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Yes, this is my own personal, self-hosted Substack, where you're all forced to play by my rules. Welcome to the worst night of your life.

Aren't you curious what the rest of this post has to say? It could be something that changes your life, just $2 (monthly) and one scroll away...

You're still here, aren't you? Let's try going somewhere together. Okay, how about this:

On a brisk fall night in 2015, under the cover of night, I crept noiselessly along the treeline at the top of a hill overlooking what appeared to be a run-of-the-mill industrial facility. The kind you see every day on your commute in a Rust Belt city like this; smokestacks, heavy machinery, whatever. They all blend together.

I had been getting into urban exploration and photography, as twenty-year-old artists are wont to do, and received a tip from a new friend about an abandoned factory that, for some reason, no one ever dared explore after it shut down in the mid-seventies due to a freak fire that blazed through nearly half of the property in the middle of a particularly sweltering summer night.

My friend figured that it must have scared off any would-be adventurers because the chemicals that burned up that night were no doubt extremely toxic, as the facilities belonged to a short-lived competitor to Kodak that, it was rumored, had used cheap materials in their film dyes that were highly volatile and had caused mysterious illnesses in their workers that baffled even the top doctors in the city.

And that's saying something, because at the time we still had some of the best researchers in the world at our state-of-the-art university hospital.

Anyway, this friend of mine, a chronically-unemployed savant of sorts, had been piecing together what he could from the local history sections of the city library branches and figured out what chemicals had been released into the environment that night of the fire.

He told me that, as of about 2010, the compounds had finally stabilized and it was safe to traverse the wreckage, but nobody else had bothered to look into it, and the ghost stories of the place, along with the bright red danger signs and barbed wire fencing, were enough to detract even the most curious (or stupid) explorers. Not to mention how heavily-policed the area was.

Every local city photographer had already shot every angle of our abandoned subway stations, decaying steel mills, and the old Kleen Brite labs, but nobody had even so much as stepped foot into this factory for nearly forty years; I certainly hadn't seen any photos of it before. It was an opportunity I couldn't pass up. I had to get in there.

So I made a plan. I charged up all three batteries I had for my old, dinged-up DSLR camera, put on the darkest clothes I could find in my closet, and loaded up my backpack with a pair of bolt-cutters, a flashlight, my Leatherman, a tripod, a blanket, some snacks and a couple water bottles.

I was going to break in, in the dead of night, through the west side of the fence surrounding the factory, as far from the road as possible so no police on the prowl would see me. A car would be easy to spot too, so I'd ride my bike the long way around through the surrounding forest.

I'd get some pictures at night, but I planned to find some shelter in the factory and sleep over to get some golden hour shots in the morning, then explore the entire facility by daylight. It was the kind of idea that terrified me but I knew would make for a great story later, and I'd have the pictures to prove it.

I couldn't have known just how scared I should have been.

And that brings us back to the beginning of my story: I found myself looking at the factory from above on a cold, dark night. I was having doubts, but I steeled my resolve and forced myself to descend the hill towards the fence.

The fence was tougher to get through than I expected. It must have taken me at least twenty minutes of clipping away at it with my bolt-cutters, despite how rusted and worn the chain links were. I had actually worked up a sweat.

Good, I thought. Maybe it'll be easier to sleep if I'm exhausted.

I crawled through the opening that I had cut and started towards the closest building I could find, scoping out a safe spot to hunker down for the night. It seemed that the outer buildings of the facility hadn't been touched by the fire, which meant they were probably the safest places to be.

I looked back at the hole I'd made in the fence and felt that powerful, shivering thrill of doing something illegal, and completely alone at that. Nobody knew I was here. I couldn't even hear the sounds of traffic anymore. I felt like the only person in the world.

Every step further towards the center of the factory elevated my anxiety. I was far enough from the road now that not even the ambient light from the streetlights reached me any longer, so I clicked my flashlight on.

Just a little further for the night, I reasoned. It'll be less scary in the morning. Then you can explore the rest. I made a mental plan: I'd make my way into the nearest building, thoroughly explore it to make sure I was completely alone and safe, then lock myself in and sleep until morning. That provided a little comfort.

Luckily, the door to the first building I came upon was unlocked. I pushed the door open just a few inches and pointed my camera lens through it, snapping a picture with the flash on. I quickly checked the LCD screen, half-expecting to see something horrifying, but only saw a table and some chairs. Papers and folders were scattered everywhere. It looked to me like an administrative building.

Perfect. Probably much easier to sleep in here than in the actual factory buildings.

Emboldened, I opened the door all the way and shined my flashlight in. It was nothing extraordinary; an unadorned office building with some desks, filing cabinets, and concrete floors, with rectangular fluorescent light fixtures lining the ceiling. I flicked a light switch, not expecting anything, and wasn't at all surprised when nothing happened. Looks like I'd only have my flashlight. Good thing I brought a pack of AAAs.

The place looked like it had been left in a hurry, but my theory that nobody had touched it since the fire seemed correct. There was no graffiti anywhere, no broken glass, nothing to indicate that this place wasn't just closed for the night except that so many things had been left out: coffee mugs, pens and pencils, paperwork, and other typical pieces of office equipment. It was almost as if the workers had been raptured in the middle of their workday.

I shut the door behind me and pushed a small stack of metal chairs under the handle as a makeshift barricade. Shining my flashlight into every nook and cranny, I methodically made my way through the small building and mentally mapped out the place.

It was a simple layout, only one floor and five or so rooms, including a bathroom that I figured I could use if I needed to. There was only one other exit, on the opposite side of the building, so I barricaded that up with chairs too.

I picked the safest-feeling corner of the first room I started in, and set up camp. I laid out my blanket and used my backpack as a pillow, and flicked the light off. It felt weirdly cozy.

You know that feeling you get when something in a new setting isn't quite right, and you realize it's because of something missing, and not something that's actually there? Well, maybe not, but that's what I was feeling. It was pitch-black, and I couldn't make out any sounds except for my own breathing, and the blood pumping in my ears. Surely there had to be some insects chirping outside? Some small creatures who had made nests on the roof or in the walls? Then why was it so quiet?

It was like being in a sensory deprivation tank, and I was starting to freak out a little, so I let out a goofy little yell to make sure I was still alive or something. I started to distract myself by talking.

"Hello?"

"See? There's nobody there."

"Nobody but you, coward."

"Go to sleep, nothing's out there to get you."

"Quit being a chickenshit and get some rest so you can get some cool pictures in the morning."

Eventually I tired myself out and shut up. After a little while I must have finally fallen asleep. Surprisingly, I had a dreamless night. I woke up every few hours, got confused for a second then remembered where I was, and fell back asleep.

Until I opened my eyes and realized it wasn't dark anymore. That didn't confuse me at first, but then I remembered there were no windows in the room I settled in. I sat up with a start, banging my head against a table leg.

The overhead lights were on. How the fuck did that happen? I got up as quickly as I could, but my head was throbbing and I felt a bit dizzy so I leaned against the wall for support. I scanned the room frantically, but didn't see anything else out of the ordinary.

My adrenaline was pumping hard, and I tried to calm myself by thinking through the situation; maybe the wiring was chewed through by animals, but still worked sometimes? That seemed unusual but not impossible. What if the power still worked, but the light switch I tried was faulty? Then that would mean someone, or something else, had turned the lights on from a different room...

My heart was in my throat and I slowed my breathing, straining to listen for anything that might give me a clue as to what was going on. I couldn't hear anything. I crept quietly along the walls of the room toward the opposite side of the building, holding my breath and clutching my Leatherman with the knife folded out in front of me.

I tiptoed my way through the hall and let out an involuntary gasp— the other exit door was open. My chair barricade was tipped upside down about five feet away from the door, and it was hanging halfway open. Through the doorway, I could see only the black of night; shit, it was still nighttime!

I tried not to tremble as I approached the door, one silent footstep at a time, careful to stay out of view of anything that might be out there. I kept darting my eyes around the room but there was no one else inside.

Was that... singing? A high-pitched voice outside in the distance? What the fuck?

No way, my mind must have been playing tricks on me. My thoughts were racing like crazy and I must have been imagining it, straining so hard to hear anything. I finally reached the door, and ever so slowly, pulled my camera out of my bag and poked my lens around to the outside.

I was half-pressing the shutter release to set the autofocus when the camera was yanked from my grip—