and wild grasses   had surged, nearly rendering the mansion 
invisible. We struggled to locate it again, battling our way through shoulder high grass and 
prehistoric-looking ferns, a primeval landscape that felt utterly untamed. Before even reaching 
the mansion itself, the initial approach demanded a determined push through a dense, thorny tapestry 
of wild growth. The first discernable hint that a grand estate once stood here was a shaded grotto, 
distinctly Victorian in its carved stone benches, now softened by a velvet blanket of moss, and a 
crystal clearar natural spring bubbling at its   rear. Directly above this spring, an intriguing 
anomaly presented itself. A small aperture in the rock wall, a narrow passage barely wide enough 
for an adult to hunch down and squeeze through, promised access to an impenetrable, inky 
blackness beyond. Assuming one could overcome the claustrophobia and navigate that initial 
crawl, pushing past the initial apprehension, one could indeed descend into that foroding aperture. 
The chill of the earth, the suffocating darkness, and the unsettling feeling that something unseen 
watched from the void were enough to send shivers   down your spine. But perseverance revealed 
more. A network of hidden caves bored into the rock beneath the estate. The grandest of these 
subterranean channels was deliberately obstructed, its entrance choked with antique chairs and a 
weathered nightstand, a barricade against the   curious, or perhaps a containment measure. Having 
regained our composure from the eerie discovery, we turned our attention to the mansion itself. 
The cellar was a marvel of antiquated industry, dominated by enormous stone vats, clearly the 
heart of a bygon wine-making operation, now surrounded by a carpet of dusty, largely unlabeled 
bottles. Each step here was a calculated risk. As we ascended to the first floor, a new peculiar 
discovery awaited. Our path along the first floor corridor led us to a room on the left that bore 
a distinct imprint of urgency and desperation. It seemed as though some eight decades prior, 
someone had hastily attempted to destroy a cache of documents. The floor was a chaotic mosaic 
of charred paper fragments, clearly official records from the 1920s, interspersed with an 
unsettling collection of single women’s shoes, each one orphaned. The floorboards themselves 
were treacherous, demanding careful navigation along the stirred your walls. Continuing our 
exploration, the corridor yielded more sporadic cobwebladen footwear and countless crates brimming 
with empty wine bottles, all dating roughly   from the 1930s to the 1940s. And then, a truly 
disturbing tableau. In the threshold of what was likely once a grand living room, an ancient baby 
doll sat stripped bare, perhaps missing an eye, it was frozen in a grotesque, contorted pose, 
thickly veiled in cobwebs. It radiated an unnerving stillness. My boyfriend and I, in a 
shared moment of unsettling compassion, decided to rehouse it. We carefully placed the doll within 
a voluminous wooden trunk we discovered nestled in the corner of the room, hoping it might find peace 
there. Yet, upon our subsequent visit to the manor this summer, the doll had inexplicably relocated. 
It now occupied the very center of a table in the same room, disturbingly adorned with a string 
of rosary beads, an act both baffling and deeply unsettling. Beyond the skeletal floorboards and 
phantom-like curtains, the rest of the first floor offered little of consequence. However, for those 
brave enough to attempt the perilous climb to the dilapidated attic, a truly bizarre revelation 
awaited. Surprise, I mean in the most unnerving and perplexing sense. During our reconnaissance 
around the mansion, we’d encountered an elderly gentleman, a lifelong resident of the adjacent 
property. He assured us the villa had remained abandoned and desolate for the entirety of his 
60-year residency. And indeed, the majority of the house confirmed his account, appearing to have 
been abruptly deserted sometime in the first half   of the 20th century. But the attic was a shocking 
exception. It presented clear evidence of recent occupancy dating to the late 1990s or early 2000s. 
We discovered a child’s bedroom adorned in vivid red and green, complete with contemporary style 
furniture, era appropriate school textbooks, and even collectible stickers, the kind once 
found in chewing gum packets from that decade, alongside a collection of color photographs. Most 
disquingly, in the heart of the attic, a gaping hole marked where the floor had given way beneath 
a substantial mound of decaying leather, fabric,   and other unidentifiable detritus. This attic, 
more than any other discovery, was a Pandora’s box of questions, had a family secretly resided 
here. If so, how did the next door neighbor remain oblivious? Why would they confine themselves to 
just the attic, leaving the rest of the sprawling mansion to rot? Our departure was swift and 
cautious. The entire structure was precariously unstable, and despite our relatively light frames, 
we meticulously traversed only along the walls, placing our weight exclusively on visible support 
beams and doorways to avoid plunging through the   collapsing floors. My name is Elias, and I am 
a 24year-old man born and raised in the rugged landscapes of northern New England. My formative 
years were saturated with the chilling echoes of local ghost stories and urban legends, tales that 
often infiltrated my nightmares. Yet among this rich tapestry of regional lore, one particular 
legend held a unique, almost iconic status within my high school, the story of Monkey Town. It 
was said to be a secluded Christian retreat camp accessible only by a particular winding 
road. This path, a narrow strip of asphalt, began its descent between an old funeral home and 
a sprawling cemetery, plunging down a steep hill. At its base, rumor had it, one would emerge into a 
scene eerily reminiscent of the isolated community from the film The Village 2004. A vast circle 
of antiquated houses, all encircling a grand white church at its heart. I’ll elaborate on its 
unsettling details later. The very essence of the legend of Monkey Town was a test of nerve. How far 
dared you venture into that eerie enclave before your courage deserted you. I vividly recall feudal 
attempts in middle school, my friends, and I retreating in a flurry of panic from halfway down 
the treacherous hill. It was 2011, my junior year, and I just obtained my license, the proud owner 
of a classic Chevy Blazer. One evening with my high school classmate Bessie and our friend Kale, 
a mischievous idea sparked, introduced Kale to the chilling mystique of Monkey Town. The three of us 
piled into my blazer and off we went. I distinctly remember queuing up instrumental tracks from the 
Halloween soundtrack, a deliberate, if foolish, attempt to set a macob mood. As we navigated the 
winding descent, entirely ensconcconed in the blazer, the peculiar circular community unfurled 
before us, a captivating anomaly separated from the modern world. A solitary red light perched 
at top the church steeple drew my eye. Then a sudden peripheral movement registered. “No way,” 
I thought, my head snapping to the left. There, a towering figure in overalls, wielding what 
appeared to be a bat or some crude implement,   was charging full tilt towards my vehicle. I 
slammed the accelerator, the blazer lunging forward as we tore out of there. The sheer 
disbelief among us was palpable. We ended up at my house, adrenaline drained, collapsing 
into a fitful sleep to recover from the ordeal. The following day, sharing the wild account with 
James and his girlfriend, Sadi, their skepticism was immediate and pronounced. A 17-year-old’s 
pride demanded vindication. So once again, we piled into my blazer, heading back to Monkey Town, 
this time with a full crew, the two aforementioned girls who coincidentally shared the same name and 
another friend, Joe. I seated the driver’s seat to James, taking shotgun. The tension in the car was 
thick, growing heavier with every foot of descent. Halfway around the circuit of houses, a piercing 
scream erupted from the back seat. This time, no less than five men were bearing down on 
the car, at least three of them visibly armed. James froze, gripping the wheel, his face 
a mask of paralysis. The men were yelling, demanding we exit the vehicle, and I swear they 
were actually rocking the blazer back and forth. I instinctively hunched down in my seat, a feudal 
gesture of self-preservation. Finally, James broke free of his stuper, stomping on the gas and 
peeling away, leaving tire marks on the desolate path. As I began dropping my shaken friends 
off, my mother’s call came through. Apparently, two police officers were at our kitchen table. 
A civilian from Monkey Town had reported that we had tried to run them over. an outrageous 
fabrication that ignited my fury. We raced home, eager to set the record straight. The officers, 
thankfully, seemed largely indifferent. No actual crime had been committed, and their interest 
quickly waned. To this day, I can’t shake the chilling question. What horrors awaited us had 
we actually gotten out of the car? What kind of Christian retreat camp fostered such aggression? 
That night remains etched in my memory, a bewildering blend of excitement and terror 
I’ve rarely experienced since. A few years later, while still a student at Newcastle University, 
life was generally a carefree expanse of youthful freedom. My friends and I enjoyed the luxury of 
doing as we pleased whenever we pleased. It was during one of these periods of idol amusement that 
a friend unearthed an intriguing online discovery, an abandonmental asylum. St. George’s Asylum in 
Morpath, as it turned out, was a quintessential Victorian institution. Its imposing facade hinted 
at extensive labyrinth and corridors and a myriad of unsettling chambers within. A colossal tower 
dominated the landscape, its silhouette visible for miles, rising majestically from a dense 
forest at top a distant hill. God only knows the true extent of the suffering that transpired 
within those walls. I’m immensely grateful to   have only visited as a curious student, not as a 
patient. So, one day after our university classes, my friends and I finalized our plans to drive to 
Morpath and explore the asylum for ourselves. We knew that much of it had already. The lure of St. 
George’s asylum in Morpath was irresistible, even with the knowledge that its formidable structure 
was already succumbing to the wrecking ball. Much of it had fallen, swallowed by new development. 
But I knew a significant portion remained, a sprawling carcass awaiting our intrusion. 
I had convinced my friends it would be worth the pilgrimage. As evening draped itself over the 
city, three of us embarked on the train journey. The urban sprawl of Newcastle dissolved behind 
us, replaced by a patchwork of verdant fields and quaint villages as we chugged towards Morpath. 
Our first stop upon arrival was a local shop for a few beers, which we intended to enjoy while 
waiting for dusk to fully settle before attempting entry. Our path led us out of the small town, 
a mileong walk culminating in a steep, winding ascent up a slip road flanked by dense forest. 
The asylum, when it finally revealed itself, was a monstrous, sprawling entity. A colossal 
complex of interconnected red brick buildings already scarred by the beginnings of demolition 
loomed before us, encircled by formidable metal fences. Warnings of patrol dogs and danger adorned 
almost every available section of the perimeter, grim testaments to its guarded decay. We found 
a suitable vantage point in a nearby field, cracking open our beers and watching 
the last light bleed from the sky,   building our nerve for the inevitable breach. 
As twilight deepened, we scouted the fence line, locating a manageable gap about 100 meters from a 
visibly smashed out entrance door. Without a word, a shared, impulsive surge of adrenaline 
propelled us. We scrambled through the opening, plunging into a frantic, head-long sprint across 
the rough, rubble strewn terrain. Mud holes sucked at our feet as we raced the distance, 
a desperate dash to the asylum’s gaping mall. We tumbled through the shattered entrance, 
finding ourselves abruptly in the heart of   the decaying labyrinth. The interior was a tableau 
of utter devastation. Smashed ceramics, discarded documents, and furniture oddly positioned against 
walls painted a grim picture of abrupt desertion. We could discern the former living quarters 
of patients, now reduced to echoing shells. Arching corridor stretched into the oppressive 
gloom, seemingly endless in every direction on   the ground floor. A pang of regret tightened in 
my chest. If only we had come a year earlier, twice the secrets might have been preserved. 
Yet the thrill of discovery urged us onward, we navigated the labyrinth and passages and 
rooms, growing perhaps a little too comfortable   in the asylum’s unsettling embrace. Our phone 
flashlights became tools for casual photography. their beams dancing and our hushed conversations 
began to swell into unthinking chatter. After a good 40 minutes, the looming deadline of the last 
train home spurred us to retreat. “We were almost at our entry point.” The smashed doorway beckoning 
when one of my friends abruptly stopped. “Hey, turn off your light,” he hissed at our other 
companion, assuming the distant glow was from   his phone. My heart plummeted into my stomach. 
The light, a cold, unwavering beam, persisted. We were not alone. Panic, raw and visceral, seized 
us. With a shared, unspoken urgency, we scrambled towards the nearest internal staircase, hoping its 
shadows would offer temporary refuge. The light, slow and deliberate, began to sweep the corridor, 
no more than 10 m from our intended exit. The phantom threat of patrol dogs explicitly 
warned against on the fences outside flashed through my mind, making it almost impossible 
to breathe. We stood frozen, muscles locked for what felt like an eternity, but was perhaps 
10 agonizing minutes. Then, inexplicably, the light faded, dissolving into the oppressive 
darkness. If it had been a security guard, they had certainly seen us, and for reasons unknown, 
chosen not to pursue. I couldn’t imagine the dread of patrolling such a vast decaying monument to 
suffering alone. The moment the light was gone, one of my friends broke, bolting for the exit. My 
other friend and I followed without hesitation, launching into another frantic 100meter dash 
across the rubble and mud. Bursting from the asylum’s shattered entrance, we flung ourselves 
across the open land, a desperate dash for the flimsy safety of the perimeter fence. The phantom 
light that had pursued us remained unseen, yet its presence felt imminent. A silent security guard, 
perhaps accompanied by a massive patrol dog, waiting in the gloom. We didn’t dare glance 
back, our legs burning as we scrambled through the fence and plunged into the night. It was only 
then, as the immediate terror began to recede, that one of my friends groaned, his 
phone, a crucial link to the outside,   had been lost somewhere in our frenzied escape. A 
wave of frustrated dread washed over us, but there was no choice. With extreme caution, we retraced 
our steps onto the grounds. He quickly found it, and we jogged, still buzzing with adrenaline, 
all the way back to the station. The train ride home was a blur of high-pitched chatter and shared 
exhilaration. For the next 3 days, the tale of our escape from the asylum consumed us. It was without 
a doubt the most potent mix of terror and triumph I had ever experienced during my university years. 
The thought of what could have happened had we been caught sent shivers down my spine, a morbid 
thrill. About a year later, the insatiable pull of the forgotten led me and a couple of friends to 
set our sights on Edgewater Hospital in Chicago. A landmark of sorts, notable for being Hillary 
Clinton’s birthplace, among other historical   tidbits, it presented an irresistible target. 
While far from being seasoned pros, our collective foray into Chicago’s urban exploration scene had 
certainly granted us a degree of experience. The only discernable entry point we could locate 
was an elevated pipe, a precarious bridge   stretching from an adjacent building directly 
into the sprawling, decaying hospital complex. The ascent was harrowing. We shimmyed across 
the corroded pipe, grappling for purchase, then hoisted ourselves into the cavernous 
interior. It was during this precarious maneuver that I sacrificed my cherished hat to a snarling 
coil of barbed wire, a casualty I had no intention of retrieving. Moments later, as we dropped from 
the pipe into a shattered window frame, a friend’s arm snagged on a shard of glass, leaving a 
small but persistent cut. Our expedition, like all our ventures, was meticulously planned, 
and our packs contained a comprehensive first aid kit alongside structural survey tools. Being a 
premed student, I quickly cleaned and bandaged his arm. With the injury addressed, we pulled 
on our masks. The air inside was thick with the chilling knowledge of asbestous, and prepared 
to delve deeper. We had seemingly breached a patient wing, and the hallway stretched 
before us, a tunnel of profound darkness. Fortunately, we’d come prepared. Headlamps 
clicked on, flashlights cut through the gloom, illuminating a treacherous path. Sections of the 
ceiling sagged ominously, and the floorboards undulated beneath our boots, creaking a ghostly 
chorus with every step. The structural integrity was, to put it mildly, concerning. As we advanced, 
the familiar landscape of urban decay unfolded, walls adorned with the audacious scrolls of 
graffiti. While I never indulged in it myself, the ubiquitous do not enter or proceed at your own 
risk warnings punctuated by the occasional crudely rendered genitalia held a strange comforting 
familiarity. This was my element, my twisted sense of home. Our journey led us to a nurse’s 
station, buried beneath an avalanche of disarray. Files lay scattered, many bearing the chilling 
inscription, “Dece deceased.” Our flashlights swept over the surrounding rooms, revealing 
long emptied spaces shrouded by tattered drawn curtains. I noticed one curtain stir, attributing 
it to a frigid draft. Despite the summer heat, an inexplicable chill permeated the entire wing. Our 
boots crunched through broken tiles, pulverizing building detritus, and countless documents. Each 
step a morbid symphony of destruction. Eventually, a gaping stairwell appeared, and against a 
rising tide of unease, we chose to descend. This, in hindsight, was a grave miscalculation. As we 
plunged into the unknown, a distinct unease began to curdle in my stomach. My friends and I had a 
standing agreement. If someone felt a bad vibe and wanted to bail, everyone respected it. But fueled 
by the thrill of the hunt, I stubbornly pushed the feeling aside. This stairway, we soon discovered, 
terminated directly into the hospital’s morg. The darkness was absolute, a suffocating void, and 
the stench, oh, the stench was an entity unto itself. I would gladly endure the proximity of 
a overflowing garbage bin on a sweltering summer day, overexperiencing that putrid myasma again. 
Though logic dictated no bodies would remain, the pervasive odor clung to the air, a 
phantom residue of unspeakable horrors. We aimed our flashlight beams into the blackness, 
and that’s when the true horror unveiled itself. The moment those cones of light pierced the gloom, 
we collectively stiffened. I heard a friend mutter obscenities under his breath. The room, or so we 
initially believed, was drenched in blood. Later, we’d realize it was merely rust, but in that 
moment, in the oppressive darkness of a morg, adrenaline courarssing through our veins, it was 
a visceral nightmare. The far wall was lined with rust encrusted cabinets while the side walls held 
enormous for boating tubs. We prodded around for a few moments, each of us palpably on edge. I could 
feel the cold sweat beating on my forehead, and that same odd unsettling sensation from earlier 
began to churn in my gut. A profound discomfort. It seemed I just kept getting my premonition 
of ill omen intensified, urging me to vocalize a retreat. Bad vibes, guys, I started. Can we 
please just leave? My plea was abruptly swallowed by a violent metallic shutter. Our headlamp 
simultaneously swiveled towards the source, a large ancient tub on one side of the morg. Its 
faucet, which had been still only moments before, now thrashed and rattled with an almost aggressive 
vigor, as if seized by an unseen hand. To this day, I swear I have never known such terror. We 
didn’t hesitate. We scrambled back up the decaying stairs, a desperate, clattering ascent that must 
have echoed throughout the vast, empty hospital. Our noisy escape certainly drew attention, for 
by the time we burst out of the morg and into the main corridor, a security guard was already there, 
his face stern. He barked orders for us to leave, threatening to call the police. As we made 
our way out, however, his demeanor softened. He even exchanged a few words with us, revealing 
that the scattered files we’d seen earlier were indeed a source of ongoing controversy. With a 
final customary warning about never returning, he added a chilling detail. A kid had once 
died on the roof, electrocuted by a transformer while spray painting graffiti. Whether that grim 
anecdote was fact or urban legend, I couldn’t say, but it only cemented my profound unease about 
Edgewater Hospital. That chilling experience at Edgewater, however, was far from my last brush 
with inexplicable dread in abandoned spaces. Not long after, a friend and I decided to explore 
an old factory. It had been shuttered some three decades prior, its operations ceased after its 
toxic byproducts had seeped into the local water supply, leaving the surrounding area contaminated 
with lead. The building itself was largely a hollowedout shell, its machinery long since 
stripped away, but the air still hung heavy with the ghostly presence of its industrial past. We 
ventured into what must have been the maintenance locker room area. a long dark corridor flanked by 
a series of smaller rooms. Even in the full glare of daylight, the interior was an abyss swallowed 
by perpetual gloom. We navigated by flashlight, the air thick with the smell of damp mold, the 
pervasive cold clinging to our skin. Yet the floor beneath our boots was strangely dry and dusted. 
Patches of lead paint, thick and brittle, peeled from the ceiling, fluttering down like grotesque 
feathers onto the floor. Each step we took was accompanied by a satisfying, unsettling crunch as 
we trod upon the fallen flakes. Deep within this labyrinth, a sliver of light caught our attention, 
bleeding from the gap of an old double door and spilling into the oppressive hallway. Naturally, 
our curiosity peaked. As we eased into the room, we discovered the light was sunlight streaming 
in from the outside. This, we surmised, was the facto’s laundry room, likely for uniforms. 
A colossal dryer still stood within, an antiquated beast of metal. My friend and I exchanged a look, 
a silent challenge passing between us. One of us, we figured, could easily fit inside. I 
volunteered, crawling into the vast drum. To my surprise, it still spun freely, its internal 
bearing somehow defying years of neglect. Bracing myself, I pushed with my feet, telling myself 
I could survive a few revolutions and scathed. For several minutes, we took turns, spinning each 
other around in the enormous dryer. As teenagers, this was about as much exhilarating fun as we 
could hope for in such a creepy, derelictked   place. My turn came again. Just as I had begun to 
rock back and forth, building momentum, I looked towards my friend, expecting his usual playful 
shove. But his demeanor had utterly transformed. He stood there pale, almost trembling, as if he’d 
just witnessed a ghost. “Shu,” he whispered, his voice laced with panic. “What’s wrong?” “Listen, 
do you hear that?” I scrambled out of the dryer, abruptly halting its spin and strained my ears in 
the sudden, profound silence. From the pitch black corridor, the very one we had just navigated, 
came a familiar sound. Crunch, crunch, crunch. It was the distinct, slow, deliberate sound of the 
paint chips on the ground being crushed. Someone or something was creeping towards us, moving 
through the catacomblike darkness of this decrepit factory. We had meticulously explored every nook 
and cranny of this factory. We knew with chilling certainty that not a soul, nor even a small 
animal, had been visible anywhere. The footsteps did not quicken or slow, but they were growing 
undeniably louder closer. We exchanged a look of sheer disbelief and utter terror. Who could this 
be? What could be silently stalking us through this absolute darkness, heading towards the very 
spot where we had just been making a cacophony   of creaking dryers and adolescent laughter? 
There was no time to ponder these horrifying questions. I turned to the double doors that 
led outside, the only source of natural light, and threw my weight against them. They protested 
with an awful groan and a shower of flaking paint, but initially refused to budge. My friend joined 
me, and together we heaved. Slowly, painstakingly, they began to give way. Resorting to desperate 
kicks, we finally burst them open. I have never in my life been so relieved to see sunlight, dead 
grass, and rusty fences. We bolted, not daring to look back, never stopping until the factory was 
a distant, horrifying memory. The memory of that desperate scramble, never daring to glance back, 
never truly knowing what lurked in the wretched, shadowy corridors, still sends a shiver down my 
spine. Not long after the factory ordeal, I found myself drawn to another forgotten place, though 
this time with a different companion. A friend and I decided to explore an open psychiatric hospital, 
a place rumored to be utterly deserted. Curiously, our initial exploration was almost idyllic. 
We encountered hundreds of Kong arose. Their movements graceful and remarkably they were as 
friendly as any pet. After a pleasant interlude with the wildlife, we ventured further into 
the dense bushland surrounding the facility. We passed a cluster of derelict wards, then pushed 
on for less than a mile, eventually stumbling upon an even more isolated district of abandoned 
structures. This was an enclosed area holding the skeletal remains of at least four buildings. 
Finding an entire forgotten psychiatric district is unsettling enough. But as we surveyed the 
perimeter, the scene grew darker. One side of the area was nothing but barren earth scarred by the 
overturned, burnt out husks of four or five cars, some still holding bottles of alcohol. Driven 
by a morbid curiosity, I cautiously lifted the boot of one, finding nothing but dust and decay. 
We moved towards another corner where the grass grew thick and unruly. Here the buildings 
were smothered in aggressive gang graffiti, a stark contrast to the earlier desolation. In one 
corner, a putrid moldinfested pool sat stagnant, its surface a sickly green, adorned with yet more 
spray-painted tags. My friend and I looked to the side and our eyes locked on a horrifying sight. A 
dead dog floating in the murky water. We stared in shocked silence for a full 10 seconds, searching 
for visible wounds, finding none. A chilling realization began to dawn. This was a dangerous 
area rife with gang activity. And the dead dog suggested something far more sinister, perhaps 
dog fighting. As the dread intensified, a sudden, deafening bang ripped through the oppressive 
silence, echoing like a gunshot. We immediately ducked for cover, pressing ourselves against the 
building’s exterior. It was then, we noticed, scattered on the ground near our feet, discarded 
plastic baggies, telltale remnants of heroin, and cocaine. We waited for 5 tense minutes, our 
hearts pounding, trying to rationalize the sound. Perhaps it was just the wind slamming the car boot 
shut, but the thought of leaving without knowing for sure nodded at us. Cautiously, we decided to 
return. We tiptoed back in, navigating what felt like soft, yielding mud. That’s when we heard it 
again. Distinct footsteps. My friend was about 5 m ahead, so I knew they weren’t his. We were in 
a lower section opposite one of the crumbling buildings. I crouched low, hidden by a cluster of 
bushes, glancing at my friend. He too had frozen, his eyes wide. The footsteps were directly above 
us on the grassy mound to my right. Someone was there moving slowly, deliberately. This wasn’t an 
animal. This was another person, someone who had been watching us all along. The bang, the apparent 
gunshot, it had been a deliberate attempt to scare us away. Without a word, we bolted, scrambling out 
of that place as fast as our legs could carry us. The chilling certainty that we had been stalked 
from the moment we arrived, perhaps even before   we saw the dead dog, left me with a torrent of 
questions and no answers. A squatter, a drug user, or something else entirely. Years earlier, back 
in high school, a different kind of inexplicable event had left its mark. I had a close friend 
whose house was next door to a property that seemed perpetually on the market. People would 
move in then vanish in the dead of night without a word. For years, no owner lasted more than 
6 months. One evening, consumed by boredom, my friend suggested we explore the empty house 
next door. We circled around to the back and he, being smaller, squeezed through the dog 
door, then unlocked the main entrance for me. The house itself was unremarkable. A typical 1950s 
craftsmanstyle dwelling in an older pleasant part of town, much like my friends. The kitchen 
featured a charming built-in breakfast nook beside a large picture window. The electricity 
was off, but the street lights outside cast a faint glow through the glass. My friend and 
I settled onto the floor opposite the table, simply chatting, passing the time. Suddenly, 
my friend screamed. In that very instant, my vision didn’t just blur. It went completely 
black. My entire body was engulfed in a sickening, unnatural coldness from head to toe. I began 
screaming, feeling my friend’s hands clamp onto mine, pulling me forcefully in some direction. 
Slowly, agonizingly, my vision returned, and the cold receded as I realized we were outside 
under the harsh glow of the street light. The icy grip of the house, far colder than any December 
air, finally loosened its hold on me as my friend, his face a mask of terror, hauled me through the 
narrow opening. My mind reeled, a confused tangle of adrenaline and disorientation. What happened? 
I managed to stammer, my voice thin and ready. He recounted a horror that still sends shivers down 
my spine. As I had been speaking, a profound inky blackness had coalesed from beneath the table, 
taking on the faint, unsettling contours of a   small girl. This spectral entity, he swore, had 
crawled directly onto me. Apparently, my eyes had been wide open, yet utterly unseeing as I thrashed 
and groped blindly in the darkness. His own terror had been so absolute that he had simply dragged 
me out. We remain friends and the story surfaces occasionally, but its essence, the chilling 
details of that unseen presence never changes. The memory of that absolute blackness, that 
suffocating cold, it was almost tangible, thick and sticky, clinging to me for days afterwards. 
For a long while, the unnerving sensation refused to dissipate, a phantom chill that made 
walking past that house an impossibility. Even now, the memory can make me hesitate to 
get out of bed. The late summer of 2012 saw me venturing into yet another abandoned space. 
This time, a dilapidated tuberculosis hospital accompanied by my friend Sarah. She carried a 
voice recorder while I clutched a cheap video camera. As we entered the cavernous basement, we 
simultaneously hit record, beginning our ascent through the decaying floors. A persistent unease 
settled over me. the distinct impression of being shadowed. Each time I spun around, however, the 
corridors behind me were empty, swallowed by the oppressive gloom. The building wasn’t particularly 
expansive, a small mercy perhaps. We reached the top floor, its silence heavy, and began our 
methodical search. Sarah posed a few questions aloud, and I followed suit. The feeling of being 
pursued, a subtle prickle at the back of my neck, refused to leave, compelling me to constantly 
scan my surroundings. After several minutes, the eerie quiet became too much, and we decided to 
descend, retracing our steps back to the basement. The moment we stepped onto the cracked concrete 
of the lowest level, the sensation vanished,   and a wave of relief washed over me. We exited 
the hospital and headed home. A few days later, a mutual friend who had accompanied us to the site 
but wisely opted not to venture inside asked if I had reviewed the footage. I admitted I hadn’t, 
but the question sparked a renewed curiosity. I inserted the SD card into my computer. The video 
was largely an uninteresting blur of darkness, punctuated only by my flashlight beam bouncing off 
crumbling walls. It was when the footage reached the second floor that something captured by the 
lens seared itself into my memory. In the video, Sarah’s voice, clear and slightly nervous, asked, 
“If you’re trapped here and you want to leave, please speak into this little red light.” 
Not even a second pass before a gruff, resonant male voice answered distinctly, “Ain’t 
no light.” I turned to my friend, my eyes wide with a terror that mirrored her own pale face. 
We had both heard it. I immediately called Sarah, urging her to meet me. When we finally replayed 
the clip together, her face drained of color as well. She retrieved her own voice recorder, 
listening to the exact same section. Nothing, only the sound of her own voice. The chilling 
realization hit us. There had been no voice on her recorder, only on my camera, as if someone 
had spoken directly into my microphone, loud and clear. My lingering suspicion had been validated. 
We hadn’t been alone that day. Bolstered by this unsettling confirmation, I along with my brother, 
my cousin, and his girlfriend decided to tackle another abandoned hospital. This one situated 
right in the heart of town. My brother and I were just visiting, but my cousin, a local, had scouted 
the territory. He described a challenging route, climbing a decrepit door that led directly onto 
the roof of the old morg, from which we could   traverse across to a ladder ascending to the 
third floor roof. There was no direct access to the second story, just a sheer drop. The ladder, 
he explained, was a tricky ascent, its upper half encased in a thin metal shroud, rendering the 
rungs useless. We’d have to scramble up the side using the support rods bolted to the wall. My 
cousin, with practiced ease, scaled the first rod, then offered a hand, helping me, a rather short 
individual, to follow. Next up was his girlfriend, but halfway she faltered, admitting she couldn’t 
manage it. My brother, ever the gentleman, opted to stay with her while my cousin and I pressed 
on. We reached the third floor, finding a small, dilapidated shed, clearly an old air conditioning 
unit enclosure. The interior bore undeniable marks of recent occupation. Irrefutable evidence that 
someone had made this their home, at least for a night. Perched on that elevated expanse, our eyes 
scanned the horizon, taking in two more roofle structures. One seemed to offer a direct portal 
into the main hospital building, while the other, a chillingly dark, cold room beckoned with an 
ominous wide openen door, even beneath the glow of a full moon. We opted for a wider reconnaissance, 
hoping to find an easier point of ingress on the opposing side of the roof. As we peered over the 
precipice, a shriek, sharp and raw, tore through the night. It came again, then a third time. 
My cousin, his face suddenly stark, turned to me. That’s definitely her, he declared, his voice 
tight. I need to get down there now. Wait here if you can’t manage alone. I watched in disbelief 
as he scaled down two stories with astonishing speed. My turn was less graceful. I began my 
descent, only to lose my footing on the ladder, plummeting a terrifying distance before landing 
precariously close to the edge of the roof.   a mere meter from where it opened directly into 
an underground car park entrance. I scrambled up, adrenaline surging, and ran to my cousin, who lay 
on the ground. My first thought was security, or worse. It turned out his girlfriend, despite being 
less than 2 ft from solid ground, had attempted to climb up, panicked, and let out the piercing 
screams that had reached us. Our adventure, though cut short, left an indelible mark. 
Those three minutes, especially the sickening sensation of falling into the void, became the 
most terrifying of my life. Back on campus, there was always that one strange building, Bioai. 
It was notorious, split into three distinct wings, biology, psychology, and zoology. Legend had it 
that three separate architects, one for each wing, had been commissioned only to complete their 
designs without any mutual communication. The result was a bewildering architectural 
enigma. Staircases that terminated abruptly, closets that opened into other stairwells, doors 
that led to blank concrete walls. It was said that if you covered every internal window with sticky 
notes, you’d still find untouched pains from the outside, a testament to its bizarre labyrinth in 
nature. Having lived in residence for 3 years, my floor mates and I decided one night to brave 
its mysteries. The campus was open late and our initial foray into bioai was exhilarating. We 
stumbled upon peculiar curiosities, including a freezer proudly proclaiming a yeti within. But 
the fun soon took a sinister turn. While exploring the basement, we encountered a large closet. 
Peeking inside, we found evidence of a makeshift dwelling, a mattress on the floor, a backpack 
overflowing with belongings, scattered clothes. We quickly retreated, the unsettling discovery 
pushing us further into the building. Then soft footsteps began to trail us. Every time we glanced 
back, the corridors were empty. We pressed on, our nerves frayed until we rounded a corner and came 
face to face with a disheveled, intensely angry man. A collective shriek erupted from our group 
as we spun on our heels, bolting in the opposite direction. His furious shouts echoed behind us as 
we frantically searched for an exit, screaming our way through the maze. Finally, bursting out of the 
building, we sprinted towards our residence. When one friend stumbled and fell, the unspoken rule 
of every man for himself propelled us onward. In hindsight, it was likely just a homeless person, a 
not uncommon sight on campus. But in that moment, the terror was absolute. My old school 
harbored its own secrets, a network of maintenance tunnels beneath its foundations. Some 
were new and in use, but others, the older ones, lay forgotten. My friend Chloe and I discovered 
an entrance to these older tunnels in an unused classroom. It required picking a lock on a 
trapoor, unscrewing a round metal cover, and then lowering ourselves into a square, grimy shaft. The 
main tunnels were a claustrophobic squeeze about 2 feet wide by 3 feet tall with a perpetual 2-in 
depth of dirty black water pooling at the bottom. Perched on that elevated expanse, our eyes scanned 
the horizon, taking in two more roofle structures. One seemed to offer a direct portal into the main 
hospital building, while the other, a chillingly dark cold room beckoned with an ominous wideopen 
door, even beneath the glow of a full moon. We opted for a wider reconnaissance, hoping to 
find an easier point of ingress on the opposing side of the roof. As we peered over the precipice, 
a shriek, sharp and raw, tore through the night. “It came again, then a third time.” “My cousin,” 
his face suddenly stark, turned to me. “That’s definitely her,” he declared, his voice tight. 
“I need to get down there now. Wait here if you can’t manage alone. I watched in disbelief as he 
scaled down two stories with astonishing speed. My turn was less graceful. I began my descent only 
to lose my footing on the ladder, plummeting a terrifying distance before landing precariously 
close to the edge of the roof a mere meter from   where it opened directly into an underground car 
park entrance. I scrambled up, adrenaline surging, and ran to my cousin who lay on the ground. 
My first thought was security or worse. It turned out his girlfriend, despite being less 
than 2 ft from solid ground, had attempted to climb up, panicked, and let out the piercing 
screams that had reached us. Our adventure, though cut short, left an indelible mark. Those 
three minutes, especially the sickening sensation of falling into the void, became the most 
terrifying of my life. Back on campus, there was always that one strange building, Biosai. It 
was notorious split into three distinct wings, biology, psychology, and zoology. Legend had it 
that three separate architects, one for each wing, had been commissioned, only to complete their 
designs without any mutual communication. The result was a bewildering architectural 
enigma. Staircases that terminated abruptly, closets that opened into other stairwells, doors 
that led to blank concrete walls. It was said that if you covered every internal window with sticky 
notes, you’d still find untouched pains from the outside, a testament to its bizarre labyrinth in 
nature. Having lived in residence for 3 years, my floor mates and I decided one night to 
brave its mysteries. The campus was open late, and our initial foray into Bioai was exhilarating. 
We stumbled upon peculiar curiosities, including a freezer proudly proclaiming a yeti within. But the 
fun soon took a sinister turn. While exploring the basement, we encountered a large closet. Peeking 
inside, we found evidence of a makeshift dwelling, a mattress on the floor, a backpack overflowing 
with belongings, scattered clothes. We quickly retreated, the unsettling discovery pushing us 
further into the building. Then soft footsteps began to trail us. Every time we glanced back, 
the corridors were empty. We pressed on, our nerves frayed until we rounded a corner and came 
face to face with a disheveled, intensely angry man. A collective shriek erupted from our group 
as we spun on our heels, bolting in the opposite direction. His furious shouts echoed behind us as 
we frantically searched for an exit, screaming our way through the maze. Finally, bursting out of the 
building, we sprinted towards our residence. When one friend stumbled and fell, the unspoken rule 
of every man for himself, propelled us onward. In hindsight, it was likely just a homeless person, a 
not uncommon sight on campus. But in that moment, the terror was absolute. My old school harbored 
its own secrets, a network of maintenance tunnels beneath its foundations. Some were new and in 
use, but others, the older ones, lay forgotten. My friend Chloe and I discovered an entrance to 
these older tunnels in an unused classroom. It required picking a lock on a trapoor, unscrewing 
a round metal cover, and then lowering ourselves into a square, grimy shaft. The main tunnels 
were a claustrophobic squeeze about 2 ft wide by 3 ft tall with a perpetual 2-in depth of dirty 
black water pooling at the bottom. The school’s subterranean veins were a realm of oppressive 
darkness, perpetually cold and reolent with   the earthy tang of mildew. Each day we ventured 
deeper, pushing the boundaries of our courage. One afternoon, perhaps 20 minutes into our 
exploration, Chloe, who was ahead of me, suddenly slumped forward, her movement ceasing. It turned 
out that insidious gases had accumulated in those confined spaces, rendering her unconscious. Panic 
surging, I hauled her out, dragging her limp form back into the comparative safety of the classroom. 
For our next foray, we were better prepared. Equipped with masks and powerful flashlights, 
intent on charting the labyrinth, we meticulously marked the walls with chalk, documenting 
over 700 ft of twisting, turning passages that descended and branched off into the earth. 
After an especially grueling 3-hour expedition, we turned back, anticipating the familiar relief 
of the trapoor, but it was sealed. We pushed, twisted, and pounded on the metal cover, but 
it remained stubbornly unyielding. Trapped. We frantically rushed through the known arteries of 
the system, testing each of the three additional   exits we had painstakingly discovered over 
time. All were locked. Our carefully contained apprehension erupted into raw panic. We were truly 
utterly freaking out. In desperation, we plunged into an uncharted tunnel. After what felt like an 
eternity, a subtle sound began to register behind us. I nudged Kloe, who was still leading the way, 
and we froze, dousing our flashlights. In the absolute silence, the sound solidified. A steady 
splash, splash, splash, undeniably following our trail. Utter terror propelled us forward. We 
scrambled, not knowing where we were going, tripping over pipes and scraping our knees for a 
frantic 10 minutes until we burst into a larger cavern. It wasn’t a room, we quickly realized, 
but a wide, sunken section, the draining area of the old boiler room. You might assume our 
ordeal ended there, but fate had another twist. It was the second Friday of the month. A scheduled 
maintenance day, and a solitary figure was at work in the boiler room. We quickly ducked behind a 
stack of rusted metal stairs, watching as the man left, presumably for more tools. Seizing the 
opportunity, we scrambled up the stairs and burst through a door, finding refuge in the deserted 
girl’s locker room for the remainder of the day. We never did discover who had locked us in or what 
or who had been splashing behind us in the dark. Perhaps some mysteries are better left unsolved. 
Not far from my hometown stood an old abandoned mental hospital. A modern facility had long since 
replaced it, constructed alongside the general hospital. But this decrepit edifice lingered, a 
monument to decay. Its advanced state of disrepair only amplified its inherent creepiness, making 
it a morbidly popular destination for curious teenagers. One stifling summer evening, several 
friends and I decided to brave its shadows determined to gauge its true horror. The heat 
had been relentless for months with temperatures soaring into the 80s, and this particular night 
remained a muggy 70°. We spent roughly 90 minutes exploring the upper floors, navigating collapsing 
corridors and rooms choked with dust. Eventually, we reached a point where the floor had completely 
given way, offering a dizzying view directly   into the basement. One of our friends, ever the 
intrepid explorer, volunteered to climb down. He located a door that led directly to ground level, 
a crucial discovery, as all other basement access points were sealed shut. After an ingenious 
maneuver to unlatch the lock from the inside, he ventured into this hidden realm. What he 
discovered was astounding. This section of the hospital remained remarkably pristine, seemingly 
untouched by the ravages of vandalism and decay that marred the upper floors. It was as if time 
had forgotten this one corner. There was even a fully intact bowling alley, pinned still standing, 
among a host of other peculiar relics. But the true strangeness awaited us. Adjacent to a larger 
for boating room, we found a locked door leading into a narrow tunnel. Undeterred, we followed 
the tunnel’s descent, which eventually opened into a 14×4 m chamber. Here, the air hung heavy 
with an impossible cold. In the center, a single chair equipped with ominous straps conjured images 
of an archaic electric chair. Surrounding it were bizarre antiquated machines which we presumed 
were instruments of some crude form of shock therapy. The most confounding detail, however, 
was the ice. The entire room, walls, floor, and ceiling was coated in a thick 2 to 3 in layer 
of solid ice. This despite the fact that no other part of the massive building registered below 70° 
F and it hadn’t been below freezing in the region for at least 5 months. Stranger still, there was 
no pooling water, no sign of melting. The ice simply was. To this day, the origin and purpose 
of that frozen room remain a baffling enigma. The chilling enigma of the iceclad chamber within 
that abandoned asylum continued to baffle me. How had an HVAC system supposedly laying dormant for 
decades still maintain such an extreme localized temperature? It felt as if no one had stepped 
foot in that room for 40 years. Yet the impossible preservation of ice suggested a secret history, 
a bizarre function lost to time. It was utterly perplexing, a stark reminder of the unknown forces 
at play in these derelic spaces. When I was around 15 or 16, my friends and I, a group of five 
thrillseeking teenagers, set our sights on an old industrial mill nestled at the forest’s edge. 
To reach it, we had to navigate a winding stream, a playful challenge of rock hopping that only 
the nimble could master. Upon arrival, the mill presented a formidable, sealed exterior. Every 
door was stubbornly locked, every window boarded. Yet peering through narrow gaps, we glimpsed the 
tantalizing inards of the behemoth, colossal metal machinery, rooms choked with exposed wires, and 
an array of scattered industrial relics, chunks of metal, discarded chairs, and forgotten tools. 
What struck us most was the pristine state of the place. It appeared completely untouched, free of 
graffiti or obvious signs of previous trespassers. We felt like pioneers, the first to breach its 
forgotten walls. Our entry point proved to be a stubborn, tightly sealed window. After several 
concerted kicks, the aged nails finally gave way, and the entire pain collapsed inward. For 
a split second, I plunged into darkness, landing with a loud crash. My friends, who had 
been expecting a controlled descent, cried out, fearing I’d been hurt. It turned out the window 
had been backed by a substantial wooden board, and my impact onto it had created the deafening sound. 
I switched on my headlamp, a beacon in the gloom, and helped the others descend into the cavernous 
basement. Deep within, a colossal antique lift, the kind that might have inspired Bioshock 
serie aesthetics, dominated the center of   the room. We wrestled open its rusted trellis 
gate and stepped inside. On the rear panel, I spotted a faded inscription, a cryptic proverb 
about humanity owing its very breath to a divine creator. As I am mused on its meaning, the entire 
basement suddenly burst into light. I blinked, momentarily disoriented before realizing one of 
my friends, with a mischievous grin, had found a switch and reactivated the forgotten power grid. 
We erupted in joyous shouts. It was exhilarating, a small victory over the encroaching decay. Our 
celebration, however, was cut short by a distinct shuffling sound echoing from the upper floors. We 
were in the basement. The only way out was up. A cold dread seeped into our youthful exuberance. 
We were just kids after all, and the reality of an unknown presence quickly brought us back 
to Earth. Resigning ourselves to an inevitable confrontation, we found a rusty spade and began 
a slow, cautious ascent up the creaking stairs. The shuffling sounds grew clearer, coming from 
directly behind a door at the top. With a shared glance, we burst through, ready for anything. 
Inside, however, were not spectral entities, but a crew of temporary builders, shovels in hand, 
who looked up, startled, as we crashed into their workspace. Our carefully constructed bravado 
evaporated instantly. We spun on our heels, bolting, finding an emergency exit door that 
opened from the inside and didn’t stop running until we were deep in the woods. As luck would 
have it, a police cruiser passed us, heading in the opposite direction. In my panicked haste, I 
tripped over my shoelace, burning a neat scar on my elbow from the fall. My hometown held another 
even older abandoned factory, a relic from nearly 40 years prior. Its closure, due to toxic lead 
contamination, had left it a hollowedout shell, yet a magnet for local legends. Over the decades, 
explorers had left their marks, creating bizarre tableau. One room, a veritable time capsule, 
overflowed with unopened 80s cassettes, vintage dolls, and a treasure trove of forgotten 
memorabilia. Elsewhere, the usual graffiti mingled with unsettling ritualistic symbols, fueling 
the whispered tales of occult gatherings. While no credible claims of hauntings existed, 
the pervasive creepiness was enough to unnerve anyone. A couple of years back, a friend and 
I decided it was time to brave its shadows. The factory was a fortress. We circled the entire 
perimeter, searching for a weakness, only to find every loading dock sealed to the ground, every 
window boarded, and every metal door chained. Our hopes dwindled until we located a massive rolling 
door that with 30 minutes of concerted effort, we managed to pry open a mere foot off the ground. It 
was just enough for us to army crawl inside. The initial interior was thankfully mundane. A couple 
of motheaten mannequins, a bent bicycle, nothing immediately terrifying. We barely ventured 10 ft 
into the cavernous space when a deep froy chuckle rumbled from a corridor perhaps 50 ft away. It 
wasn’t playful. It was chillingly deliberate. Needless to say, we didn’t wait around for an 
encore. We retreated, a blur of frantic motion, scrambling back under the rolling door and booking 
it out of there as fast as our legs could carry   us. My urban adventures didn’t end there, though. 
On another occasion, I found myself drawn to an abandoned factory on the edge of a major city, a 
sprawling complex that was actively being prepped   for demolition. The baffling enigma of that 
mental hospital’s ice-filled chamber remained. It was said to have an HVAC system that ran for 
years, yet no one had seemingly accessed the room in four decades. The impossible chill, the 
ancient machinery, it was all profoundly strange, a mystery I couldn’t shake. A few years prior, 
when I was about 15 or 16, a group of five of us decided to explore an abandoned industrial mill at 
the edge of the forest. The approach was a minor adventure itself. We had to hop across a running 
stream on well-placed rocks, a feet requiring a certain agility. Once at the mill, we found every 
entrance sealed tight. No open doors, no broken windows. We pressed our faces to cracks, catching 
glimpses of the interior. colossal metal machines, a room tangled with exposed wires and industrial 
detritus, chunks of metal, chairs, and various forgotten tools. The place looked incredibly 
untouched, unransacked, and surprisingly devoid of graffiti, which thrilled us. We felt like the 
first ones to discover it. Our entry point became a stubborn, tightly sealed window. We kicked at it 
several times until the nails, protesting decades of inaction, finally gave way. The entire window 
frame and its thick wooden backing fell inward, sending me tumbling for a few feet before I 
hit the ground with a loud smash. My friends, hearing the violent impact, immediately panicked, 
asking if I was okay. It turned out the window had been boarded up from the inside, and my unexpected 
plunge had brought me down onto the sturdy board   with an alarming clang. I flicked on my headlamp, 
assuring them I was unharmed, and then helped them carefully descend into the mills basement. In the 
center of this vast subterranean space stood an enormous, antiquated lift, the kind that screamed 
Bioshock in its weathered industrial charm. We slid aside the trellis gate and stepped inside. 
On the rear panel, my headlamp illuminated a faded proverb about humanity owing its very existence 
to a divine power. As I read the inscription, the entire basement suddenly flooded with light. 
I was momentarily dazed until one of my friends, grinning broadly, revealed he’d found a 
switch. The light still worked. Our excitement was boundless, but it was quickly tempered by a 
distinct shuffling sound from the floor above us. We were in the basement. To get out, we had to 
go up. Fear, raw and unadulterated, began to set in. We were just kids after all. Resigned to an 
encounter with whatever or whoever was upstairs, we grabbed a discarded spade nearby and began to 
creep up the stairs. The shuffling grew louder, clearer, now coming from behind the door. 
We busted through, ready for anything, only to find a team of temporary construction 
workers, shovels in hand, staring back at us. Caught completely offguard, we instantly turned 
and ran, scrambling through an emergency door that thankfully opened from the inside. We 
tore through the woods, adrenaline pumping. A police car passed us, heading the other way. And 
in my haste, I tripped over my shoelace, burning a neat scar on my elbow as I hit the ground. My 
city also harbored a different kind of relic, an old abandoned factory, shuttered for roughly 
40 years. Over those decades, countless explorers had passed through, leaving their strange marks. 
There was a whole room dedicated to 80s nostalgia, unopened cassette tapes, vintage dolls, and other 
forgotten treasures. And of course, the ubiquitous graffiti interspersed with eerie ritualistic 
symbols scrolled on the walls, fueling local legends of dark ceremonies. Like any neglected 
place, it was steeped in unsettling lore, enough to thoroughly freak people out, even if 
none of the claims were truly believable. A couple of years ago, a friend and I decided it was time 
to investigate. Upon arriving, we circumnavigated the entire factory, searching for an entry point, 
only to find it completely sealed. The old loading docks were bolted to the ground, every window 
boarded, and heavy metal doors secured with   formidable locks and chains. Our effort seemed 
feudal until we stumbled upon a rolling door that after a grueling 30 minutes of pushing and prying, 
we managed to lift about a foot off the ground. It was just enough for us to army crawl beneath. 
Inside, the initial findings were fairly mundane. A few motheaten mannequins, a bent bicycle, 
nothing overtly strange or creepy. We’d walked barely 10 ft into the cavernous space when a deep 
guttural chuckle echoed from a corridor about 50 ft away. It was a chilling sound that brooked 
no second guessing. Needless to say, we bolted, scrambling back out and fleeing the factory 
as fast as our legs could carry us. My urban exploration days, it seemed, were always fraught 
with these unexpected, hearts stopping encounters. The optimal time for a solitary venture into the 
derelict factory was always after dusk. With the sun dipped below the horizon, I navigated the 
cavernous ground floor. My small flashlight carving a meager path through the profound 
darkness. My ambition was set on the rooftop where an abandoned billboard promised a commanding, if 
grim vista of the freeway and distant highrises, a perfect photographic subject. Locating the elusive 
stairway was paramount. After what felt like an age of wandering through the bottom level, my 
beam finally caught the ascent. The second floor mirrored the first in its oppressive gloom. Yet, 
its unique 100-year-old architecture, with each level presenting a distinct layout, compelled me 
to explore. I moved methodically, my eyes adapting to the limited light until I reached the third 
floor. There, I instinctively veered right into a vast, unlit expanse. My flashlight cut through 
the heavy air, illuminating unsettling patterns scrolled across the walls. A jolt went through me 
as I realized the drawings were all rendered in stark blood red. I was in a room utterly enveloped 
by these crimson markings, a disturbing lexicon of glyph-like symbols, some undeniably occult. 
And then my gaze fell upon the centerpiece, a sprawling mural depicting intertwining 
serpents and more esoteric characters. I froze, my heart hammering, anticipating fanatic 
figures to materialize from the shadows. 10 agonizing minutes stretched into an eternity 
as I waited, gripped by a primal fear. Then, a single undeniable instinct took over. I got out 
of there fast. Years ago, my cousin and I stumbled upon a crude wooden cross inongruously planted 
in the earth. We were sufficiently unnerved, but quickly dismissed it as a child’s morbid prank. 
Eventually, development began in that wooded area, and to our knowledge, no remains were ever 
unearthed. Typically, we steered clear of active construction sites, deeming them unsafe. But as 
children, curiosity was an irresistible force. We snuck into a house in its nent stages, essentially 
just a skeletal frame at top a poured foundation. We lingered for a while, quickly concluding 
that half-built houses offered little amusement,   and headed home. Barely 2 hours later, sirens 
shattered the evening quiet. We looked out to see a fire truck barreling towards the woods, 
its flashing lights painting the trees in stark   red. The fire department quickly cordoned off the 
area, a small crowd of curious neighbors already forming. We pressed for details and a fireman, 
grim-faced, confirmed the house had burned down. The shock that surged through us was absolute. It 
was the very same structure we had been exploring mere hours earlier. Days later, local news 
reports unveiled the chilling truth. A serial arsonist was targeting construction sites in the 
woods, a violent protest against the encroaching   development. During my university years, pursuing 
a master’s degree with a minimal class schedule, I made a pragmatic, if slightly indulgent, 
decision, skip the exorbitant parking permit. $60, I reasoned, was far better spent on other 
student essentials, mostly drinks, to be honest. This meant a brisk 10-minute walk to campus from 
my off-campus parking spot. My chosen shortcut led me through the expansive grounds of an imposing 
old mental institution, a strikingly beautiful   yet antiquated structure that abuted the main 
campus. Adjacent to it stood what I presumed was a functional hospital. I’d always just assumed both 
facilities were operational. This route shaved half the time off my commute. Since all my classes 
ran from 6:00 p.m. to 8:40 p.m., my journey back to the car always took place under the cloak of 
night. One evening, as I cut through the asylum grounds, absorbed in my music, a peculiar 
sight unfolded before me, a dozen figures, all clad in white gowns, emerged from the grand 
doors of the institution. It struck me as odd given the late hour, and I questioned internally 
if patients were permitted outside at such a time, but the thought was fleeting, and I simply 
continued on my way. Weeks later, my girlfriend dropped me off at school, saving me the walk. As 
I thanked her, I recounted the strange encounter, musing about the 12 individuals. Her response 
instantly sobered me. With a casual shrug, she informed me that I couldn’t have seen anyone. 
The asylum, she explained, had been completely inactive, a deserted relic, for as long as she, 
a lifelong resident of the city, could remember. The memory of a terrifying experience at my high 
school, which eventually convinced me to invest   in a parking permit for my college campus still 
chills me. It was during a Halloween 5K race, an event my high school teams volunteered for, 
that I first encountered the East Coast’s oldest   mental hospital. My friends and I, having run 
these trails countless times during practice, knew of the abandoned wards nestled among the 
trees. After our shift, a thrill-seeking urge led us toward two, a grand colonial style brick 
edifice shrouded in ivy and secrets. Its steps, ancient and rotting, groaned beneath our weight 
as the six of us cautiously ascended. I, the most apprehensive of the group, was among the last to 
enter its gaping, shadowy doorway. I barely had a moment to register the grotesque remnants within 
the rusted surgical instruments, the desolate CS with their frayed restraints before the precarious 
landing splintered beneath me. A sickening lurch and I plunged through the decaying floorboards, my 
body wedged fast. Had it not been for my friend’s immediate grasp, pulling me from the gaping m, 
I swear I would have succumbed to sheer terror. Once extracted, the entire group fled, scrambling 
back to the race site without a backward glance. In my hometown, another unsettling local existed, 
a sprawling, decommissioned insane asylum complex. Much of it had been raised or repurposed 
over the decades, but one structure remained,   a small, peculiar building that appeared to 
be an old radio room or communications hub. As I ventured through its desolate interior, my 
gaze fell upon a set of stairs leading downward. The basement, I discovered, was submerged under 
about 2 ft of stagnant water. Remembering tales of subterranean maintenance tunnels connecting 
the complex, I surmised this might offer a   forgotten entry. I left to procure boots and 
waiters, returning prepared for an amphibious exploration. The basement was a scene of utter 
neglect, rubbish floating in the murky depths. The supposed tunnel entrances, however, 
were stubbornly bricked off. Disappointed, I turned to leave, but stumbled, catching 
myself. As I regained my balance and looked down, the truth of my surroundings slammed into me. The 
water wasn’t merely filled with trash. It was a macob stew of animal parts and bones. Lying 
in the shallowest section, barely an inch or two of water, was a dog. its body horrifically 
dismembered, clearly the victim of human hands. I had unwittingly stumbled upon some deranged 
individuals ritualistic slaughterhouse. The realization sent a shock wave of revulsion through 
me, and I bolted, escaping the putrid chamber as quickly as my legs could carry me. A mere week 
later, that building mysteriously caught fire, consumed by flames. My urban exploration escapades 
continued, leading me to a sprawling square mile munitions factory complex. It was late, and I 
was traversing one of the countless abandoned roads criss-crossing its vast, desolate expanse. A 
low, insistent thumping began to register, growing steadily louder. It was a helicopter, I realized 
with a jolt, flying incredibly low. Suddenly, it materialized above the tree line, perhaps 
half a mile to my east. Its powerful search lights cutting through the darkness, sweeping the 
ground. Instinct took over. I dove into the deep ditch bordering the road, finding ample cover in 
the dense scrub. I never saw the helicopter again that night, nor did I encounter another soul. 
But the experience left me deeply unnerved, a chilling reminder of unseen presences in these 
forgotten zones. Now, in my first year of college, I find myself back in my hometown, a 
moderate-sized community of 9,000 nestled deep within the mountains. Each neighborhood here 
begins at the mountains base and spirals upwards. My own dwelling is situated on a particularly 
steep incline known as Bull’s Jump, a name derived from an old legend of a bull unable to crest its 
summit while pulling a carriage. This formidable ascent renders it one of the less populated 
areas. After a 30-inut drive up the mountain, the paved road gives way to gravel marked by 
a stark sign, dead end. Private property. Stay away. A further 10 minutes along this rocky 
track brings you to an abandoned house and 5 minutes beyond that, my own home. From my vantage 
point, the entrance to that gravel road is faintly visible. At night, the approach of any vehicle is 
unmistakable, its headlights piercing the gloom. Once on the gravel path, there’s no opportunity 
to turn around until you reach my house, so any approaching light signifies an undeniable, 
unavoidable presence. The terrain surrounding my road and home is a formidable wilderness of 
fruit trees and dense woods, an impenetrable   thicket that makes walking off the path virtually 
impossible. With a party slated for that evening, I was engrossed in preparations, a roaring 
bonfire, an array of snacks, and an ice chest brimming with drinks all set up 5 minutes from 
my house in front of the derelic structure. The allure of hosting a gathering here was undeniable, 
a chance to tell ghost stories under the stars, an unrestricted celebration in the middle of nowhere. 
I envisioned it as a future nostalgic memory, and my setup was flawless. Around 900 p.m., I spotted 
the first headlights piercing the mountain gloom, and my excitement surged. It quickly deflated, 
however, as only two members of our group pulled up. A rather uninspiring guy and his girlfriend. 
She, a central figure in this unfolding drama, was known for her dramatic flare and a tendency 
to overreact. A Ouija board prank on Aarai had left her deeply shaken, and ever since she’d been 
plagued by visions and claims of communicating with spirits, a situation I now pity, but then 
found merely unsettling and a little irritating. I offered them refreshments, but held off lighting 
the bonfire, reserving that ritual for when the full group arrived. They parked at my place, 
and we walked the short distance back to the abandoned house to await the others. No sooner had 
we settled into conversation than the girl gasped, claiming she’d seen someone inside the dilapidated 
building. My initial annoyance quickly gave way to a prickle of unease. This was my spot, a familiar 
backdrop for late night phone calls with my own crush, never a source of fear. Yet her palpable 
terror now made me wary. I ventured inside, flashlight beam cutting through the darkness, 
calling out clear. as I systematically checked every corner. Looking back, I suspect her fear 
wasn’t just of ghosts, but of being isolated with a guy she knew harbored feelings for her and 
me, the one who lived in this remote solitude. My heart rate, already elevated by the evening’s 
plans, began to race, imbuing the night with an inexplicable strangeness. A new set of headlights 
appeared, and this time, my relief was boundless. It had to be my high school friends. a reunion I 
desperately anticipated, eager to regail them with my college exploits. As the lights drew closer, 
I impulsively leaped in front of the vehicle, waving my arms to flag them down. The car 
screeched to a halt, and I realized with a jolt that it wasn’t anyone I recognized. Fearing 
I had startled a lost stranger, I approached the driver’s window cautiously, hands raised in a 
non-threatening gesture. Inside, a bewildered man, shirtless and rugged-l lookinging, stared back 
from the driver’s seat of a severely battered   car. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, 
his confusion evident. “I live here,” I replied, gesturing towards my own house further down the 
road. “We’re just having a party,” he pointed to the abandoned house. “You live there?” “No, 
sir. I live 5 minutes further down,” I corrected. It’s the only easy place to turn around. You just 
have to keep going. I was just being friendly. The man fell silent, his gaze fixed intently on my 
two friends who were now trying to subtly melt into the shadows behind me. My male friends 
slowly retreating, the girl attempting to   hide in the tall grass. Then he spoke again, 
his voice unsettlingly casual. Have you seen a white pickup truck throwing people around here? A 
cold realization washed over me. In that instant, I understood. We were in danger. My friends, 
quicker to grasp the gravity of the situation, were already scrambling down the hill towards 
my house. I took a step back, my voice barely a whisper. “What do you want? What do you mean?” 
“Yeah, I can’t help you, man.” He mumbled, turning away. I heard his car door open and the crunch of 
his footsteps on the gravel behind me. I didn’t dare look back, closing my eyes, bracing for the 
worst. After what felt like 20 agonizing feet, I heard the distinct sound of footsteps on grass. 
I spun around. The man was using a flip phone, scanning the meter tall grass around him. An 
impossible task for someone barely taller than the vegetation itself. He was looking for something. 
I sprinted the remaining distance to my house, finding my friends huddled inside, shaking and in 
tears. I tried to reassure them, claiming he was just a lost tourist, and we quickly secured all 
the doors and windows. Just as we began to feel a semblance of safety, another set of headlights 
appeared, causing my heart to seize with renewed terror. More friends were arriving, but the lost 
stranger was still out there searching. I roused my parents, hoping their presence would finally 
quell the escalating fear. My instincts screamed, urging me to sprint, though I had no clear 
destination in mind. From a distance of about 20 yards, hidden in the tall grass, I observed a 
scene that solidified my dread. The battered sedan and a stark white pickup truck were parked near 
the abandoned house. for shadowy figures moved restlessly between them, their actions punctuated 
by guttural grunts and heavy, deliberate stomps. The tableau was utterly nonsensical yet 
terrifyingly real. I hunched low, barely daring to breathe, my heart hammering. After 
10 agonizing minutes, both vehicles executed an impossibly precise U-turn in the restricted space. 
A maneuver that suggested season familiarity with this remote, challenging road. As they 
departed, they left behind several large crumpled brown paper bags far bigger than any takeout 
container. My bonfire, so meticulously prepared, lay scattered and extinguished. Our carefully 
arranged snacks and drinks vanished. Frantically, I pulled out my phone to warn my arriving friends, 
but it was too late. Their headlights were already sweeping across the gravel path, too close for 
them to turn back. relief mingled with a cold, persistent fear as they finally reached us. We 
recounted the bizarre encounter, each memory a disjointed fragment. While I had heard only 
the men’s grunts and the argument over some possession, the traumatized girl insisted she’d 
heard a woman’s faint plea for help emanating from   the abandoned house itself. My other friend and 
my parents, bless their obliviousness, claimed to have heard nothing at all. That night, our planned 
festivities were stripped bare. No crackling bonfire, no chilling ghost stories, no playful 
pranks. We huddled together, eyes constantly scanning the perimeter. The unsettling tension 
of palpable guest at our impromptu gathering. The traumatized girl, with her heightened 
sensitivities, magnified the eerie atmosphere, yet her conviction sparked a nagging doubt within 
me. Could someone have genuinely been hidden in   the abandoned house, crying out for rescue? I knew 
a few local dealers, and they’d always dismissed that isolated spot as a viable place for illicit 
activity, suggesting far better, more discreet locations in town. Some had even speculated 
about a disturbing local legend, a mom perhaps, disposing of secrets. A decade later, the mystery 
of that night still haunts me. Nothing was ever unearthed at the site. No bodies, no evidence of 
foul play, a fact I cling to. Whatever transpired, it couldn’t have been truly catastrophic, for I 
am here recounting the tale. But the lingering question remains, a chilling whisper in the back 
of my mind. What exactly did we interrupt out there? And what would have happened had we stayed? 
I suppose some questions are destined to remain unanswered. This next chilling memory dates back 
to the late spring of 2000, involving me and my then boyfriend. As an ardent urban explorer, I’ve 
delved into countless derelict locations. But this particular site, now known among later explorers 
as Stone Castle, or Olter Castle, a name given by a heritage society attempting its preservation, 
was at the time of my visit a largely undiscovered secret. While it has since seen much traffic, 
and many of its auxiliary structures have been dismantled, then it stood mostly intact. Only the 
main manor house had been ravaged by fire, leaving behind a stark skeletal stone shell. My boyfriend 
first spotted it from a rooftop he was working on in Orodante, a distant intriguing silhouette on 
the horizon. The sprawling property once boasted a grand barn, a carriage house, and a stable 
tucked away at its rear, though only the barn and carriage house remained when we ventured there. 
The first weekend we both had free, we embarked on the hour-long drive, drawn by its enigmatic 
allure. Perched majestically at top a remote hill set far back from the main road, the estate 
radiated a stunning, almost ethereal beauty. It was the kind of place that stirred fantasies of a 
life steeped in timeless elegance. We spent time simply imagining what it must have been like. The 
manor house itself was a ghost, merely an imposing stone facade hinting at its former glory. Through 
a shattered basement window, we could discern the mangled remains of an antique stove amidst the 
charred debris, a grim testament to the inferno. It had clearly been a home of considerable beauty, 
once cherished by its anonymous owners. True to my nature as an insatiable explorer, I insisted 
we investigate every nook and cranny of every surviving structure. My boyfriend, though less 
enthused by the prospect of venturing inside, ultimately yielded to my unwavering resolve. 
After all, what was the point of an hour-long drive if we simply admired its exterior? No, 
we had to go in. The immense barn was our first target. We explored both its upper and 
lower levels, but it was in the barn’s damp, shadowed basement that our casual curiosity 
abruptly transformed into unadulterated horror. The space had clearly been repurposed for sinister 
rights. Satanic artwork defaced the crumbling walls, a chilling tableau of profane symbols. 
A knife, its blade appearing to be stained with dried blood, lay discarded near a makeshift altar 
adorned with melted black candles. The air itself felt thick with an oppressive, malevolent energy, 
a residual echo of unspeakable acts. a bottle, a concoction that resembled blood. But the most 
chilling discovery, the one that screamed of the Macob purpose of this place, was a makeshift cage. 
It had been crudely fashioned within the silo, its interior strung with heavy chains, a 
terrifying contraption. My boyfriend, his face, Ashen, was desperate to flee. But my stubborn 
curiosity, an explorer’s curse, held me fast. I rationalized, insisting it was just 
bored teenagers playing at being sinister,   a common enough prank. We had to see the rest 
of the property, I argued. He wouldn’t have been able to drag me away. Not then, not with 
so many unexplored secrets yet to uncover. Our next destination was the stables, an unassuming 
building nestled at the rear of the property. I pulled open its door, and a wave of putrid decay 
slammed into me, instantly stealing my breath. The stench of rotting flesh was overwhelming, a 
sickening prelude to the horror within. The entire stable floor was a gruesome tableau of animal 
corpses, dogs, cats, rabbits, even coyotes, and foxes, all horribly mutilated. It was the 
most ghastly sight I had ever witnessed. A stark, visceral confirmation that this was no childish 
prank. My boyfriend, now beyond reason, seized me, his voice trembling with a fury I hadn’t heard 
before. This isn’t kids screwing around. Elias, he growled. This is serious. We’re leaving 
now. We began our retreat, but even then, one last building, the carriage house, beckoned 
an irresistible pull. I wanted to check it just a quick peek on our way out. My boyfriend, however, 
was having none of it. He stomped off up the hill towards the main house, assuming I would 
follow, but I didn’t. I veered around the hill, taking a clandestine detour to the carriage house. 
It was anticlimactically empty. Nothing there. In hindsight, my defiance was our saving grace. Had 
I not lingered, had we simply marched up the hill as he intended, we would have walked straight 
into the ambush. They would have been able to   sneak up on us, and God only knows what horrors 
would have ensued. The first figure I spotted sent a jolt of terror through me, an adult man 
with a baseball bat, brazenly rumaging through our car. He had already opened the door, his 
hands delving into our belongings, presumably searching for our keys. There were at least eight 
of them in total. a mly crew ranging from adults in their 30s to teenagers and even children, 
none older than 11 or 12. They were all armed, golf clubs, sticks, canes, and baseball bats. What 
the hell are you doing in our car? I shrieked, my voice cracking with a mix of fear and outrage. My 
boyfriend, hearing my cry, charged over the hill, a blur of righteous indignation, straight into the 
waiting posi of creepers and weirdos. It seemed we had inadvertently ruined their plans because they 
immediately recoiled, some even clumsily trying   to conceal their weapons behind their backs, a 
pathetic attempt at discretion. What do you think you’re doing in our car? I demanded again, my 
voice trembling but firm. The man merely stared, his eyes wide and nervous. My boyfriend, bless 
his quick thinking, interjected, claiming we were merely admiring the architecture and were 
just about to leave. In what felt like a miracle, they allowed us to get into our car and drive 
away. A miracle indeed, given the unspeakable discoveries we’d made on their property. As we 
sped off, we saw them in our rear view mirror, a black pickup truck with no license plates, 
pulling out and following us. They tailgate us for a chilling 20 minutes. Instead of heading 
home, we drove straight to the closest city, Berea, and filed a report with a policeman who 
seemed more unnerved by our story than we were. My boyfriend never returned to that roofing job. 
He arranged for someone else to finish it and   took on another project. I, however, harbored a 
strange desire to go back, but after recounting the tale to anyone who would listen, I couldn’t 
find a single person brave enough to accompany   me. Our urban explorations continued, but with a 
new, somber understanding. Both my boyfriend and I started carrying weapons, a habit I maintain 
to this day, even on casual hikes. I’ve never read of anyone else having similar experiences 
at that castle, at least not recently. Yet, just a few months ago, my cousin, herself an avid 
explorer, contacted me. She had a new place she wanted to investigate. Guess where? That very 
castle. And guess what? We’ve made arrangements to go there in the next couple of weeks. So, on 
that note, many years later, to that castle cult, I fervently hope our paths never cross again. 
And to any other urban explorers out there, please be careful. You never know what horrors 
might be lurking in those abandoned places. The container holding what resembled blood was a grim 
find. But the most unsettling detail, a chilling testament to the sinister activities within, was 
a makeshift cage. It had been fashioned within the silo, complete with internal chains, a truly 
horrifying discovery. My boyfriend, his face, a mask of terror, was desperate to flee. But my 
ingrained need to explore, an insatiable hunger for the unknown, compelled me to stay. I tried 
to dismiss it to rationalize the Macob scene as merely the foolish antics of bored teenagers. 
We had to explore the remaining structures. I insisted. He knew even then that I wouldn’t leave 
until every building had yielded its secrets. The stables located at the back of the property were 
our next target. The moment I unlatched the door, the stench hit me. A putrid, overpowering odor 
of rotting flesh. The entire room was a grotesque display of animal carcasses, dogs, cats, rabbits, 
even coyotes, and foxes, all hideously mutilated. It was a sight so vile it eclipsed every other 
horror I had witnessed. My boyfriend, seeing the unimaginable, seized me without a word. “We’re 
leaving,” he declared, his voice a low growl of absolute conviction. “This isn’t kids being 
stupid. This is serious. We started to retreat, but my stubborn curiosity flared again. There 
was one more building I wanted to check, the carriage house. On our way out, he refused point 
blank. He stomped off up the hill back towards the main house, fully expecting me to follow, 
but I didn’t. I circled around the hill alone, driven by an irresistible urge to peek into the 
carriage house. It was anticlimactically empty. Nothing but dust and shadows. It was a good 
thing I snuck off. If I hadn’t, we wouldn’t have seen them. They would have surprised us on 
the ascent, and who knows what atrocities they would have inflicted. The first figure I spotted 
was an adult male with a baseball bat. He was brazenly rummaging through our car, having already 
opened the door, clearly searching for keys. There were about eight individuals in total, a 
bizarre mix of adults in their 30s, teenagers, and even children, none older than 12. They were 
all armed with golf clubs, sticks, canes, and baseball bats. “What the hell are you doing in our 
car?” I shouted, my voice trembling with a mixture of fear and fury. My boyfriend, hearing my enraged 
cry, came charging over the hill, a brave fool, right through the waiting posi of creepers 
and weirdos. It seemed we had inadvertently disrupted their plans as they immediately backed 
off, some even attempting to hide their weapons behind their backs, a feudal gesture that 
only highlighted their sinister intent.   “What do you think you’re doing in our car?” 
“I demanded again.” The man offered no reply, only a nervous, unsettling stare. My boyfriend, 
quickly assessing the situation, claimed we were simply admiring the architecture and were just 
about to depart. To our utter astonishment, they let us get into our car and drive off. A true 
miracle, considering the gruesome discoveries we had made on their property. As we sped away, a 
black pickup truck with no license plates pulled out and followed us for a chilling 20 minutes. 
Instead of heading home, we drove to the nearest town, Berea, and filed a report with a police 
officer who seemed more shaken by our account than we were. My boyfriend never returned 
to that roofing job. He arranged for someone else to complete it and found work elsewhere. I 
wanted to go back, but after sharing my story, no one would accompany me. Our explorations 
continued, but with a stark difference. We both began carrying weapons, a precaution I 
maintain to this day, even on hikes. I haven’t read of anyone else having similar experiences at 
that castle recently. Yet, just a few months ago, my cousin, also an explorer, contacted me with a 
new place she wanted to investigate. Guess where? That very castle. And guess what? We’ve arranged 
to go back in a few weeks. So to that castle cult many years later, I hope our paths never cross 
again. To all other urban explorers, please be careful. You never truly know what you might 
encounter in these abandoned places. It must have been my early 20s when one restless evening, two 
friends and I decided to trespass. Our target, an immense derelict industrial complex on the town’s 
periphery, long shuttered and left to rot. My companion Mark had scoped it out the week prior, 
carving an entry point through a sagging section of the chainlink fence. The moon was nowhere to 
be seen, and a profound, suffocating darkness swallowed us whole the moment we slipped inside. 
I had no prior experience with such massive yards, and my imagination strained to piece together the 
forms of the colossal skeletal towers and silos looming around us. Glimpses of darker, indistinct 
patches suggested cavernous doorways or gaping holes in the massive structures, and a persistent, 
faint scuttling echoed from within. We dismissed it as pigeons or bats, a common enough sound in 
these forgotten spaces, and pushed on towards our objective. Our small city, we knew, was dotted 
with remnants of old World War II fortifications. One such bunker, a squat concrete monolith, 
sat at top a lonely mound in the middle of   this industrial wasteland. As we crept towards it, 
a new sound began to prickle at my nerves. A soft, rhythmic tick, tick, tick emanating 
from the abyssal darkness behind us,   from the very direction we had come. It was too 
regular for a bird, too metallic for a wrath. We reached the base of the bunker’s hill, 
finding a path that allowed us to skirt the   lone flickering pole light in the yard and begin 
our ascent. The entire time that insistent tick tick tick whispered at our backs. Once at the 
summit, confronted with the bunker’s entrance, a gaping m of concrete, we decided against 
venturing inside. It was simply too unsettling, too dark to navigate safely without proper gear. 
Instead, we circled to the rear, and that’s when the true strangeness began. We found ourselves 
on a narrow ledge, no more than a few feet wide, between the sheer drop offs of the hill and the 
cold, unyielding walls of the bunker. At our feet, a gaping hole plunged into the earth, a rusted 
ladder disappearing into its inky depths. We were utterly boxed in, save for a precarious, almost 
invisible path that led back the way we came. The relentless tick, tick, tick was now all around 
us, a tangible presence in the shadows. This seemed as good a place as any to calm our frayed 
nerves. So, I pulled out a joint with my back to the dizzying drop and the ominous hole at my feet. 
The wind, unhindered on the hilltop, made lighting it a frustrating endeavor. The tick, tick, tick 
was growing more irritating than alarming at this point. I’d convinced myself it was just a 
loose sheet of metal on the fence we breached,   flapping in the breeze. Frustrated with the unlit 
joint and increasingly annoyed by the noise, I spun around to face its direction. “What do you 
guys think that is?” I muttered, trying again to light the joint, this time directly confronting 
the unseen source. The moment my lighter flared, illuminating my face in its brief, stark 
glow, the soft tick, tick, tick vanished,   replaced by a thunderous, guttural boom boom 
boom that reverberated through the very ground. My mind screamed security, imagining heavy 
boots pounding down metal stairs in one of the distant dark towers. They must have seen 
the flash of my lighter, seen my face. They were coming. All three of us instinctively 
hunkered down, caught between the urge to flee and the paralysis of terror. Unsure whether 
to run, hide, or simply freeze. We opted to wait. It was too dark for them to easily pinpoint us, 
and the booming was so deafening that we’d surely hear them long before they got close. But the boom 
boom boom wouldn’t stop. It seemed to grow louder, closer. “How long are those stairs?” I remember 
thinking, the question chilling me to the bone. This felt wrong. I swore I could hear movement in 
the tall grass and the oppressive darkness at the base of the hill. Now, not just the booming, but a 
subtle rustle that was undeniably there. We tried to rationalize it as wind, but the decision 
was unanimous. We had to get out and fast. Crouching low, moving like shadows, we began our 
slow, agonizing retreat through the mining yard, aiming for our exit. Then, we hit a wall. Whatever 
was making that infernal noise was now between us and the hole in the fence. We crouched low in the 
middle of an open gravel road, desperately trying to formulate a plan. It was too dark for anyone 
to see us, we reasoned, hoping to melt into the shadows. But just to be safe, we found a spot that 
put a large rusted chainlink fence between us and the source of that terrifying boom boom boom. The 
booming continued, a rhythmic, monstrous heartbeat thrumming through the night, trapping us in a 
silent, desperate standoff. The relentless boom boom boom echoing from the unseen source began 
to shift my perception. What I’d mentally labeled security, now upgraded to police officers, a more 
immediate, more menacing threat. Anxiety nodded at me, yet we remained frozen, hoping to simply 
wait them out. But the situation was rapidly spiraling beyond any rational explanation. The 
supposed guards or cops should have reached the bottom of those distant stairs by now. Yet the 
booming persisted, now accompanied by a chilling new symphony. Trapped with that terrifying noise 
ahead, and our only known exit blocked, we started to hear other sounds in the encompassing darkness. 
Close by on the very gravel where we huddled, things began to move. A dull thud followed by a 
slow, grating scrape, like something heavy being dragged. Then from a different direction, another 
set of quiet yet disturbingly close thuds and drags. They were all around us, these unsettling 
noises emanating from directions we couldn’t pinpoint. My analytical mind crumbled, giving way 
to the primal fear of a child. My thoughts veered wildly from logical threats to the phantom horrors 
of the mind’s forgotten dead or whatever monstrous entities might lurk in its subterranean tunnels. 
The noise, once merely a sign of human presence, had leapfrogged past Ghost and landed squarely in 
the realm of goblin and giant rat. There was no choice. We had to escape. Our only option: scale 
the fence behind the mine, plunge into the dense woods, and make our frantic way to the highway. We 
pushed ourselves up from the cold, dusty ground, moving with a desperate stealth. We were making 
progress. The unsettling noises now behind us and not gaining ground. Ahead, rows upon rows of 
empty, silent train cars materialized from the gloom. Perfect. We could weave through their 
metallic anonymity, shielded from any distant gaze. With the edge of the mineard in sight 
and the colossal train cars providing cover, a fragile sense of relief settled over us. Our 
hushed whispers grew bolder, a fatal misstep. Moments after we ducked between the steel 
giants, the first car ahead of us exploded with a   deafening boom. Whatever horror had been stalking 
us was now mere feet away, directly on our tail. I have never in my life moved with such unparalleled 
swiftness, nor do I ever expect to again. The hundreds of feet between us and the perimeter 
fence dissolved in a blur. How I cleared that 10-ft barrier with such ease remains a mystery. 
I only recall a desperate, adrenalinefueled leap into the encompassing darkness beyond. We 
landed hard on the road, then fled towards town, the winding path echoing with the relentless boom 
of something tearing apart those train cars. My friends, visibly shaken, became uncomfortable 
discussing the incident, seemingly content to bury the memory. But my restless curiosity 
persisted. I returned a few times over the years, though nothing out of the ordinary ever occurred 
again. The last time when I went alone, the entire site had been raised, everything torn down and 
carted away. Years earlier, when I was in high school, my friends and I were drawn to forgotten, 
unsettling places. With a few of us finally having our licenses, weekend nights became impromptu 
expeditions. We’d gather a crew of six to 10 and set off. One summer, our favorite haunt was an 
abandoned movie theater on the west end of town. It had likely closed its doors 3 years prior to 
our first visit, slowly decaying into a skeletal relic. No trespassing signs were plastered on the 
main entrance, and fire exits around the building were equally explicit. The glass at the main 
entrance was long shattered and crudely boarded up, while the front door itself hung broken, 
refusing to latch, offering an easy ingress to anyone daring enough to push through. We knew 
the local homeless population likely sought refuge within its crumbling walls. But we were 
young, foolish, and emboldened by our numbers, convinced of our invincibility. That lingering 
threat of unseen occupants was, in many ways, part of its allure. We always waited until the dead of 
night, between 11:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. to slip inside, eager to avoid being seen or reported. Our 
initial explorations were a collective venture. Inside each of the perhaps eight theater rooms, 
the screens and seats had been torn to shreds, bathroom mirrors lay shattered, and every surface 
was a canvas for vibrant graffiti. We were almost certain that others hidden in the shadows were 
likely present during our visits. Even if we never directly encountered anyone during our first two 
foray, the signs of occupation were undeniable. A pair of shopping carts from the nearby Fred 
Meyers were nestled inside, brimming with empty   cans and bottles, and several grimy blankets 
were strewn across different rooms, painting a clear picture of an active, if clandestine, 
dwelling. After familiarizing ourselves with the building’s layout over those initial trips, 
we devised a new, more daring challenge for our third and final visit. This time, our group of six 
split into three pairs. Each duo would enter the main facade together and spend exactly 5 minutes 
inside while their partners waited outside at a predetermined fire exit in the rear. Beck and 
Doug were the first to undertake the challenge. We watched them disappear into the main entrance 
of the back building. About 7 minutes crawled by and just as we began to feel a nervous prickle, 
wondering if we should go in after them, they   burst out the fire exit on the other side. Doug, 
visibly shaken, explained that they had ventured upstairs into the office. There, stretched out on 
the floor, was a sleeping bag they swore hadn’t been present on any previous visits. The sight 
had instantly sent a jolt of terror through them, prompting an immediate dash for the exit. In their 
panic, they had initially turned the wrong way, becoming disoriented within the maze of the 
theater. Convinced they were being pursued, they had frozen, hiding in a theater room, straining to 
hear any telltale sounds before finally mustering the courage to flee through the correct exit. 
Doug and Beck, their nerves clearly frayed, urged us to abandon the expedition. But Jack 
and I, fueled by a mixture of stubbornness and a morbid curiosity, were determined to press on. 
Brad and Drew, the two remaining friends who were slated to go in last, decided to join us, making 
a group of four. Beck and Doug reluctantly agreed to wait for us at the exit. Our first objective 
was clear, the upstairs office. As we began our ascent up the creaking stairs, a sudden, jarring 
bang reverberated through the decaying structure. It emanated from the rear of the 
theater. We quickly dismissed it,   convinced it was just Beck and Doug attempting to 
spook us into retreating. We continued upstairs, and the banging ceased. Doug had been right. There 
was indeed a sleeping bag laid out on the floor, surrounded by a scattering of paper bags. Brad, 
flashing his light into one of them, recoiled slightly as he glimpsed a syringe and something 
that looked suspiciously like a vibrator. We all exchanged disgusted, albeit nervous chuckles. 
After a quick scan, finding nothing else of particular note, we started back down the stairs 
when the rhythmic pounding began again. It was a clear signal to leave. We hurried towards the 
exit, praying we hadn’t been caught by the police. The moment we emerged, both Doug and Beck started 
talking over each other, their words tumbling out in a rush. Barely a minute after we had entered, a 
remarkably tall, disheveled man with greasy hair, clearly homeless, had walked right past them, 
heading towards the main entrance. Me, a character present in the previous chunk, although not 
explicitly named for this scene, assuming one of   the unnamed friends, had instinctively said hello. 
The man had stopped, turned, and with an unnerving intensity, lurched a few inches towards Mag before 
halting. One side of his face was deeply wrinkled, leading Beck to speculate he might have been a 
burned victim. The man had simply stared down Magg for a few chilling seconds, then without a 
word had turned and walked around the corner into the very part of the theater we had just entered. 
It was then, as he vanished from sight, that they had begun pounding on the door, desperately 
trying to warn us. For five long minutes, we had been inside with that man, unseen. He must 
have heard us and hidden. We began our cautious walk back to my car parked about a h 100red yards 
away in the Fred Meyers lot. Just as we neared it, a car pulled in, its headlights sweeping across 
us before flashing red and blue. Police officers. They made us all sit on the curb in the harsh 
glare of their spotlight, asking what we were   doing. We stammered out a version of the truth, 
claiming we had intended to go inside the movie theater, but had chickenened out after seeing 
a really scary tall guy enter. The officer, his expression grave, warned us that exploring such 
places was incredibly dangerous, citing previous instances of violence within the building. It was 
a sobering end to our night of urban exploration. It would have been a shame truly to suffer injury 
from something so foolish. The officer let us go, his flashlight beam sweeping the broken facade of 
the theater. As we drove off, we heeded his silent warning, his words about past violence echoing 
in our ears. Whether it was a scare tactic or genuine concern, it worked. From then on, our 
explorations shifted to the solemn quiet of graveyards and cemeteries, a safer pursuit. Better 
to be cautious than regretful. My life, however, began far from those shadowy urban ruins. I 
spent my first 19 years in the suburbs of a small Italian town. Adjacent to our quiet neighborhood, 
a dusty track snaked into a small, familiar patch of woodland. This was our childhood playground, 
a place of endless games and explorations. Before the trees enveloped you, the road was flanked 
by two structures of note, an unfinished house, skeletal and exposed, and further in, a secluded 
country dwelling, accessible only by a narrow, almost hidden path. It was when I was 12, 
pedaling my bike with friends towards those woods that I first saw it. We’d paused, drawn by 
the allure of the abandoned, to poke around the unfinished house. Inside it was disappointingly 
bare, a hollow shell. As my friends gravitated back towards the road, one lingered with me. 
I spotted a set of rudimentary stairs leading to the first floor. A dark, unsettling void. 
Despite a prickle of apprehension, my curiosity won. I asked my friend to wait, promising to be 
quick. Two steps up, my flashlight beam caught something on the uppermost tread. A fresh bouquet 
of flowers, vibrant and recently placed, a stark contrast to the dust and decay. It felt deeply 
wrong. A surge of fear stiffened my resolve, but I pushed on, taking a few more hesitant steps. 
To my right, a doorway opened into a small room. And there it was, suspended in the air, a small 
white orb of pure light. It wasn’t a lamp, not a bulb projecting illumination, but a contained 
luminescence, a silent stationary sphere glowing with an impossible internal radiance. Terror 
seized me. I scrambled down the stairs and burst outside, my heart hammering. I never spoke of it, 
convinced my friends would dismiss it as a trick of the light or my overactive imagination. 
The memory of the orb faded with time, relegated to a strange childhood fancy. But by 
15, a new ritual began. I’d started smoking weed, seeking the quiet solitude of those same woods 
to indulge in peace. The forest itself held no fear for me, but that unfinished house on the 
dirt road still did. Every time I passed it, I’d break into a run, a silly, superstitious 
dash, then forget it existed until the next visit. Then came a day I felt particularly 
adventurous, or perhaps just particularly high. I decided to explore the country house, the more 
remote of the two structures. My guard was down, my perception dulled. I walked through the main 
door. It was another empty, unsettling shell, even with the windows open and daylight streaming 
in. But one room stood out. It was the one with the large imposing doors visible from the side 
of the property. Inside the floors and walls were scorched black, completely consumed by fire. 
A discarded gas tank lay on the floor, still containing a small, unsettling amount of fuel. On 
one wall, a narrow opening beckoned, leading to an even smaller, utterly black chamber. This tiny al 
cove, maybe 5x 1/2 m, was also charred, and on its ash covered floor, a pair of children’s shoes lay 
silently. A profound fear surged through me then, eclipsing the fleeting unease of the child’s 
shoes. But even that was nothing compared to the terror that seized me when I looked outside. 
There, in the desolate expanse of countryside, situated eerily between the country house and 
the derelict unfinished structure, floated the   very same small orb I had encountered years prior. 
I have never run so fast in my life. Not until I was 18, a year later. It was a sweltering summer 
night, my friends and I, listless with boredom. And a decision was made, a late night trek into 
the woods. My unease was palpable, and my friends, sensing my discomfort, playfully mocked me. They 
mistook my apprehension for fear of the dark, they couldn’t have been more wrong. I wasn’t 
afraid of the enveloping night. I was afraid of it. We parked the car where the paved road ended, 
electing to walk the rest of the way. As we passed the abandoned, unfinished house, it was there 
again. The orb, motionless, gleaming in the heart of the countryside. This was the first time I had 
ever witnessed it at night, and the sight. This time, however, its appearance was terrifyingly 
altered. The luminous sphere was no longer just a standalone light. Behind its ethereal glow, 
the unmistakable translucent silhouette of a small child flickered into view. No features, no 
distinct body parts, just a fragile white outline, utterly horrifying in its stillness. My friends, 
witnessing the same impossible apparition, gasped collectively. A primal scream seized us, and 
we turned as one, sprinting blindly back to the car. That was the night that broke me. Though I no 
longer reside in that town, having graduated high school and pursued my studies in a bustling city, 
the memories of the unfinished house, the charred room, the child’s shoes, and the omnipresent orb 
remain vivid. If I could, I’d return with a camera to document those spectral encounters that still 
plagued my nights, forever etched into my dreams. My parents, for their part, have always 
harbored a peculiar fascination with ghost   towns and disused mines, often dragging me along 
on their explorations during my younger years. As I embarked on college, these excursions became 
less frequent. But I distinctly recall numerous incidents from those earlier trips that left 
me profoundly unsettled. I must emphasize, I consider myself a hardened skeptic. I’ve always 
attributed strange sensations to the pervasive atmosphere of decay, the power of suggestion, 
or simply an overactive imagination. Yet, there’s one particular experience that defies all 
rational explanation, a memory that still chills me to the core. This occurred while I was living 
in Arizona. Many of our family explorations took us to the state’s northern reaches, a desolate 
landscape dotted with ghost towns and defunct   mines, remnants of bygon eras. While the exact 
location escapes me now, I recall my parents were keen to visit this specific abandoned 
mine after seeing it featured on a paranormal   investigation television program. My parents 
weren’t seeking ghosts, but rather the stark, haunting beauty of these forgotten places for 
their photography. Repeutedly haunted sites they found often offered the most striking melancholic 
vistas. This particular mine, however, proved more challenging than anticipated. The access road 
was a rudded, treacherous track, forcing us to abandon our vehicle a mile or two short of our 
destination and continue on foot. I can’t recall if the local whispers or the TV show revealed 
this detail, but apparently a few years prior, a pair of local children had ventured into the 
mine only to disappear without a trace. The grim assumption was that the kids had likely plummeted 
down one of the mine’s numerous unblocked shafts. Seeing them firsthand, I understood why. They 
weren’t mere holes, but yawning black abysses that seemed to swallow light, far more unnerving 
than anything I’d encountered. The entire location exuded an oppressive discomfort. But what truly 
horrified me was the unsettling whisper in my mind. Despite being a non-violent person, an 
insistent dark impulse urged me to push my stepmother into one of those cavernous depths. She 
stood directly at the precipice, her back to me, engrossed in photographing the gloom below. 
I battled the horrifying suggestion. Yet an insidious part of me felt a perverse logic, a 
twisted conviction that pushing her would be my   best interest. The moment she finally stepped away 
from the yawning shaft, the dark urge evaporated, leaving me with a profound sense of relief, as 
if an invisible burden had been instantly shed. While I’m aware such morbid thoughts aren’t 
uncommon, when faced with dangerous heights, this   felt different. A surge of pure irrational hatred 
had consumed me in those stretched out seconds she stood by the edge, making minutes feel like ours. 
Once she moved on to photograph other sections, my father and I decided to explore a winding path, 
hoping for a different perspective. As we rounded a bend, we encountered another individual. He was 
a man seemingly in his mid20s, dressed head to toe in what appeared to be vintage mining attire, 
definitively old-fashioned, even to my untrained eye. He offered a slight wave, then veered off 
the path, heading towards a desolate clearing. I suspected it harbored more open shafts, but my 
father, without a word, immediately turned to me, his face grim, and stated with absolute 
finality, “We’re leaving now.” I’ve since attempted to concoct plausible explanations 
for the man’s presence, but none truly hold   water. The mine had been defunct for decades. 
There was no conceivable reason for anyone, especially someone in archaic full mining gear, 
to be casually wandering its desolate paths. The chilling encounter at the Arizona mine lingered, 
a persistent shadow on my perception of abandoned places, reinforcing the notion that some locations 
held a malevolent energy, not just faded history. It felt like more than a prank played on those 
drawn by the paranormal show. There were no other   vehicles on that arduous road, and our visit was 
months, not days, after its TV feature. Locating the mine had been an ordeal, requiring us to 
actively seek out locals for directions since   Google Maps offered no assistance to its unmarked 
access road. 7 years later, the memory still sends shivers down my spine. That December, driven by 
an enduring, if now more cautious, curiosity, a friend and I embarked on a 45minute drive 
to an abandoned, crumbling house in a small   Pennsylvania town. The approach involved a single 
lane road carving through a dense forest. Almost immediately, an unnerving sight greeted us. 
A freshly dead deer sprawled on the shoulder. While not entirely uncommon for such rural routes, 
it felt like an ominous prelude. Moments later, my friend’s GPS glitched, inexplicably, urging us 
to turn back to a route we were already on. Its arrow pointing defiantly against our direction 
of travel away from the forest. We pressed on, a subtle unease already settling between us. 
We eventually pulled into a small parking lot, noting only a few cars. A walking trail, popular 
with bikers and runners, led into the woods. Our primary target was an old water tower, and 
after taking some photographs, we decided   against venturing onto the main trail itself. A 
palpable sense of wrongness permeated the air, an unsettling feeling that we were outsiders to some 
shared, unspoken secret of the woods. Yet, as we walked on a less traveled path, making desolatory 
small talk, a distinct bicycle bell chimed right behind us. We spun around just as a woman on 
a bike glided past. then dismounted to tie her shoe. “Look,” my friend whispered, her voice 
tight. “Her bike doesn’t have a bell.” “Indeed, it didn’t.” We resumed our walk, our apprehension 
deepening as we passed over 30 people on the trail, a stark contrast to the handful of cars in 
the parking lot. Every single one of them stared, their gazes unnervingly direct, unwavering. Then 
my friend pointed out another bizarre sight. A large boulder with a stream of water trickling 
directly from its center. No visible source or   crack. The anomalies were piling up. I stopped, 
pointing into the dense trees. Do you see that? A tall, dark figure stood motionless among the 
foliage, silhouetted like a man, yet indistinct, without discernable features or clothing. As we 
stared, a loud sharp snap like a heavy branch breaking erupted right behind us. We whirled 
around. Nothing. No broken branches, no debris. When we turned back, the figure was gone. All in 
about 5 seconds. A profound drowsiness had begun to weigh on us both. We decided to cut our losses, 
turn back to the car, and leave. There was no one else in the parking lot. Our car was the sole 
occupant. As we drove back down the forest road, which had only taken us about an hour to 
traverse, we reached the intersection where   we’d first seen the deer. It was still there, 
but impossibly altered. A pristine skeleton, completely devoid of flesh or blood, lay on the 
roadside. Not a speck of fur, not a single drop of crimson. Nothing could have consumed it 
so thoroughly, so quickly, without a trace. We were utterly terrified. Then the car’s trunk 
suddenly sprang open. My friend swore her hands were nowhere near the release button. 
She got out to close it, and as she did,   all the car doors audibly clicked shut and 
locked themselves except my passenger door, which remained obstinately unlocked. We even 
had cell service, but the GPS, which had been perfectly functional, refused to work again until 
we were well clear of that strange town. I don’t have a rational explanation for any of it. But it 
felt as if something in that place wanted us gone, diverting our attention whenever we fixated on a 
particular strangeness. The memory still makes me deeply uneasy, and I often wish for some kind of 
closure to this perplexing incident. A recurring nightmare often plagues my sleep, always 
culminating with a singular whispered word, harvest. Its meaning eludes me, yet it persists, 
an unsettling fragment of my subconscious. Just minutes ago, a random urge prompted me to 
look up the coordinates of a place I once knew, its physical address long forgotten. 
The search results, surprisingly, spoke of an abandoned industrial processing plant 
slated for demolition. Oddly, a month prior, there had been no mention of such plans. My 
upbringing was steeped in country life, not the absolute isolation of the middle of nowhere, 
but certainly a distinct step down from suburbia. Our house, for instance, bordered a vast 
expanse of cornfield, though a neighbor’s   home was visible across the street. We lived on a 
7acre lot, a peculiar blend of rural remoteness, and a faint echo of community. At the rear 
of our property lay a substantial forest, a natural barrier that eventually gave way to a 
winding nature trail. Before reaching the trail, however, one would encounter a long-forgotten 
campground. Once a popular destination years before our family settled there, it had abruptly 
shuttered its gates, the reasons shrouded in local whispers. While no definitive answer emerged, 
persistent rumors spoke of rampant drug activity and even violent incidents. Though no one we 
knew had concrete facts, the undeniable truth was its closure, and rather than dismantling 
it, the entire camp, cabins, a mess hall, various other structures, and a swimming pool was 
simply left to decay. Even then, the place exuded a profound creepiness. However, at 7 or 8 years 
old, my perspective was still innocent, largely untouched by the darker undercurrens. This forest 
and the abandoned camp were not technically part of our property. Our land ended precisely at the 
tree line. Yet, the owner of that adjacent parcel was a friend of my dad, and he readily granted 
us permission to roam freely, even allowing my dad to hunt there during deer season. So, one 
summer evening with my mom working a night shift, my dad took my sister, barely a year my junior, 
and me on an expedition. Dusk was gathering as we set out, but full darkness had yet to descend. 
We ventured into the camp, finding most of the buildings locked, the swimming pool a verdant, 
stagnant mess, and an unsettling profusion of spiders everywhere. My youthful excitement, 
however, outweighed any nent apprehension. It was still quite dusky when we reached the 
cabins. To my surprise, all were unlocked, some even missing their doors entirely. We peered 
inside, our small figures dwarfed by the shadows. In retrospect, this felt like the opening scene of 
a horror film, but at that age, I knew no better, and my dad was, by all accounts, a man utterly 
devoid of fear. As we explored one of the smaller cabins, hushed voices drifted in from outside. We 
instinctively pressed ourselves against a window, peeking out to see two men, likely in their 
late 20s or early 30s. Their faces were etched with a weathered grimness, their clothes a bit 
disheveled, and their voices carried a peculiar   urgency, as if they were in a desperate hurry to 
accomplish something, or perhaps to find it. I had rarely witnessed my father genuinely unnerved, but 
in that moment, an unfamiliar tension stiffened his posture. He wasn’t overtly scared, but an 
undeniable unease flickered in his eyes, a stark departure from his usual unflapable demeanor. 
He stood silently in the cabin’s doorway while my sister and I remained pressed to the window. In 
my small hand, I clutched a loose brick I’d picked up earlier. “Keep hold of that,” he murmured, 
his voice low. Unless I tell you to drop it. The instruction, so calm yet so weighted, etched 
itself into my memory. Through the grime streaked glass, I watched as one of the men glanced towards 
our cabin, his eyes locking onto my father’s. They held each other’s gaze. A silent, drawn out 
standoff that felt like an eternity to my young mind. A profound sense of apprehension settled 
over me. My dad’s brick comment had for the first time made me grasp the potential danger of our 
situation. The man then whispered something to his companion, who also turned to stare at my father. 
The tense silence stretched, broken only by the chirping of crickets. Finally, the two figures 
turned and vanished into the deeper shadows of the trees. The moment they were out of sight, my 
dad ushered us out, a swift, decisive movement. We hurried back towards our house, but the 
lingering unease clung to my father like a shroud, his gaze repeatedly sweeping the path behind us. 
The unsettling incident at the deserted campground faded into the background of my childhood. Yet, 
the underlying unease never truly dissipated. My father, years later, confirmed my intuition. 
The men we’d seen weren’t the property owners. Though he admitted they could have had 
permission, his bad feeling was undeniable,   underscored by his quiet instruction for us not to 
mention it to my mother. Nothing ever came of it, and perhaps there was a perfectly benign 
explanation, but the place’s somber history,   coupled with that encounter, sealed its fate for 
us. We never returned to those specific woods. I’d still hunt in the surrounding forest 
in subsequent years, but the abandoned camp itself remained a place I was too disqued to 
revisit. Fast forward to March 2011. Boredom, that familiar catalyst for adolescent adventure, 
struck late one night. My three high school friends, Freddy, Jack, and Chris, and I piled into 
a car, setting off from our hometown of Modesto. Our destination was Nights Ferry, a quaint 
historic village nestled about 27 mi east, where the central valley gently gives way to the 
Sierra Nevada foothills. We arrived around 11 p.m. to find the place eerily still, utterly devoid of 
life. Our excursion was purely for the journey, so the desolate atmosphere wasn’t a surprise, but 
it certainly intensified the inherent creepiness. It truly felt like a ghost town. No street 
lights cut through the profound darkness,   only the silhouettes of shuttered buildings 
lining the main thoroughfare. Fortunately, a brilliant full moon hung overhead, casting an 
almost theatrical illumination over everything. We parked at the farthest end of Main Street 
near a skeletal 19th century mill. Freddy, who was driving, and I decided to step out. The quiet 
night and the vast expanse of open sky were too compelling to experience from behind glass. Our 
other two friends, Jack and Chris, chose to remain in the car, openly unnerved by the isolated, 
silent setting. The road we were on was slightly elevated, offering a view down to the mill and 
the recreation area sprawling along the Stannislos River. Freddy and I walked to the edge, leaning 
against the waist high wooden guard rail. It was then, perhaps 30 to 40 ft below us near the mill’s 
main structure that we saw them. Two figures They were an unsettling shade of solid gray, 
utterly devoid of any distinguishing features. Imagine those full body, skintight costumes sold 
in novelty shops, but devoid of seams, texture, or any human detail. They had no faces, no eyes, 
nose, or mouth, no discernable clothing, no hair, no visible genitalia or breasts. just smooth, 
featureless forms, roughly the size and shape of average adult humans. Their lack of detail wasn’t 
a trick of the gloom. The moonlight was so bright, so direct that they were completely exposed in 
the clearing without a single shadow to obscure them. We could see them as clearly as day. 
And yet, there was something else, a subtle, almost ethereal glow emanating from them. I 
couldn’t tell if it was merely the pale gray of their forms reflecting the intense moonlight or if 
my eyes were playing tricks on me in the surreal setting. The moment our eyes registered their 
presence, they turned. It was a synchronized, unnerving movement, as if they had been engaged in 
some silent conversation and then simultaneously became aware of us. Despite their lack of facial 
features, we knew instinctively they were looking directly at us. We stared back for what felt like 
an eternity, at least four agonizing seconds, before Freddy and I exchanged a horrified glance, 
a silent confirmation of the impossible sight. Then, as one, we bolted. We sprinted back to the 
car, our panic palpable, scaring Jack and Chris half to death as we jumped in and sped away. From 
their vantage point inside the car, Jack and Chris hadn’t seen the figures. As we sped towards town, 
Freddy and I, still breathless, recounted our experience, comparing notes. To our astonishment, 
our descriptions were identical. The same physical characteristics, the same synchronized movement, 
the same peculiar glow. We debated endlessly, trying to rationalize what we’d witnessed, but 
no logical conclusion ever felt convincing. Later, a deep dive into online forums about 
paranormal encounters led me to posts from others who claimed to have seen UFOs in the night’s ferry 
area over the years. Now, I affectionately, if chillingly, refer to that night as my first alien 
encounter. I can’t say for certain what we saw, and I accept that I may never truly know. But one 
thing is clear, I won’t be driving tonight’s ferry alone after dark anymore. This particular incident 
unfolding approximately 7 years ago still casts a long shadow over me. My hometown lies nestled 
beside a canyon, a place steeped in local legend. The whispers tell of a woman, a widow, whose 
husband was lost to a mining accident deep within its rugged embrace. Her spectral form, they say, 
still drifts through the canyon, eternally seeking him. And within this very same canyon, far off 
the beaten track, stands a dilapidated structure ominously dubbed the devil’s playhouse. It’s 
reputed to be a clandestine gathering point for devil worshippers, a sight for their macob 
rituals on unholy days. During my younger, more impetuous years, I fancied myself a ghost 
hunter, and this canyon, especially the playhouse, held an irresistible allure. The playhouse itself 
was an ancient factory, its walls covered in enigmatic scrolls and riddled with holes leading 
to rooms with no discernable entrance. To reach it, one had to navigate a severely neglected 
dirt road, branching off the main trail. My rule, born of cautious daring, was always to turn around 
at a weathered fence just beyond an isolated house along this path. This allowed for a quick escape 
if my courage faltered. From that fence, the final stretch to the playhouse involved clambering in 
and out of a deep, overgrown ditch. Now, with the setting laid bare, let me recount the events that 
ensured my permanent departure from that cursed   place. I had brought my younger sister and two 
younger cousins along, a small entourage for my amateur investigations. We were goofing around, 
snapping photos, when my sister suddenly gasped, insisting she’d seen a camera lens glinting from 
the rocks outside a warehouse window pointed   directly at us. I hadn’t caught sight of it, but 
her terror was palpable, immediate. We decided to take a break from the playhouse, moving about 100 
ft away to a cluster of massive stone fixtures. I had traversed that canyon countless 
times, and rarely, exceptionally rarely,   did I encounter another vehicle, especially 
near the secluded Devil’s Playhouse. But then, a truck slowly rumbled into view along the trail. 
The driver, upon spotting us, decelerated to a crawl, barely 5 m an hour, while the passenger, 
with unnerving precision, conspicuously aimed a camera in our direction. They proceeded to drive 
past my parked car, then inexplicably reversed, pulling up bumperto-bumper with my vehicle. 
A chilling thought pierced my mind. Were they going to ram my car? They left their truck 
idling, and two men, probably in their mid-30s, emerged. They clambored through the ditch, 
disappearing around the far side of the playhouse from our position. My sister, her voice, a strange 
whisper, confirmed it was the exact spot where she’d seen the camera earlier. As the eldest, the 
self-appointed adult in this unsettling situation, my mind raced, trying to conjure a plausible, 
innocent explanation for our presence just in case we were trespassing. We began retracing our 
steps towards the house, aiming for the safest part of the ditch. As we approached, the two men 
reappeared. They uttered no greeting, offered no smile. Their faces were impassive, devoid of any 
emotion as we were forced to walk directly past them. We finally reached my car and drove off, 
but a profound unease churned in my stomach. They were hiding something up there. I was sure of it. 
Foolishly, I decided to pull over at the base of the trail leading to the playhouse, determined to 
wait for them to descend. It was a stupid impulse, I know. Another car soon pulled up beside 
us, and the elderly man driving it fixed us with an intensely creepy stare. His gaze was 
so unsettling that it scared us senseless, prompting an immediate retreat. I sped back down 
to town, the old man’s car following close behind. He even parked at the same gas station we chose. 
We dashed inside, glancing back to see him still sitting in his car in the parking lot for a 
good 20 minutes before finally driving away. To this day, I’m not entirely sure what transpired 
or why, but the memory of those strange men hiding something at the devil’s Playhouse, and that 
old man’s unsettling stare is a stark warning. Some encounters are best left unre repeated. My 
hometown itself is situated amidst vast tracks of farmland and cattle ranches, stretching for 
miles in every direction. While it’s not truly untamed wilderness, it offers endless open spaces 
and ancient farm houses, giving it a distinct middle of nowhere feel. One such farmhouse about 
35 mi deep into this rural expanse, had earned a reputation for being particularly spooky. 
One evening, ignoring the common sense that usually guides rational individuals, a trait often 
lacking in teenage boys, my friends and I decided to drive out and see if we could get inside. My 
friends Jake, Justin, and Matt, opted to remain in the car, their courage failing them at the 
prospect of venturing inside. My stepbrother, who also happened to be our best friend, and 
I, however, found a window on the lower floor, climbed in and began to explore. Inside, the first 
thing we noticed was, “This particular incident unfolding approximately 7 years ago, still 
casts a long shadow over me. My hometown lies nestled beside a canyon, a place steeped in local 
legend. The whispers tell of a woman, a widow, whose husband was lost to a mining accident deep 
within its rugged embrace. Her spectral form, they say, still drifts through the canyon, eternally 
seeking him. And within this very same canyon, far off the beaten track, stands a dilapidated 
structure ominously dubbed the Devil’s Playhouse. It’s reputed to be a clandestine gathering point 
for devil worshippers, a sight for their Macob rituals on unholy days. During my younger, more 
impetuous years, I fancied myself a ghost hunter. And this canyon, especially the playhouse, held an 
irresistible allure. The playhouse itself was an ancient factory, its walls covered in enigmatic 
scrolls and riddled with holes leading to rooms with no discernable entrance. To reach it, one 
had to navigate a severely neglected dirt road branching off the main trail. My rule, born of 
cautious daring, was always to turn around at a weathered fence just beyond an isolated house 
along this path. This allowed for a quick escape if my courage faltered. From that fence, the final 
stretch to the playhouse involved clambering in and out of a deep, overgrown ditch. Now, with the 
setting laid bare, let me recount the events that ensured my permanent departure from that cursed 
place. I had brought my younger sister and two younger cousins along, a small entourage for my 
amateur investigations. We were goofing around, snapping photos, when my sister suddenly gasped, 
insisting she’d seen a camera lens glinting from the rocks outside a warehouse window pointed 
directly at us. I hadn’t caught sight of it, but her terror was palpable, immediate. We 
decided to take a break from the playhouse, moving about 100 ft away to a cluster of massive 
stone fixtures. I had traversed that canyon countless times, and rarely, exceptionally rarely, 
did I encounter another vehicle, especially near the secluded Devil’s Playhouse. But then, a 
truck slowly rumbled into view along the trail. The driver, upon spotting us, decelerated to a 
crawl barely 5 m an hour, while the passenger, with unnerving precision, conspicuously aimed a 
camera in our direction. They proceeded to drive past my parked car, then inexplicably reversed, 
pulling up bumper-to-bumper with my vehicle. A chilling thought pierced my mind. Were they going 
to ram my car? They left their truck idling, and two men, probably in their mid-30s, emerged. 
They clambored through the ditch, disappearing around the far side of the playhouse from our 
position. My sister, her voice, a strained whisper, confirmed it was the exact spot where 
she’d seen the camera earlier. As the eldest, the self-appointed adult in this unsettling situation, 
my mind raced, trying to conjure a plausible, innocent explanation for our presence, just in 
case we were trespassing. We began retracing our steps towards the house, aiming for the 
safest part of the ditch. As we approached, the two men reappeared. They uttered no greeting, 
offered no smile. Their faces were impassive, devoid of any emotion as we were forced to walk 
directly past them. We finally reached my car and drove off, but a profound unease churned in my 
stomach. They were hiding something up there. I was sure of it. Foolishly, I decided to pull over 
at the base of the trail leading to the playhouse, determined to wait for them to descend. It was a 
stupid impulse, I know. Another car soon pulled up beside us, and the elderly man driving it fixed 
us with an intensely creepy stare. His gaze was so unsettling that it scared us senseless, prompting 
an immediate retreat. I sped back down to town, the old man’s car following close behind. He 
even parked at the same gas station we chose. We dashed inside, glancing back to see him still 
sitting in his car in the parking lot for a good 20 minutes before finally driving away. To this 
day, I’m not entirely sure what transpired or why, but the memory of those strange men 
hiding something at the Devil’s Playhouse   and that old man’s unsettling stare is a stark 
warning. Some encounters are best left unreped. My hometown itself is situated amidst vast tracks 
of farmland and cattle ranches stretching for miles in every direction. While it’s not truly 
untamed wilderness, it offers endless open spaces and ancient farm houses, giving it a distinct 
middle of nowhere feel. One such farmhouse about 35 mi deep into this rural expanse had earned 
a reputation for being particularly spooky. One evening, ignoring the common sense 
that usually guides rational individuals,   a trait often lacking in teenage boys, my friends 
and I decided to drive out and see if we could get inside. My friends Jake, Justin, and Matt opted to 
remain in the car, their courage failing them at the prospect of venturing inside. My step-brother, 
who also happened to be our best friend, and I, however, found a window on the lower 
floor, climbed in and began to explore. Inside, the first thing we noticed was discarded 
beer cans, hypodermic needles, and animal bones. It was a squallet scene, though not inherently 
supernatural, just the grim reality of a derelict farm structure. Evidence of a past fire was also 
apparent, adding to the general decay. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. Yo, Justin, where are you guys 
right now? I called out. “Uh, we’re in the house,” Justin replied, his voice strained. “The back 
porch sunroom, I think.” “All of you?” I asked, confused. “Yeah, why?” “Because someone is 
standing on the porch, looking directly at our car,” he exclaimed, a hint of panic in his 
voice. “Dude, cut it out. Are you on the porch right now messing with me?” I retorted, thinking 
he was trying to spook us. No, Elias. You saw us. We went through the window. We’re all in the back. 
I did see that, I admitted, but then I thought one of you came out the door because some guy just 
appeared in front of it. They’re walking around the side of the house. Back to you right now. 
Hold on, dude. Don’t. My words trailed off as my stepbrother and I rounded the side of the house. 
Clear as crystal, we all saw what Justin, Matt, and Jake were staring at, an inky black humanoid 
shadow, an absence of light in the shape of a person, standing silently on the porch. This was 
deep in the countryside, miles from any town, with only the moon and stars offering illumination, and 
the faint, distant glow of a city on the horizon. Yet this figure stood out, profoundly blacker 
than the darkest night, an unnerving contrast. It had no eyes, no discernable face, but I could 
feel its gaze, an undeniable sensation that it was focused squarely on me, emanating a potent, silent 
command. It’s time for you to leave. It wasn’t hostile, not overtly angry, but the message was 
clear, stern, and absolute. We broke into a dead sprint, tearing back to the car and peeling out of 
that desolate driveway. Our refuge was a brightly lit Denny’s where the mundane glow of fluorescent 
lights felt like salvation. Over lukewarm coffee, I asked my friends about their experience. Each 
had felt at the moment its gaze turned to them. Justin and Matt described a visceral sense of 
physical danger, a premonition that if they   had waited any longer, something terrible would 
have happened. Jake, a deeply religious person, believed he had felt the oppressive 
presence of a demon. My stepbrother,   not typically one for emotional displays, confided 
that an overwhelming sadness had washed over him, a desperate need to escape its proximity. Only my 
step-brother and I shared the absence of anger or hostility, just that stark, unequivocal order to 
vacate the premises immediately. Two weeks later, the property burned to the ground. Not long 
after, a friend and I decided to explore an abandoned hospital. It was a sprawling complex 
of interconnected buildings, most of its windows and doors boarded up. Our entry point was a 
single loose board offering a narrow squeeze into the main structure. Inside, the darkness was 
absolute, demanding our flashlights to navigate. We made sure to mentally map our route, 
remembering the wing we’d entered through.   We eventually stumbled into a room packed with 
interesting relics, old beds, filing cabinets, and other forgotten detritus. Eager to capture its 
eerie atmosphere, we decided to use our camera’s flash, turning off our primary lights to enhance 
the dramatic effect. For about 10 minutes, the room was punctuated by blinding bursts of light, 
revealing fleeting glimpses of the decaying space. All felt well until we slowly, insidiously became 
aware of noise. An abandoned building typically offers a symphony of natural sounds, the drip 
of water, the sigh of wind through broken panes. But this was different. We heard floors groaning, 
doors creaking, and the occasional jarring scrape or crash of metal. It sounded unmistakably as 
though someone was blundering around in the dark not far from us. The layout of the building was 
a cruel twist of fate. Our only path back to the entrance led directly towards the source of these 
unsettling sounds. A cold dread began to solidify in our stomachs. We started to move, creeping 
back through the labyrinth and rooms, pausing often to strain our ears, listening for any shift 
in the cacophony. Finally, we reached the side hall we’d originally entered. We bolted towards 
the door at the end, risking the noise of our flashlights clicking on, desperate for an exit, 
but it was the wrong door. We stood there, frozen, the thutting footsteps now unmistakably closer, 
undeniably gaining on us. We were cornered, trapped in the oppressive dark. If whatever or 
whoever was making that noise came down this short hall, we were utterly and completely doomed. We 
waited, suspended in terrifying silence. We held our breath, straining to hear as the dragging and 
shuffling sound slowly grew closer, then gradually receded into the inky blackness. After a tense 
silence, we cautiously crept from the side hall back into the main section of the building. Our 
eyes scanned the gloom until a faint sliver of light from the loose board we’d used for entry 
guided us. As we moved stealthily towards it, an earthshattering scrape and bang erupted 
directly behind us, as if a colossal metal filing cabinet had been violently toppled. “Time to 
go!” I hissed, the words tearing from my throat, and we broke into a desperate sprint for the door. 
The distinct thud of footsteps followed, pounding hard behind us. We flung ourselves through the 
narrow gap in the board and scrambled down the overgrown path, not daring to truly look back. The 
small opening offered only a glimpse of shadows, and we didn’t linger to see if anything would 
emerge. Some nights were born of restless energy and the call of the unknown. On one such evening, 
her friends and I embarked on an expedition to a vast, purportedly haunted park, which connected 
to an abandoned neighborhood slated for future expansion into biking and running trails. The 
park officially closed at 10 p.m. with rangers regularly sweeping the area, so we waited 
until closer to midnight. We needed bikes and flashlights to navigate its sprawling paths. After 
a brief wait, we set off. My powerful, oversized flashlight cast a wide beam, so I naturally took 
up the rear, largely to keep pace with my then girlfriend Sarah, who wasn’t the most confident 
cyclist. We journeyed deep into the park, following a winding trail until it abruptly ended, 
forcing us to abandon our bikes and continue on foot. Our path led us to a neglected road that 
was clearly destined for future paving. Finally, we reached the abandoned neighborhood, a place 
that lived up to every eerie expectation. It was 1:00 a.m., and the quiet was unsettling, almost 
oppressive. Houses beaten down and half swallowed by encroaching greenery lined the street, 
emanating an undeniably creepy aura. After snapping a few uninspired photos and finding 
nothing truly noteworthy, we decided to head back. On our return, we encountered a bridge 
we’d crossed earlier, still incomplete. There was a wide, unpaved opening leading to the bridge 
and a curb that Sarah, not seeing it in the dim moonlight, struck with her bike. She tumbled off 
and I, right behind her with my bright flashlight, nearly followed suit. Catching myself, my 
light inadvertently plunged straight down into the chasm beneath the bridge. And there, in 
that brief, horrifying illumination, I saw her, an incredibly pale girl with long red hair dressed 
in a dirt stained white gown, sprinting across the murky ground below. I only caught a glimpse of 
her side. Nope. Nope. No way. Sarah shrieked, already pedalling furiously to the other side 
of the bridge. She was frantic, but I needed to confirm what I’d seen. Her breathless description 
was perfect, matching mine exactly. A thought sparked in my mind. Perhaps she was in trouble. 
Maybe we should investigate, offer help. But Sarah, grabbing my arm, stopped me cold. When she 
saw where I had shined my light, she’d caught the girl’s face. She described looking directly into 
a pair of blank white eyes that stared back at her for an agonizing second before the girl vanished 
into the shadows. We still have no idea if what we witnessed was truly paranormal, and she absolutely 
detests it when I bring it up. My pretty small rural hometown is dotted with neighborhoods 
that seem to melt into the surrounding woods. One season, my high school soccer team decided 
to throw an end of season party at a teammate’s house in one of these secluded wooded areas. 
As the night wounded down, someone brought up an old rumor, a house further down the road, 
past a bend, almost completely enveloped by trees that supposedly belonged to a doctor who was 
never there, leaving it perpetually abandoned. A collective spark of teenage recklessness ignited. 
About eight or nine of us, fueled by the late hour and a desire for adventure, set off into the 
pitch black night. The house itself had a few small ambient lights, but it was clearly deserted. 
We ventured into the backyard, a sprawling space, dominated by a pool, and began to spread out. 
Beyond the yard lay nothing but dense woods, a wild boundary stretching around the side of 
the property as well. Given the sheer size of the estate, we naturally split into smaller 
groups of two or three. Two of these groups walked a the other groups, intent on finding a 
way inside or onto the roof, quickly realized their folly. The structure was too fortified. 
So we all settled into the sprawling backyard, our conversations light, full of teenage jokes 
and idle chatter, when a peculiar rhythmic clacking sound drifted down from the roof. It 
began subtly, then intensified, taking on the distinct cadence of someone pacing back and forth 
directly overhead. I peered up, expecting to see one of our friends, but instead a stark silhouette 
filled my vision, a head, utterly featureless yet piercingly alive with two luminous white eyes. I 
frantically scanned our group, but everyone was accounted for right there beside me. When I looked 
back, the sound and the apparition were gone. I dismissed it as a trick of the light, perhaps 
a large squirrel, and forced myself back into the conversation. Later, a friend and I ventured along 
one side of the house. Our voices hushed. As we rounded the corner, a rustling in the trees caught 
our attention, a sound we initially mistook for a deer. We moved closer, hoping for a better view, 
but the rustling multiplied, surrounding us. The crunch of leaves now echoing from all directions. 
A prickle of unease turned to genuine alarm. We turned to retreat, but as we neared the house, a 
sudden, sharp crunch of leaves directly behind us made us spin around. Standing less than 10 ft 
away, motionless amidst the swaying trees, was a stark black stick figure. It stared at us with 
those same disembodied white eyes I’d seen on the roof. Pure terror seized us both. We stammered out 
a panicked explanation to the others, announcing we were leaving for our other friend’s house. 
Every step we took away from that property down the driveway was accompanied by the unsettling 
sensation of being watched. The chilling crunch crunch crunch of leaves just behind us. The moment 
our feet hit the main road, an immediate profound relief washed over us, and the sounds vanished. We 
didn’t dare look back until we were safely in the other kid’s yard. To this day, I occasionally 
drive past that house, hoping to catch another glimpse of what I witnessed that night. I’ve only 
ever seen those white eyes in the woods once more. The doctor, whose house it supposedly was, never 
returned. And now I believe I understand why. This all happened about 5 years ago when my friends 
and I, around 15, were doing what teenagers do, sneaking out every weekend, relying on older 
high school friends to drive us to various   spots. On this particular outing, we set our 
sights on an eight-story abandoned hospital, a mere 10-minute drive from our city. It was 8:00 
a.m. during one of Michigan’s most brutal winters in over a decade. The wind chill, exacerbated by 
its proximity to the Detroit River, easily dropped the temperature to minus15°. We arrived trying to 
be inconspicuous, eager to avoid police attention. We scaled a 6-ft brick wall only to land in a 
courtyard buried under at least 5 ft of unshoveled snow. Trudging through it, we eventually 
reached the hospital’s sole entry point, a back door leading to a staircase that descended 
to the basement and ascended to the upper floors. Every other door was chained or barricaded. 
Once inside, the first thing we encountered was a disturbing display of satanic symbols 
spray painted in red on the walls alongside   the mutilated remains of what appeared to be 
a sacrificed animal too disfigured to identify but roughly the size of a small dog. Disgusted 
and horrified, with a touch of anger, two of my friends headed down to the basement while my 
other two companions and I, flashlights in hand, ventured upstairs. As we moved through the 
dilapidated corridors, fleeting silhouettes danced in the distant hallways, always just at the edge 
of our perception. We initially dismissed them, attributing them to an overactive imagination in 
such a creepy place. But then a medical desk in a room down the hall violently tipped over, sending 
its contents flying into the corridor with a   deafening crash. We bolted, not knowing if it was 
a bomb or something far more sinister. Meanwhile, in the basement, my other two friends had 
stumbled upon a room filled with countless   hospital beds. They swore something was hurled at 
them from the oppressive darkness. Convinced they had found the morg, an irresistible, morbid 
curiosity compelled them to explore further, drawn by a chilling something. As John, my other 
friend, and I navigated the treacherous descent from the upper floors, the chilling echo of the 
medical desk’s violent collapse still ringing in   our ears, an even more unsettling sound began 
to seep into the oppressive quiet. A faint, almost ethereal melody, like a small child humming 
or singing, seemed to drift down from above us. I cast a bewildered glance at Jon, my mind instantly 
jumping to teenage pranks. “Cut it out, John,” I hissed, assuming he was trying to heighten the 
already suffocating dread. “He shook his head, his eyes wide and mirroring my own alarm.” “That 
wasn’t me, Elias,” he whispered back, his voice strained. We froze, a collective paralysis 
gripping us as the eerie lullabi continued, unmistakably emanating from just a few flights of 
stairs above where we’d been only moments before. The unspoken fear materialized. We were not alone, 
and whatever it was, it sounded like a child, yet it was clearly not human. All bravado evaporated. 
Screw this. Someone breathed and we scrambled. A desperate rush for the nearest exit, bursting 
through the doors and vaultting the perimeter   wall as if our lives depended on it. We haven’t 
dared return since. The police patrols in the area have become conspicuously frequent, making 
any further trespass far too perilous. It was a few years later, and a restless afternoon found 
me and two friends, Connor and another buddy, heading up the mountain behind my house. Our 
destination was an old abandoned mine, a perfect backdrop for an airsoft skirmish. We were geared 
up, rifles slung, ready for some harmless fun, despite the persistent drizzle and a creeping 
fog that had begun to roll in. By 4:50 p.m., as dusk was rapidly encroaching, the fog had 
become thick and heavy, swallowing the landscape in a gray, swirling curtain. We were messing 
around near a derelict bucket crane, its rusty silhouette barely visible when Connor suddenly 
pointed, his voice tight with alarm. “Elias, look. There’s a figure just looming in the fog 
coming this way.” Our first thought was a cop or maybe some local drifter. So, we immediately 
started packing up. Our casual airsoft game turning into a hasty retreat. But as we watched, 
the figure seemed different. It was large, burly, and moved with an unnerving speed, cutting 
through the dense fog. Just as the oddity of its appearance truly registered, a piercing fire 
siren from the neighboring town began to wail, and as if on cue, the entire forest fell into an 
unnatural, profound silence. Connor, fueled by a surge of desperate courage, shouted into the mist, 
“Hello, who’s there?” There was no response, only the eerie quiet. I could have sworn I glimpsed a 
dog-like creature, a massive shadowy canine. But Connor vehemently insisted he saw a distinct human 
form. Without another word, we turned and fled, sprinting down the old gravel road around a sharp 
bend until we were out of sight. We then scrambled off the road, plunging down a steep 10 or 12t 
hill into the dense woods. We put about 500 ft between us and the road, then paused, breathless, 
desperate to ascertain if we were being followed. Peering through the trees at my 11:00, I saw it 
again, a shadowy form that seemed to duck behind a thick trunk. My friend, however, was gesturing 
wildly, pointing to my 1:00, claiming to hear a piercing whale like someone screaming in agony. 
Yet, all I registered was a deep, resonant dog’s bark. We retreated cautiously, slowly backing 
away until we stumbled upon an ATV trail. It led us to a path that snaked directly down to 
the main street. We sprinted, our legs burning, until we finally hit the paved road. My friend 
gasped, it’s still following us. And then about a block away, through the swirling fog, there it was 
again, sitting squarely in the middle of the road, facing us, the unmistakable silhouette of a 
large dog. But my friends again insisted they saw a person. To this day, the memory naws at 
me. What the hell was that? A skinw walker, perhaps. We’re in eastern Pennsylvania, so I know 
that’s unlikely, but the sheer impossibility of it leaves me with no other explanation. 
I still wonder almost daily what we truly encountered in that fog shrouded mountain mine. A 
few years prior to that unsettling mine incident, a friend and I decided to investigate an abandoned 
factory long consumed by fire. We gathered every piece of safety equipment we owned. determined to 
be as prepared as possible. Our entry point was a shattered window at the back of the building. As 
we pulled into the parking lot for the first time, my friend recoiled, a profound sense of unease 
washing over her. I don’t like this feeling, Elias, she murmured, her voice tight. 
Respecting her intuition, I pulled away, driving slowly down the adjacent road. That’s 
when we saw it. A shadowy, featureless figure, indistinguishable from the gloom, seemed to be 
walking along the side of the factory building. Its gate was peculiar, suggesting an injury or a 
limp. I instinctively turned the car around for another look, and in that brief moment, the 
figure was noticeably closer. A prickle of cold dread settled over me. I spun the car around 
again, determined to leave, keeping my eyes fixed on the shadowy form in the rear view mirror. But 
as swiftly as it had appeared, it vanished. Gone. The eerie disappearance cemented our decision. 
We were leaving, finding a new location for our urban exploration. My friend, however, became 
unsettlingly quiet during the drive, unresponsive to my attempts at conversation. As we passed a 
few unremarkable landmarks, she began to speak, her voice a flat, unnerving monotone, her eyes 
fixed blankly ahead. she recited with chilling detachment. A litany of tragedies. Someone hung 
themselves at this place. Someone burned to death here. Someone shot someone here. I tried 
desperately to engage her to break her trance, but it was no use. We drove out of the city and 
pulled into a Walmart parking lot. Suddenly, she snapped back to awareness as if waking from 
a deep sleep. Where are we? What time is it? Why are we here?” she asked, her voice normal, 
completely bewildered. She had no recollection of the past 15 minutes, no memory of what she’d said, 
or the shadowy figure we’d seen. The experience was profoundly disturbing, leaving us both shaken 
and with a haunting uncertainty about what exactly had transpired, and what residual darkness 
lingered in that burned out shell of a factory. The lingering shock of my friend’s experience 
continued to resonate. When I showed her the halfhour recording from my old phone capturing 
her eerie monologue of tragedies, her reaction was immediate and stark. She was utterly horrified, 
her face paling, and had to leave abruptly. Later, I delved into online research, cross-referencing 
the grim details she had recited. To my profound disqu, every single death she had mentioned, 
every tragedy proved to be factually accurate. It left an unsettling imprint, solidifying the 
inexplicable nature of what had transpired. A couple of years prior, driven by that 
characteristic teenage blend of curiosity and   recklessness, a group of us briefly cultivated 
a shared obsession to explore every intriguing abandoned place we could find. One particular 
target was an imposing antiquated hospital, a veritable landmark that had been closed for two 
or three decades. Its central location within a bustling town meant it was regularly subjected 
to attempts at securing its broken windows and   access points. Our first visit found us scaling a 
low window, prying open a plywood board that had been nailed over it. As my three friends and I 
clambored inside and pushed open the door to the main corridor, an undeniable potent wave of unease 
washed over all of us. This was uncharacteristic. We were usually emboldened by such elillicit 
entries, unfazed by the typical grimness of   abandoned sites. Yet the feeling was so pervasive, 
so visceral that we all silently agreed to retreat. We left as swiftly as we had arrived, 
unnerved by our own sudden, shared apprehension. Approximately 2 weeks later, the lure of the 
unexplained drew us back. We discovered that most of the previously boarded windows had 
been replaced with formidable metal sheets,   a standard measure for a frequently breached urban 
ruin. Yet, the very window we had used for entry on our prior visit was now inexplicably wide open. 
We took it as an invitation, climbing through once more, only to be immediately met by that same 
oppressive, unsettling sensation. This time, however, our path into the main hallway was 
entirely blocked. The door felt as if something substantial had been jammed against it from the 
other side, rendering it impenetrable. Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, we turned 
to leave through our open window. I was the last to exit halfway through the frame when a faint 
childlike giggle, undeniably that of a young girl, echoed directly behind me in the small room. I 
nearly fell, scrambling out in a desperate surge of terror. Initially, I tried to rationalize it as 
my own frayed nerves, but then one of my friends, pale-faced, turned and asked if I had heard 
the laugh, confirming its unsettling reality. The others, too, had heard it, agreeing it had 
emanated from that very room. We quickly dismissed the blocked door as possibly a coincidental 
obstruction caused by other explorers or vagrants. My roots trace back to Frederick, Maryland, 
where I came of age during the mid9s and   early 2000s. Back then, before its recent 
transformation into a hub of sushi bars, overpriced condos, and vintage boutiques, the 
city retained a distinct rust belt character. A significant bluecollar presence still defined 
its landscape, especially around the open air   drainage canal, which in my youth was flanked by 
a multitude of abandoned and condemned residential and industrial buildings. It was a playground for 
the adventurous. We would roam these urban ruins, often breaking in for the thrill of exploration, 
or simply as discrete hangouts for drinking and   smoking, far from the prying eyes of the police. 
While we occasionally indulged in minor vandalism, our primary goal was always to uncover the hidden 
stories within these forgotten structures. These excursions were not without their unsettling 
moments, particularly when we’d venture into a   condemned house only to discover it was already 
occupied by one or more homeless individuals. Frederick at the time had a reputation for a 
sizable population of severely mentally ill homeless people, many of whom suffered from 
paranoid schizophrenia, and I even knew a few   by name. One memory in particular remains vivid. 
A house we breached that had clearly been vacant for years. Black mold crept insidiously up its 
walls. Yet, oddly, it seemed as if a family had simply vanished, leaving all their possessions 
behind. This domestic tableau amidst such decay was profoundly disturbing. It was as if an entire 
family had simply vanished midstride. Beds were neatly made, dressers overflowed with clothes, 
and family portraits still graced the walls. We instinctively avoided the refrigerator. The 
lingering sense of a life abruptly interrupted,   chilling us to the bone. Wandering through their 
home with our flashlights, we felt like morbid archaeologists, peering into a perfectly 
preserved yet tragically decayed snapshot of lives brutally severed from their timeline. A 
phase of high school found my best friend and her goth clique eager to explore the Macob. And one 
night, under the veil of darkness, they invited me on a ghost hunting trip. We eventually pulled 
off onto a deserted, nameless road miles from any recognizable landmark. Under the cold gleam of 
moonlight, we navigated a barbed wire fence, then crested a small hill. Below us, a grand two-story 
farmhouse with a sprawling basement emerged from the darkness surrounded by what looked like the 
skeleton of a once magnificent fountain. It evoked images of a derelict Gatsby estate, an opulent 
ruin. To this day, the exact location is a mystery to me, lost somewhere in the forgotten pockets of 
my hometown. Despite its dilapidated state, its beauty was undeniable. As a steadfast non-believer 
in the supernatural, I was simply captivated by the architecture, enjoying the forbidden visit. 
Inside, the grandeur had given way to chaos. Walls bore strange markings, and doors lay splintered, 
but the bones of its former elegance were still discernible beneath the decay. Eager to explore 
thoroughly, I separated from the group. Venturing through the upstairs, the basement, and the main 
floor. As I made my way back, I passed the grand stairwell. I distinctly saw one of the girls from 
our group standing on the landing, and I gave a casual nod of acknowledgement. Stepping into the 
next room, however, I found everyone, the entire group, assembled there. A jolt of confusion, then 
terror hit me. I spun back to the stairwell. It was empty. While unnerving, the clarity of what 
I’d witnessed left no room for doubt. That place possessed a palpable atmosphere, a distinct 
energy that was impossible to ignore. Even now, I yearn to rediscover that forgotten estate, 
to return in the dead of night. Not to fear, but to once again feel the profound, inexplicable 
presence that clung to its crumbling walls.

Creepiest Places 50 TRUE Abandoned & Isolated Horror Stories 😱
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