I've been leading groups into abandoned places for nearly ten
years now. Fort de la Chartreuse, outside
of Liege, Belgium, has always been my favorite.
It's a sprawling maze of brick tunnels and cold rooms that saw
heavy use during World War 2. The occupying German forces
supposedly used parts of it for interrogations and detainment,
though no official records were kept.
Now the Fort lies abandoned and boarded up, overgrown, forgotten
except by urban explorers and local scouts daring enough to
sneak in after dark. Tonight was one of those
excursions. We had our rules strict silence,
total darkness. The road running alongside the
Fort wall was busy enough that headlights passed often, forcing
us to climb quietly and swiftly. We'd anchored ropes at a sheer
wall months earlier, barely noticeable from the street.
I went in first, as usual, slipping silently into the Fort
ahead of everyone else, finding my assigned spot deep inside the
tunnels. My job was simple.
Wait silently at a narrow junction, directing explorers
toward the main path if they hesitated or got turned around.
Once inside the Fort, everything shifted.
The air was always precisely 57°F, no matter the season, and
though the road was close, not even the rumble of trucks
penetrated these walls. It was like entering a vacuum,
utter stillness that pressed against your eardrums.
There was a constant breeze, slight but noticeable, moving
through the tunnels in gentle pulses, almost rhythmic, like
slow breathing. I squeezed into my spot, a small
recessed alcove cut into the brickwork, and waited.
It was pitch black, no flashlights permitted, only
touch and sound. Even after all these years, the
place still unsettled me. The tunnels were narrow, tight
enough that I had to tilt my shoulders sideways.
In some passages, sound bounced strangely.
Here, footsteps seem to echo behind rather than ahead, the
acoustics tricking you into believing you were being
followed. You'd stop, and for a second
there would always be one extra step, a lingering echo that
unsettled everyone. It must have been at least half
an hour of silent waiting. When I first saw the faint glow
down the corridor. I frowned.
Somebody had broken the rule. Matches, maybe, Or a tiny
lighter. The dim flicker bobbed gently,
rhythmic, like someone slowly pacing.
But as I watched it approach, I realized something strange.
There were no footsteps, none at all.
Just that wavering light, moving smoothly down the hallway,
impossibly silent. It drew closer, closer.
And then, without warning, the light blinked out.
Complete darkness returned. I shifted uneasily, feeling a
trickle of cold sweat slide down my spine.
The hallway felt colder, emptier somehow, despite knowing
rationally, it couldn't have changed temperature, but my
nerves were getting to me. I took a quiet breath to steady
myself. That's when I felt it.
A sudden slight warmth against my face, humid and human.
A moist breath in the otherwise dry tunnel air.
I froze completely, my muscles locking.
There was something directly in front of me.
I could smell it. A faint scent of sweat, damp
earth and old fabric, familiar and yet horribly out of place.
Whoever or whatever stood there had stopped breathing.
It knew I was there, my own breath trapped painfully in my
chest as we both stood utterly still, neither daring to move.
My pulse throbbed in my temples, deafening in the silence.
I strained my ears desperately for some clue of movement.
A shifting weight, a scrape, a breath.
Nothing. Only silence and the suffocating
closeness of the tunnel. Minutes passed like hours, my
lungs beginning to burn. Finally, just as my chest
spasmed for air, the warmth slowly receded.
I exhaled silently, shuddering in relief, trying to convince
myself it had only been a trick of my nerves or imagination.
But I knew better. The air shifted again, the faint
breeze returning to brush gently across my face.
A minute later, a faint light again appeared, this time moving
off toward the right, disappearing into another tunnel
passage. Then darkness reclaimed the
space once more. I was still trying to calm
myself when I heard familiar heavy boots coming from the left
passage, finally signaling the first of our explorers.
He walked briskly, confident in the dark.
As he approached, I stepped forward slightly, whispering
instructions guiding him toward the proper corridor.
Before he left, though, curiosity compelled me to
quietly ask a single question. Who was first inside tonight?
I murmured, already half knowing the answer.
He paused briefly, his voice hushed but certain.
No one. I was the first one in my blood
went cold, the certainty of his words chilling me deeper than
the constant oppressive cold of Fort de la Chartreuse.
He moved on quietly into the dark, leaving me alone again,
waiting for the others with the unbearable sensation of eyes on
me, unseen yet present somewhere deep within the tunnels.
After that encounter in the narrow passage, I tried to
dismiss it. My heart was still beating too
fast, and each careful step echoed louder in my ears than
before. Maybe it was just paranoia, or
perhaps sensory confusion from the dark.
Regardless, I didn't have the luxury to dwell on it, not here,
deep beneath Fort de la Chartreuse.
Guiding the rest of the group forward, we regrouped in what we
called the Chapel. It wasn't a real Chapel, just a
vaulted chamber with a collapsed ceiling exposing patches of the
night sky and scattering faint moonlight on Moss covered
rubble. The others were arriving in
small clusters, whispering nervously, some laughing off the
adrenaline, others tense and silent.
I decided to briefly mention what happened, just in case
someone else had seen or heard something similar.
When I did, a few laughed quietly, assuming it was some
trick of the senses, but a few faces tightened, eyes flicking
nervously around the shadowed chamber.
I didn't push further. The Dark played games, after
all, and even seasoned explorers could become unnerved down here.
Then Celine, one of the newer explorers, stepped forward.
Her voice was low, cautious. There's something I found.
She whispered. A tunnel just off the West
corridor. It looked old, but I don't think
we've ever seen it before. I frowned.
I knew every passage in this Fort, or thought I did, yet I
couldn't place the tunnel she described.
The group murmured quietly, curiosity tinged with caution.
We agreed hesitantly, to check it out.
She LED us down a familiar path until we reached a collapsed
brick wall, rubble partly cleared away, exposing A cramped
opening Into Darkness. One by one, we squeezed through.
Inside, the air was colder, staler, pressing down heavily on
my shoulders. The tunnel was low and narrow,
lined with bricks now slick with condensation.
I ran my fingertips along them, catching something rough and
jagged. We stopped to examine the walls.
Names. Dozens of names etched crudely
into the brickwork alongside numbers.
Prisoner ID's, perhaps German names, dated from 1943 and 1944.
The Fort had always carried rumors of prisoners held during
the occupation, but this was the first tangible proof I'd ever
seen. Theo stepped up beside me,
tracing a finger along the wall. His voice shook slightly.
My family name's here, He said quietly, pointing to a faded
carving. My grandfather was in the
resistance. He was captured, held somewhere
in Liege before escaping. A chill crawled over my skin.
I tried not to think too deeply about what that meant, but as I
looked further along, something caught my eye.
Fresh marks, clearly recent, not softened by dust or age.
Leaning close, I deciphered them easily, heart tightening
painfully in my chest. What is the light?
The scratches were frantic, uneven, almost desperate.
Before I could speak, a noise echoed down the passage, a
steady, rhythmic thud of heavy boots.
The group froze instantly. I shone my flashlight beam down
the tunnel, instinctively revealing only empty darkness.
The footsteps continued, growing louder, but there was nobody
visible, no shape emerging from the blackness.
Then the beam flickered and went out in sudden darkness again.
Panic began rippling quietly through the group.
Celine was breathing fast, whispering something fearful to
the others. Theo gripped my arm tightly,
holding his breath. Then we heard something else, A
faint, steady breathing. It sounded as if someone stood
directly behind us, a breath damp and audible.
Yet when I turned, I felt only empty space and cold air.
Theo pulled urgently at my sleeve, guiding me back toward
the Chapel. We stumbled through the narrow
opening, trying not to run out. Right behind us.
The breathing faded, but not entirely.
It lingered quietly present, following just at the edge of
hearing. When we finally emerged back
into the Chapel, I bent over, trying to regain composure.
That was when I noticed something new.
A weathered leather notebook lying on the rubble, clearly old
but somehow untouched by the moisture or mold covering
everything else. Theo hesitated before picking it
up, turning carefully through brittle pages until he reached
the last written entry, dated April 1944.
He shined a small pen light on the faded handwriting and began
quietly reading. It no longer needs light to see.
It moves with memory. It follows breath.
Theo looked up at me slowly, eyes wide in horror.
The sound of footsteps returned, slow, steady, purposeful, moving
through the darkness towards us. My pulse thundered in my ears as
the footsteps drew closer. They echoed through the Chapel,
deliberate and steady. The others began whispering
frantically, but I raised my hand sharply, signaling absolute
silence. Every sound mattered now.
Every breath counted. I motioned quickly toward the
exit passage, and we moved as one, stumbling carefully through
the darkness. The tunnel leading to our rope
and climbing gear seemed endless this time, the walls closing in
tighter than before, brushing harshly against my shoulders.
When we finally reached the base of the wall where we'd left our
equipment, I felt blindly for the rope, my stomach turning
cold when my fingers grasped only empty air.
I checked again, then again, heart hammering.
Nothing. The rope was gone.
I whispered to Theo and Celine, urgently, asking if either had
seen or taken the rope down earlier.
Both shook their heads, breathing heavily in panic.
We were trapped. A faint metallic scraping sound
echoed from somewhere deep in the tunnels behind us.
It was moving closer. I recalled an old rumor about a
collapsed artillery passage at the back of the Fort that led
toward the rail line. We'd never verified it, but now
there was no choice. There's another way out, I
whispered hoarsely. Follow me and stay quiet.
We moved slowly, cautiously deeper into the Fort, guided
only by fingertips tracing along damp bricks.
The familiar gentle breeze faded away entirely as we push deeper,
replaced by thick, oppressive stillness.
The air felt stagnant, suffocating, heavy enough to
slow each step. We paused occasionally, holding
our breath, listening carefully. Every single time one extra
footstep seemed to echo quietly behind us.
After one stop, I heard Celine whispering in panic.
Did you hear breathing? I froze, straining my ears.
There it was again, a quiet, rhythmic breathing sound, wet
and warm, uncomfortably close. Every nerve in my body screamed
in fear, muscles rigid, afraid to even exhale.
Then, suddenly, Celine gasped sharply, and a sudden shuffle of
movement echoed in the darkness. Beside me.
Celine. Theo whispered desperately.
Silence. Nothing replied.
Celine was gone, simply taken, pulled silently Into Darkness.
We hurried on, hearts racing, hardly daring to breathe, every
shallow gasp painfully loud. Theo was shaking beside me, his
hand trembling uncontrollably. I felt my chest tightening, the
urge to breathe deeply overwhelming, almost unbearable.
Each time one of us inhaled loudly, the faint footsteps
behind grew closer. As we reached a tight bend in
the corridor, Theo faltered. His breathing had become ragged,
punctuated by quiet, fearful sobs.
I turned quickly, trying to steady him, but just as my hand
reached his shoulder, something shifted abruptly beside us.
Theo's breath caught harshly, and then he disappeared, torn
from my grip so swiftly that I stumbled forward into empty air.
I held my breath, body rigid, muscles screaming with tension,
listening desperately for Theo. Silence.
Then, horrifyingly close, slow, careful breathing returned,
brushing warm air across my neck.
My skin crawled violently. I bit down on my tongue to
stifle a scream, tasting blood. Carefully, inch by inch, I
backed toward the passage, holding my breath tightly in my
chest. Step by agonizing step I
navigated blindly forward, every second a battle against my
body's desperate need for oxygen.
My head spun from lack of air, lungs burning painfully.
Finally the tunnel turned sharply and I felt cool night
air rush against my face from somewhere ahead.
In sheer desperation I pushed forward blindly, shoulders
scraping against jagged bricks, ignoring the pain, lungs about
to burst. My hands grasped at Moss covered
stone and suddenly I was out, collapsing onto damp grass
beneath an open sky. The air flooded my lungs,
painfully sharp and cold. Gasping, shivering
uncontrollably, I twisted around, staring wide eyed back
at the dark opening from which I'd emerged.
Nothing followed me. The tunnel sat quiet, empty,
black as a grave. Days later I returned with a
small team during daylight. I'd contacted local authorities,
insisting they investigate and close off the dangerous sections
of the Fort. As we moved slowly through the
tunnels again, the beams of our flashlights revealed familiar
corridors, now strangely harmless under the glow of
bright LED bulbs. When we reached the Chapel, my
heart skipped sharply. On the wall near where we had
discovered the old notebook was a fresh carving.
It stood out clearly against the older scratches, deep and
jagged, the edges rough with brick dust.
I still breathe. Below it scratched faintly,
almost gently. I read my own full name.
I've spent more of my life underground than I'd like to
admit. It started as a teenage dare,
exploring drainage tunnels, abandoned mines, and the
forgotten corridors beneath our quiet town in northern
Pennsylvania. My friends Trevor and Zeke were
always with me, addicted to the rush of squeezing through tight
spaces and the strange allure of places no one was ever meant to
see. But over the years, adulthood
happened and our expeditions became rare.
Jobs, families, responsibilities, life pulled us
apart. It was Trevor who suggested one
last exploration, a final nostalgic crawl.
He mentioned a drain pipe he'd spotted a couple years ago in
Wildcat Hollow, a remote forested area near Tioga State
Forest. It had been poking out of a
steep hillside, partially hidden by trees and bushes, forgotten
and rusted. Curiosity reignited the fire,
and we quickly agreed. The forest around Wildcat Hollow
felt thicker than usual as we hiked in.
It was late afternoon, with sunlight filtering weekly
through a dense canopy. Moss covered stones lined the
ground, and the air carried that familiar damp, earthy smell we
knew all too well. Finally, Trevor pointed ahead.
I squinted to see a dull glint of corrugated metal, half buried
and cloaked in vines. This has to be it.
Trevor said, clearing brush aside.
Zeke looked hesitant, but nodded.
We unpacked our headlamps and tested them.
The beams flickered weakly in the daylight, hardly comforting.
Then, one by one, we crawled inside.
The pipe was narrower than it looked.
My elbows scraped against the rusted walls as I crawled on
hands and knees. Immediately the temperature
dropped, the air heavy and stale within a few dozen feet.
Daylight had entirely vanished behind us.
We were submerged in complete darkness except for the thin
cones of our lamps, illuminating bits of rust, grime, and
cobwebs. How far does this go?
Zeke whispered, his voice echoing weirdly about 600 feet
to a junction. Trevor answered quietly, leading
us deeper. I tried to focus only on the
rhythm of crawling, ignoring how tight and oppressive the walls
felt around me. We pressed on in silence,
breaths loud and shallow in the enclosed space.
The pipe seemed to narrow gradually pushing down on my
shoulders, squeezing until my heart pounded.
Claustrophobia was always there, lurking, but something felt
especially off this time, more than usual.
Anxiety deeper. Finally, after what seemed like
forever, we spilled out into a larger concrete room, a junction
point typical of storm drains. Circular walls stretched upward
to a rusted manhole cover far above, dripping water forming
puddles on the floor. I inhaled deeply, relieved to
stretch out and turn, slowly illuminating 3 smaller pipes
branching off. Looks like we've got options,
Trevor said nervously. One pipe was marked with a faded
splash of red paint, probably left by a maintenance crew
decades ago. Another looked partially
collapsed. The third was small but open,
just barely wide enough to slither through on your stomach.
Zeke eyed it warily. I'm not sure.
Zeke started. Come on, Zeke.
Trevor laughed softly, forcing enthusiasm.
We used to do way worse than this.
Zeke hesitated, then sighed, giving in.
Fine, I'll lead this one, but if it gets any tighter, I'm turning
around. Deal.
I whispered back, though something about the pipe
unsettled me. A black tunnel, impossibly
narrow. Zeke went first, sliding onto
his stomach. Trevor followed, then me.
Within moments, the oppressive weight of concrete surrounded me
again, closer than ever. Each breath tasted stale,
mingling with rust and moisture. My elbow scraped painfully
against gritty concrete, but I kept crawling, feeling trapped
by my own choice. We made slow progress until Zeke
suddenly stopped. There's something here.
He called back, voice echoing strangely, blocking the pipe.
I, I think it's a dead animal. Can you get past it?
Trevor urged impatiently. We can't exactly turn around
here. I heard Zeke breathing quicker,
shallow gasps of disgust. Oh God, I don't know, it feels
gross, warm, warm. My stomach churned.
Just go over it quickly, Zeke. He groaned, retching quietly.
Fine, fine. I heard scraping as he crawled
over, his voice panicky. Oh God, it's all over me, hurry
up. My heart pounded as I moved
forward. In the dim circle of my lamp I
saw it, a dark, shapeless lump filling half the pipe.
My stomach clenched as my body brushed against it.
I felt a sickening warmth, my fingers sinking slightly into
the mass, fur like and slimy. The smell hit me next, like
rotten meat mixed with chemicals, burning my throat.
I fought the urge to vomit and forced myself quickly over the
foul obstacle. Trevor cursed softly behind me.
What the hell is that? I don't know.
I said weakly. Maybe a trapped raccoon or
something. That thing didn't feel like a
raccoon. Trevor whispered harshly.
Jesus, just keep moving. Zeke pleaded ahead, voice thin
and shaky. We pressed forward, deeper into
the cramped darkness. My mind raced.
Something wasn't right. Dead animals were common
underground, but this felt different.
It felt wrong. Zeke suddenly paused again,
voice trembling. Guys, something's up ahead it.
It smells worse, like something died down here.
I see a shape, a a body maybe. My blood ran cold.
Trevor began to whisper rapidly, terrified.
We should turn back now. Zeke gagged violently.
Ahead. It's too close.
I can't, I can't move any closer, I need out now.
The pipe felt impossibly small, trapping us in darkness with
that horrible smell. Whatever lay ahead wasn't
something we wanted to see. Panic surged through me.
Back out. I said urgently, fighting the
desperation rising in my voice. We're done.
No one argued. We scrambled backward clumsily,
feeling trapped and vulnerable. As we passed the lump again, my
lamp caught its wet surface, reflecting dark Crimson mixed
with clumps of black fur. My stomach turned violently.
I hurried past, certain it moved slightly under my touch.
No, it was just nerves. We reached the junction room
again and climbed frantically back toward the original
entrance pipe, squeezing desperately toward daylight.
Sunlight poured through the opening as we crawled out,
coughing and shaking, covered in that foul darkness.
Never again. Zeke gasped, peeling off his
shirt. Bloody residue clung to his
skin, thick and foul smelling. I stared at my own trembling
hands, agreed. We knew better now.
Some things were better left buried deep underground.
We stood for a while in the clearing outside the pipe,
shaking, breathing fresh air like we'd forgotten how good it
felt. The late afternoon sun was a
welcome shock after the suffocating darkness.
I tried to convince myself it was just a dead raccoon,
something ordinary and explainable, but my gut wouldn't
accept it. Whatever we had crawled over in
that tunnel wasn't anything natural.
Trevor rubbed his palms against his jeans, pacing anxiously.
Zeke's face was pale, eyes wide with something close to shock.
What the hell was that? Trevor finally broke the
silence, voice shaking. He peeled off his jacket,
revealing streaks of blackish red sludge smeared along his
arms. The same muck covered my own
clothing, making my stomach twist again.
Maybe just an animal caught down there?
Zeke muttered, sounding unconvinced himself.
I glanced at the narrow pipe entrance.
Animals don't usually feel warm like that.
And the smell, It was wrong. Trevor grimmest looking at his
hands. I need to get this off me.
We moved quickly down toward a stream nearby, trying to scrub
off the grime. The water turned a rusty, oily
red as it washed over our skin. Zeke was quiet, his breath
shallow and shaky. We should leave, he whispered.
Forget this ever happened. I agreed silently, but Trevor
hesitated, looking back toward the pipe entrance.
We never turned away before. He said quietly.
This is supposed to be our last run.
Are we really going to let it end like this?
Zeke stared at him in disbelief. You didn't feel what I felt.
You didn't see that thing ahead. It looked like.
Like a body, but worse. Trevor clenched his jaw.
Maybe your eyes were playing tricks.
We can't leave without knowing. I heard myself say, surprising
even myself. The need to confirm what lay
ahead was suddenly powerful. It gnawed at my rational
thoughts. We need to be sure.
Zeke looked at me sharply, fear mixed with disbelief, but Trevor
nodded slowly. We go back, we see clearly
what's down there, then we're done forever.
Zeke looked between us, hesitant, before reluctantly
agreeing. The dread in my gut deepened as
we approached the pipe again. We squeezed back inside the
tunnel, colder this time, air thicker.
It was harder now, knowing what waited ahead.
Still, we crawled forward, our breathing rapid and ragged.
When we reached the junction room again, the dripping water
echoed louder, the space darker somehow.
Zeke stared silently at the narrow pipe ahead, visibly
shaking. But he crawled forward again,
driven more by grim determination than curiosity
now. I followed, feeling trapped once
more, the darkness pressing from all sides.
After several long minutes, Zeke froze, whispering back urgently.
The smells worse. God, it's awful.
I can't breathe. We were close enough now that I
smelled it too. A putrid odor, thick with decay,
chemical like and burning my throat.
Nausea gripped me instantly. I see it clearly.
Zeke hissed, barely audible. There's something sitting up
ahead, against the wall. It looks human.
Are you sure? Trevor whispered frantically
behind me. Yes, but the arms are too long,
twisted weirdly. It's slumped like it's dead.
Zeke's voice was panicked now, higher pitched, strained.
We have to get out now. I felt frozen, trapped between
Trevor blocking the way back and Zeke ahead.
Panic rising in my chest, I strained to see beyond Zeke's
silhouette, my weak headlamp illuminating just enough of the
shape ahead. It was slumped against the
tunnel wall, clearly humanoid, but the limbs were distorted,
overly thin and extended. The figure's skin glistened
wetly under our lights, slick and strangely reflective.
The pool beneath it was thick, dark, and shimmering like oil.
My stomach lurched again as the smell intensified.
Go back, I urged quietly. Now.
We began scrambling backward in clumsy, terrified bursts, the
tight pipe making movement difficult.
My heart hammered painfully. Trevor cursed rapidly behind me,
breath shallow. I could hear Zeke whispering
urgently to himself, words unintelligible.
As we reached the mass again, the thing we had crawled over.
I paused instinctively. My beam flickered over it once
more. My breath caught sharply.
Its surface quivered slightly, something shifting just beneath
the blackened, matted fur. I pressed against the pipe wall,
trying desperately not to touch it again, but the tunnel was too
tight, and I felt the sickening sensation of my chest brushing
against its warm, twitching surface.
A quiet, wet sound emerged from it, a rasping, guttural hiss.
My pulse raced as panic surged through me.
Move faster, I shouted, voice raw with fear.
We burst back into the junction room and scrambled toward the
exit pipe, climbing awkwardly toward daylight again.
We emerged gasping, choking, and sweating heavily into the fading
sunlight. No one spoke for a moment as we
lay on the ground, shivering uncontrollably.
That wasn't human. Zeke finally whispered, voice
hollow and strained. It wasn't animal either.
Trevor stared blankly ahead, visibly trembling.
I saw it move, the thing on the floor.
It moved, didn't it? I nodded slowly, eyes fixed on
the dark pipe entrance, now a gaping hole of dread.
Yeah, it did. We stood silently, the fading
daylight bringing fresh terror rather than comfort.
None of us knew what we disturbed, what had lurked
quietly underground. But as we turned away from
Wildcat Hollow, one thing was clear.
Some places weren't meant to be explored, and some things were
better left hidden forever. Sleep didn't come easily after
Wildcat Hollow. Every night I tossed restlessly,
haunted by the memory of that tunnel, replaying the sensation
of crawling over something that moved, something warm, fleshy,
and alien. My dreams twisted into vivid
nightmares, dark corridors, muffled breathing, and those
distorted limbs we had glimpsed in the shadows.
I'd wake soaked in sweat, gasping in panic, convinced that
foul odor lingered faintly in my room.
Days passed, but the anxiety didn't fade.
Then, about a week after the incident, I got a frantic call
from Zeke. I'm sick, man, He whispered over
the phone, voice shaking. Really sick rash all over my
body, burning like hell. You went to the doctor?
I asked, my stomach tightening uneasily.
They're running tests. Some kind of chemical exposure
infection. No one knows yet.
Trevor has it too, but not as bad.
His voice faltered. Do you have anything?
I glanced at my arms and chest reflexively, noticing nothing
yet but suddenly feeling itchy, paranoid.
Not yet. Maybe it's because you guys
touched it first. God, I hope so.
Zeke murmured. Stay safe.
Whatever that thing was, it wasn't right.
I hung up, anxiety thickening inside me.
The next day, Trevor messaged about nightmares of his own,
visions of crawling through tunnels that narrowed until the
walls pressed tight and something faceless dragged
itself toward him. Through the dark, my own
nightmares intensified, filled with whispers and scratching
noises I couldn't escape. After days of trying to ignore
it, curiosity won out. I decided to dig deeper,
desperate for some kind of explanation.
My searches turned up vague references to construction
projects around Tioga State Forest in the early 1970s.
I found old articles describing abandoned developments, housing
projects abruptly halted due to unspecified complications.
Contractors had fled the site, reports said, mentioning
underground issues, hazards The county quietly buried.
No specifics, only hints of problems beneath Wildcat Hollow.
The dread in me deepened. Was this connected to what we'd
found one evening? Unable to shake my obsessive
thoughts, I unpacked my gear to clean it properly, determined to
erase every last trace of that place.
As I scrubbed my knee pads under warm water, something caught my
eye. Dark strands tangled in the
Velcro straps. I carefully plucked them free,
holding them up to the light. The strands were thick, coarse,
and strangely translucent, like insect hairs.
Nausea churned again in my gut. They didn't belong to any animal
I knew. Disturbed, I sealed the strands
in a plastic bag, then immediately threw it in the
trash, washing my hands until they were raw.
A few days later, Zeke texted out of the hospital.
Rash cleared, but doctors have no idea what caused it.
Never going underground again. Trevor agreed, exhausted by
sleepless nights and a lingering dread that neither of us could
shake. Yet despite our vows, I felt
drawn back to Wildcat Hollow. One last look to reassure myself
that nothing had followed us out.
I returned alone, anxiety spiking with every step closer
to the pipe. As I approached, I saw that
nature was reclaiming the hillside.
Vines and roots had partially hidden the entrance.
The pipe itself looked like it had partially collapsed inward,
twisted by some unseen force. I stood there, heart pounding,
scanning the surroundings. Near the entrance, beneath thick
Moss, something caught my eye, a rusted metal sign partially
obscured by vegetation. Hesitantly, I brushed away the
Moss and stared at the faded words stamped into the metal Sub
drain 4B. Biological isolation zone.
Do not disturb. My blood froze.
Biological isolation. Isolation from what?
From whom? My mind flashed back to the
warm, twitching mass we'd crawled over.
Whatever it was, someone had known about it.
Someone who'd buried the secret deep underground decades ago,
hoping it would never surface. I stepped back, feeling a deep
chill sink into my bones. As I turned to leave, something
stirred behind the pipe opening, a faint, wet rustle.
I didn't dare look back. Panic surged through me, and I
hurried away faster and faster, driven by a primal instinct to
flee from whatever still lingered there.
When I reached my car, breath ragged, I knew with absolute
certainty I'd never return. Some things were never meant to
be disturbed, never meant to see daylight.
Wildcat Hollow had shown me the cost of curiosity, the
horrifying truth that some secrets were buried for a
reason. As a glaciologist, my field work
often took me to the most isolated and harsh landscapes
Iceland had to offer. That September, my assignment
brought me to Langoneese, a remote, windswept peninsula
stretching into the Arctic Ocean like a weathered finger pointing
to nowhere. The nearest paved Rd. was 10
kilometers away. Civilization even farther.
My home for weeks had been a modified Land Rover Defender,
crammed with field equipment, dried meals, and topographical
maps. Most of my days were consumed
with trudging through cold, sodden terrain, taking
measurements and documenting erosion patterns along the
coastline. One particularly Gray afternoon,
while referencing an outdated survey map, I spotted something
unusual, a tiny rectangular marker labeled simply Farm.
Curious and Mildly Bored, I decided to investigate.
After nearly an hour's hike through misty bog land and
brittle Moss, the farmhouse appeared small and stark,
perched atop a bluff overlooking the lead colored sea.
The wooden exterior had weathered to a dull Gray paint
long since peeled away by relentless northern winds.
The structure looked abandoned, forgotten by time, but despite
its obvious age, it was strangely intact, without the
typical signs of vandalism or graffiti that often marred
remote buildings. I approached cautiously, my
boots crunching through coarse grass and sheep bones bleached
white by years in the sun. The farmhouse's silence seemed
absolute. As I reached the front door, a
mild unease settled in my gut, a familiar sense of vulnerability
that comes from being utterly alone in the wilderness.
Inside, the air felt heavy, cold, and stale.
The interior was sparse, old wooden furniture, dusty floors
and pale walls bare save for a faded homemade poster taped
above a rusty stove. Squinting in the dimness, I read
the text Family Gathering, 1982. Beside the stove lay a pile of
sheep, ear tags, yellowed and brittle, relics of a forgotten
past. The kitchen smelled faintly of
mold and sea coal. Intrigued by the peculiar
preservation, I began taking photographs documenting the
strange assortment of household items left behind A kettle, a
chair with a broken leg, and a framed family photo.
In the stillness, each camera click echoed softly, breaking
the quiet like stones thrown into Stillwater.
I eventually turned toward the narrow staircase tucked into the
corner of the main room. Dust covered the steps thickly,
undisturbed for decades. As I placed my foot on the first
step, the wood groaned beneath me, startlingly loud against the
houses deep silence. I hesitated, holding my breath,
listening intently. Nothing.
Convincing myself it was just the aging wood, I moved up
another step, carefully this time.
Another Creek, deeper, more resonant, echoed from above.
I paused again, heart rate picking up slightly.
Suddenly, clearly and deliberately, I heard footsteps.
Slow, heavy steps pacing across the floorboards directly above
me. I stood frozen, my rational mind
frantically trying to explain away the sounds.
It was impossible that anyone else was here.
I was utterly alone, miles from another living soul.
Yet there they were, unmistakably human footsteps.
Then came a loud thud, forceful enough to vibrate through the
ceiling and down my spine. My instincts took over.
Rational thought abandoned me, replaced by raw, primal fear.
I spun around, leaping down the stairs in two strides, nearly
tripping as adrenaline surged through my veins.
Bursting out the front door into the cold afternoon air, I ran
without looking back, legs pounding through Moss and marsh,
until my lungs burned and I finally reached the Defender.
I threw myself inside, locked the doors, and sat panting,
watching the distant farmhouse through the windshield.
It stood silent and still, offering no answers.
When I finally calmed enough to inspect my camera's photographs,
my fingers trembled, flicking through images.
I paused at the last picture, taken just before I ascended the
stairs. At the very top of the
staircase, blurred yet unmistakably present, was a dark
silhouette. Someone or something had been
watching me. I spent a restless night parked
far from the farmhouse, wrapped in my sleeping bag.
Inside the Defender, the rhythmic drumming of rain and
the shrill whistle of wind battered against the vehicle's
roof, keeping sleep distant and uneasy.
By morning, the storm had subsided, but the cold
persisted, creeping through the gaps in the windows.
Shivering, I tried turning the key in the ignition, desperate
to move farther away from that place, but the engine only
sputtered helplessly, refusing to start.
My frustration mounted with each failed attempt, accompanied by
the sinking realization that without cell service and miles
from civilization, I had few options.
After half an hour of futile efforts, I resigned myself to
the grim reality. I needed supplies to attempt
repairs, tools, wiring. Anything salvageable from that
abandoned farmhouse would be better than nothing.
Every rational part of me protested the idea of returning,
yet desperation made it impossible to ignore.
Stealing myself against lingering anxiety, I trudged
back through the damp, cold landscape toward the farmhouse.
My boots squelched loudly through the water logged earth,
and with each step closer, tension tightened in my chest.
As the structure reappeared through the mist, It felt more
forbidding than before, colder somehow, though the temperature
hadn't changed. It's dark windows reflected
nothing but Gray skies, revealing no hint of what waited
inside. Taking a deep breath, I stepped
once again through the creaking front door.
Inside, the chill bit deeper than before seeping into my
bones. The air had grown heavy with
moisture overnight, and the faint metallic scent that I'd
noticed yesterday was now stronger, mingling unsettlingly
with the smell of mold and decay.
Carefully, I moved toward the staircase again, eyes darting
between shadows. I knew the upper floor would be
my best chance at finding spare wiring or scrap metal.
On the second floor, my flashlight illuminated several
small rooms, empty except for scattered debris and dusty
sheets draped over broken furniture.
In one room, burn marks form strange, spiraling patterns on
the walls, stark and deliberate. I moved on quickly, suppressing
the discomfort growing in my gut.
In the hallway, peeling wallpaper caught my attention.
Beneath the faded paper, deep carvings marred the wooden
planks, etched crudely in circular designs and overlapping
spirals. The gouges looked frantic,
almost obsessive. Nearby, the largest bedroom had
walls darkened with charcoal scribblings, repeated phrases
scrawled hastily. They are in the attic.
He watches at night. My pulse quickened and my throat
tightened. The cryptic phrases amplified
the unease I'd tried to suppress.
I moved backward into the hall, glancing upward instinctively.
That's when I noticed the attic hatch in the ceiling, slightly
ajar. A narrow gap of darkness yawned
open, and I felt certain it had been shut when I fled the
previous afternoon. As I stood staring, paralyzed by
dread and uncertainty, I heard it again, the low, dragging
scuffle directly above me. A heartbeat later, another
heavy, deliberate thud shook the ceiling boards, sending dust
drifting slowly down into the beam of my flashlight.
Panic surged. I spun toward the staircase,
determined to escape before whatever was up there decided to
come down. But as I reached the stairs, my
feet froze. The wooden steps, previously
thick with undisturbed dust, were now covered in fresh
tracks. Bare footprints, smeared in mud,
descended step by step toward the lower floor.
The prints were too large to belong to a child, the soles
broad and flat, each one perfectly formed.
They ended abruptly at the base of the stairs, as if whoever had
left them simply vanished or stood waiting unseen.
Heart hammering in my chest, I edged forward, fighting the
impulse to Sprint wildly and risk falling.
Each step down the staircase felt like a lifetime, my breath
coming in shallow gasps as I scanned the room below.
Empty, silent, yet charged with an oppressive sense of
watchfulness. Stepping onto the ground floor,
I bolted for the door, stumbling out onto the bluff.
My eyes rose involuntarily to the attic window, drawn by an
unshakable feeling of being observed behind The Dirty glass.
For a brief, terrible moment, I glimpsed movement, a shadow
shifting just out of sight. Turning away sharply, I ran back
toward the vehicle without hesitation, refusing to glance
back again, no longer caring about repairs or solutions.
My only thought now was to get as far away as possible from
whatever lived unseen in the dark spaces of that farmhouse.
The storm returned in earnest, fierce gusts pelting the
defender with rain and salt spray from the nearby ocean.
For hours I sat huddled in the cold, periodically turning the
key, hoping the engine might finally sputter to life.
It never did. Darkness closed around me, the
oppressive blackness broken only by the feeble glow of my
flashlight. As temperatures dropped, reality
set in. I was trapped, exposed, and
rapidly losing options. Despite every fiber of my being
urging me not to, I knew the farmhouse was my best chance for
shelter. Gathering a few essentials,
flashlight, extra batteries, water, I forced myself out into
the wind, whipped night, and began the agonizing trek back to
the house. Each step felt heavier than the
last, an instinctive dread building relentlessly inside my
chest. When I arrived, the building
loomed larger in the darkness, silhouetted against a low, cloud
choked sky. Rain hammered against its wooden
walls, filling the air with a relentless roar.
Stealing my nerves, I pushed through the front door.
Inside, the cold was piercing, soaking into my clothes.
Shadows stretched in every direction as my flashlight cast
trembling beams across the room. I hesitated near the staircase,
remembering the muddy footprints in the attic above.
My heart pounded at the thought of climbing those stairs again,
but curiosity and fear had merged into a stubborn need for
answers. Slowly, step by step, I
ascended, senses straining for any hint of sound.
On the 2nd floor, I paused beneath the attic hatch, forcing
my breath into slow, steady rhythms.
Reaching upward, I gripped the wooden panel and tugged it open.
the Hatch swung downward, revealing a pitch black void
above. I shine my flashlight upward,
illuminating narrow wooden rafters and thick beams tangled
with cobwebs. Climbing carefully into the
attic crawl space, I inhaled sharply.
The beam of my flashlight landed on something disturbing tucked
away in the far corner, a small burned mattress blackened by
soot and time. Crouched down, I leaned forward
for a closer look. Resting atop it was a bundle
wrapped tightly in wool fabric and rusted barbed wire.
A sinking dread filled my gut. Gingerly pulling the cloth away,
I recoiled sharply. Inside lay a collection of
charred bones, small, brittle, and undoubtedly human.
My breath came in rapid, shallow gasps as I backed away,
accidentally kicking something solid.
A weathered leather notebook lay half hidden under the mattress.
Hands shaking, I open the pages, damp and mildewed.
The handwriting was difficult but not impossible to decipher.
I skimmed entries from someone named Thorwalder, dated decades
earlier. The earliest pages described
mundane farm life, but the tone soon darkened into despair and
paranoia. I cannot leave.
They refused to let me go. I hear them whispering from
above. I've burned them again and
again, but they always return. Feeding them has done nothing.
They demand more. The final page was a frantic
scribble, repeating a single desperate line.
They never leave. I shut the notebook sharply, a
cold sweat tracing my spine. Suddenly, I heard movement, a
distinct, unmistakable shifting from the darkest corner of the
attic, just beyond my flashlights beam.
Turning quickly. My heart surged into my throat
as the attic hatch slammed shut behind me with a violent crash.
I scrambled across the floorboards, pulse roaring in my
ears, hands desperately clawing at the Hatch it wouldn't, budget
locked inexplicably tight from beneath.
Then another sound reached me, a low, scraping movement, growing
louder, closer. Fueled by pure panic, I kicked
at the Hatch repeatedly, each impact reverberating through my
bones. Finally, the woods splintered,
cracking open enough for me to shove it aside.
Dropping through the gap, I crashed onto the hallway floor,
flashlights spinning away Into Darkness.
Stumbling to my feet, I sprinted through the farmhouse without
stopping, pushing blindly through the front door and into
the furious storm. Wind lashed at my face as I
sprinted toward the distant Rd. not daring a glance behind.
After two days of wandering, cold and nearly delirious, I was
finally rescued by a road crew surveying storm damage.
Weeks later, back in Reykjavik, I attempted to recover my
photographs. The files from inside the
farmhouse were corrupted blank. Nothing remained of my
nightmarish encounter. Obsessed with finding some
explanation, I posted on an Icelandic history forum.
Days later, a local historian replied with a chilling message.
That farmhouse burned down completely in the mid 1980s.
Only ruins remain. There's nothing left standing on
that bluff. Unable to believe it, I checked
satellite images again and again.
The maps confirmed his words. Nothing was left but a weathered
stone outline swallowed by grass and wind.
Yet in my dreams, I still see it clearly.
That farmhouse alone on the bluff and the dark attic window,
staring silently back. I've explored a lot of abandoned
buildings over the years. Warehouses, hospitals, old
factories. Each place has its own unique
story to tell. My friend Marcus and I love
photography, and these forgotten spaces often offer the perfect
backdrop. But when Marcus suggested we
check out the old Pecco Delaware station in Fishtown,
Philadelphia, I hesitated. I'd heard stories about that
place, how massive and deteriorating it was, with
floors partially submerged in murky water.
Still, curiosity one out. It always does.
The Delaware station loomed ahead of us as we approached
from the rear, its brick walls weathered and scarred, windows
shattered like the hollow eyes of a skull.
The only entry point we found was a heavy steel door.
A grave like slab rusted open just wide enough to squeeze
through sideways. Marcus went first, sliding his
backpack through before following, grunting from the
effort. I slipped in right after.
Inside, the air was stale and thick, tinged with rust and
decay. Our footsteps echoed loudly as
we moved cautiously into the cavernous space, the ground
littered with chunks of concrete and broken machinery.
Towering turbine housing stood rusting along one wall, giant
relics from another era. We took our time setting up
shots, capturing the peeling paint, twisted metal staircases,
and graffiti covered walls. After about two hours of
exploring and photographing, we decided it was time to go.
Dusk was approaching, and the fading light turned the
building's shadows into pools of ink black darkness.
We retraced our steps carefully, laughing quietly about how jumpy
we'd both gotten inside this eerie relic.
When we reached the heavy steel door, Marcus suddenly stopped in
his tracks. It's closed, He whispered
urgently, his voice tinged with anxiety.
I pushed past him, staring at the door in disbelief.
Sure enough, it was locked, sealed shut with a brand new
padlock that gleamed incongruously against the rust.
My heart rate picked up. This wasn't here when we came
in. Marcus nudged me nervously.
Look over there. I followed his gaze and saw a
white van parked quietly inside the building.
It definitely hadn't been there earlier.
The sight of the vehicle sent a chill straight through me.
Someone's here. Marcus muttered, almost as if in
response, a loud, metallic clang echoed through the cavernous
space. We both jumped, the sound sharp
and ringing. Then silence, heavy and
oppressive, descended again. Marcus flicked on his
flashlight, casting frantic beams into the shadows.
Who's there? He called hesitantly.
No answer. Just another sharp clang,
rhythmic and deliberate. We followed the unsettling noise
through a maze of corridors, moving cautiously around corners
and through archways. Finally, our beams caught sight
of a figure hunched near a broken control panel, repeatedly
striking a rusted pipe with a small ball peen hammer.
I froze. Marcus called out hesitantly.
Hey, excuse me, did you lock the door?
The man stopped mid swing. He turned slowly toward us,
revealing A gaunt face, pale and grimy, his eyes wide and
unsettling in the flashlight beam.
His mouth curled into an odd, humorless grin.
Yes. He said simply, his voice
scratchy, almost amused. I stepped forward slightly,
struggling to sound calm. Can you please unlock it?
It's the only way out. His smile faded abruptly.
No, He growled, low and threatening.
Marcus cleared his throat, his voice trembling slightly.
Look, if you don't unlock it, we'll call the police.
You can't just. The man abruptly raised the
hammer, his knuckles white from gripping it tightly.
You kids better leave this building quick.
He snarled. The menace in his voice was
undeniable. Fear exploded inside me.
Without another word, Marcus and I turned and ran blindly back
the way we'd come, the man's chilling laughter echoing behind
us. We sprinted deeper into the
building, pulse hammering in my ears, flashlight beams darting
frantically around as we descended toward the pitch
black, partially flooded lower floors, desperately hoping to
find another exit. The shadows seem to deepen with
every step, and the echoes of our footsteps sounded louder,
sharper behind every corner. I half expected to see him
standing there, waiting, with that hammer raised, ready to
strike. We stumbled down the stairs,
breath ragged, hearts thumping painfully in our chests.
Marcus's flashlight beam danced erratically over rusted metal
rails and stained concrete walls, leading us deeper into
the building's belly. Each turn took us further away
from the man with the hammer, but deeper Into Darkness and
uncertainty. My throat felt tight, my hands
clammy. Think he's following us?
Marcus whispered, his voice unsteady.
I listened intently, pausing for just a moment.
The silence felt absolute, broken only by the steady drip
of water somewhere ahead. I don't know, I finally said.
But we need to keep moving. We pressed on through corridors
that gradually sloped downward, the air growing colder and more
humid. The floors beneath us grew damp,
slick with condensation. Soon shallow pools of water
appeared, collecting in cracks and uneven dips in the concrete.
Marcus shone his flashlight down a long corridor and swallowed
hard. It's flooded.
Ahead lay a passage, partially submerged in stagnant water.
A faint acrid smell hung in the air, making my stomach churn.
We hesitated, glancing nervously behind us.
The way back was blocked. The only option was forward.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the water, cringing as it
filled my shoes and rose swiftly to my ankles.
Marcus followed reluctantly, murmuring curses under his
breath. Each step stirred the thick muck
beneath, releasing a musty, sulfurous odor.
My imagination ran wild. I tried not to think about what
might be lurking unseen beneath the murky surface.
Something brushed my leg. Marcus whispered suddenly, his
voice sharp with alarm. He froze, flashlight beam
wavering. It's probably nothing.
Just keep moving, I urged quietly, fighting the urge to
panic. Ahead, a doorway LED into a room
cluttered with ancient equipment, now rusting and
decayed. Marcus's flashlight swept across
the walls, revealing graffiti intermingled with strange
symbols I didn't recognize. Sharp lines, circles, and jagged
angles. I'd seen plenty of tags before,
but these marks felt intentional and unsettling.
Marcus stopped abruptly, his flashlight fixed on a cluster of
small objects arranged neatly atop an old metal table.
I joined him, staring down in confusion.
Spread across the surface were various items.
Wallets, cell phones, car keys, a wristwatch.
My stomach twisted uncomfortably.
Marcus picked up a cracked smartphone.
It's screen flickered weekly, showing a missed call
notification dated nearly two years ago.
These look like they belong to someone, he whispered hoarsely.
I reached out and picked up a mold covered backpack, unzipping
it carefully. Inside was a student ID.
I wiped the grime from the faded picture.
A smiling young woman's face stared back at me.
My breath caught in my throat as recognition hit me.
I saw her on the news. I said quietly.
She went missing a couple years ago.
They never found her. Marcus's eyes widened in horror.
We exchanged a silent, dreadful look, both of us realizing
simultaneously that these items hadn't simply been lost.
They had been taken. A sudden sound echoed through
the hallway behind us, sharp and metallic, the unmistakable clang
of metal striking concrete. Marcus jerked his flashlight
toward the door we'd entered through, his hand shaking.
The sound came again, closer this time.
Heavy footsteps splashed through the flooded corridor behind us,
deliberate and relentless. Panic surged through me like
electricity. Go now, I hissed urgently.
We bolted from the room, water splashing wildly around our legs
as we ran deeper into the building.
Marcus's flashlight beam bobbed chaotically, illuminating
shadowy corridors filled with debris and rusted machinery.
My lungs burned with exertion and fear, the taste of panic
bitter in my mouth. We rounded another corner, then
another, before reaching an old, rust stained maintenance door
set into the concrete wall. Marcus grabbed the handle and
pulled hard, but it didn't budget.
I pushed against the metal frame with him, muscles straining
desperately trying to force it open.
Behind us, the footsteps slowed, then stopped altogether.
A voice drifted from the darkness, low and almost
whispering. You shouldn't have come this far
down. I felt my body seize with terror
as Marcus and I pushed desperately against the rusted
door. It creaked agonizingly slow,
metal grinding against concrete. Finally, with one last desperate
shove, it groaned open into a pitch black tunnel beyond.
Without hesitation, we slipped inside, closing the heavy door
behind us, hoping, praying it would buy us enough time to find
another way out. The tunnel stretched into pitch
darkness, the air thick with mold and the lingering odor of
decay. My headlamp flickered weakly,
barely illuminating the narrow concrete corridor ahead.
Marcus followed closely, his breathing ragged, each footstep
echoing sharply off the walls behind us.
The heavy metal door remained shut, but I couldn't shake the
feeling that at any moment it might swing open, the old man
appearing with his hammer raised high.
We pressed forward, adrenaline driving us on through twists and
turns that felt like a maze beneath the power plant.
Every few steps, I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting a
silhouette emerging from the shadows.
Each time, there was nothing, just darkness swallowing the
beam of Marcus's flashlight. Ahead, the floor dipped
suddenly, descending into a stairwell littered with rusted
debris and chunks of concrete. Water drips steadily from the
ceiling, pooling at the bottom of the steps, forming A
stagnant, filthy puddle. Marcus's flashlight illuminated
a hatch set into the floor, crusted with Moss and corrosion.
It looked like it hadn't been opened in decades.
Help me, Marcus whispered urgently, his voice trembling.
He knelt beside the Hatch, gripping the rusted handle and
pulling with all his strength. I joined him, fingers slipping
against the cold metal, desperation fueling every
movement. Behind us came a sound that made
my blood freeze, the slow, wet slap of bare feet moving
steadily across the concrete. The footsteps sounded distorted,
uneven, nothing like the purposeful strides of the man
with the hammer. Marcus froze, staring wide eyed
into the darkness behind us, his flashlight wavering unsteadily.
What is that? He hissed, voice breaking.
I don't want to find out. I said through clenched teeth.
Pull together. We strained, muscles burning,
panic growing as the footsteps drew closer.
Finally, the Hatch gave way with a sudden grating screech,
revealing another dark passage below.
Marcus dropped through immediately, landing roughly on
damp ground below. I followed, pulling the Hatch
closed behind us as quickly as I could.
We found ourselves in a partially collapsed loading
area. Rusted machinery lay strewn
about, partially buried beneath piles of bricks and splintered
wood. The air here was fresher,
hinting at freedom nearby. Marcus pointed frantically
toward a sliver of fading daylight visible through a gap
in the collapsed wall. Over there.
We scrambled over rubble, scraping palms and shins on
jagged metal and broken concrete, desperate now to reach
the outside. The gap was narrow, barely large
enough for us to squeeze through, but we forced ourselves
through anyway, jackets snagging, skin tearing against
the sharp edges. Finally we emerged, gasping into
a dim, weed choked alley behind the power plant.
Cool air filled my lungs, painfully sharp but incredibly
welcome. Marcus bent over, hands on his
knees, coughing violently. I leaned against the building's
crumbling exterior, breathing hard, my entire body shaking
with exhaustion and fear. When I raised my eyes again, my
stomach sank. Across the alley, parked facing
toward us, sat the same white van from inside the power plant.
Standing beside it was the old man, hammer still in hand,
watching us silently. His expression revealed nothing,
no anger, no urgency, only a chilling stillness.
He didn't move forward, didn't call out.
He just watched us with those cold, unsettling eyes.
Marcus straightened slowly, noticing him too.
Without a word exchanged, we backed slowly away, eyes never
leaving the figure at the van. He made no attempt to follow,
nor did he shift his stance. He simply stood there, hammer
dangling loosely by his side, watching as we stumbled backward
into the fading twilight. We didn't stop moving until we
reached the Main St. illuminated by St. lights and passing cars.
Only then did I realize how badly I was trembling.
Marcus looked pale, shell shocked, his eyes wide and
haunted. Days later, another friend of
ours, Jules, insisted on exploring the plant himself
after hearing our account. He emerged safely but mentioned
he'd seen the same man. Jules said the old guy didn't
speak or chase him, only followed quietly, hammer
swinging loosely at his side. I reported everything to the
police, but they dismissed our account as just another
exaggerated Urban Explorer story.
They didn't care, didn't believe.
Not until a few weeks later, when another name appeared on
the missing persons list, a teenager last seen near the
power plant. Sometimes, late at night, I
think about what we saw down there.
The scattered belongings, the strange symbols on the walls,
the figure that moved quietly behind us in the flooded halls.
And I wonder how long that man has been inside that building,
and what else might still be lurking within its dark, hidden
depths.