Heart's Call

What I do is not, strictly speaking, urban exploration. At least, not in the most technical sense of the phrase. Yes, broadly, I do plumb the depths of old and moldering buildings and structures, but I like them quiet, isolated, distant. Far from the cities or even the suburbs. Out in the country or the woods, where everything is still half-wild, where decay is the natural state of the things we’ve built. Certain folks may quibble that what I’m describing is literally the essence of urban exploration, but there is no urban to speak of where I go. No suburban either. And besides, they’re not telling the story, so if I want to make broad, poetic statements about my hobbies, they can type up their furious complaints and counterarguments when I post this. Or they can shove them up their asses. I’m not picky.

I’m typing this up on my phone currently, which is wildly inefficient, but we work with what we’ve got. I’m in an old barn somewhere in rural Virginia. I’ve never been in this one before, but you can often find me moseying about in someplace fitting that general description. If you’ve ever driven through the country, you know the type of place I mean. Unpainted wood, a rusted, sun-stained roof—partially or entirely collapsed—trees and weeds springing out of the crevices like an old man’s ear hair, crumpled windows and doors like cracked, gaping sockets.

I remember a car ride when I was very young, maybe five or six. We were driving out to visit my grandparents, who lived near Roanoke, and I was staring out the window as the green sprinted past us. I locked eyes with an ancient cadaver of a building that skewed crazily. I tilted my head to match the angle. Its roof had fallen off, and it looked like it was leaning down to pick it back up. It arrested me. Then it was gone, quick as that. I asked my mother who lived there, and it didn’t make sense to me when she said no one did. Someone had to, the old boy had been practically teeming with life. I decided then and there that I would live somewhere like that one day. Somewhere full. Somewhere with a soul.

Kids aren’t known for their practicality. I’ll reassure anyone who isn’t a steady reader of the blog that, no, I do not actually live in a decrepit old barn. I live in a decrepit old apartment building which is, in my humble opinion, marginally less habitable. But you get fewer questions that way, so I oblige the god Modernity that demands we live unnatural lives. He just makes it so damn difficult to live any other way. My time, though, what time he doesn’t steal from me with the job he demands I hold to earn the rent he demands I pay, my real time, the time I actually do my living in, is spent right here among the old wood and old earth, the rusted nails and skittering insects.

These places have a certain spirit, a heart that is absent from so much of the modern world we live in. Most times you step into a building, it’s like walking into a cage, something that’s more unborn than dead. Something that never lived. But these old places are different. You can tell they lived because they are dying, and one requires the other. You can almost hear their heartbeat, if you listen.

Something about this one in particular drew me in. All of these corpses call to me, but this one feels special. I found it by accident, which is unusual in itself. Usually, I drive around back roads, most labeled with a number, many with nothing at all, and keep an eye out for likely places. When I spot a particularly promising one, I mark it on the map, then I head home and plot a course to get there that avoids as many potential prying eyes as possible. Such homework is necessary to avoid getting a ticket or getting shot (or both).

I made one such find—a lovely busted up old shed, maybe a hundred years old—about a week ago. Unfortunately, it was right up alongside the house which, while old, was clearly not abandoned. Fortunately, it was also a quick sprint from the woods. I was careful in picking my route, electing for a long walk through the woods, followed by a short dash to the shed, hopefully angled such that those in the house would be none the wiser. I began hiking around sunset; not something I would recommend for the inexperienced, but the nature of my hobby tends to require some degree of stealth. I brought my usual kit: a compass, a flashlight, some batteries, a bolt cutter, and some snacks for the inevitable munchies. It was supposed to be about a two hour round-trip; one hour there, one hour back.

I’m not quite sure how I got turned around—I have a compass, but it’s just spinning now—but after I’d been walking for about two hours in full dark, with nothing but a tiny flashlight for illumination, I had to acknowledge that, somewhere along the way, I’d gotten lost. I wasn’t too stressed, and I’m still not. I’ve got a map. The forest isn’t that big, my compass just has me all sorts of confused. When morning comes, which should be anytime now, I’ll be able to gauge direction a little better. If I even want to leave.

This place surprised me. I mean that literally. I was trudging through the brush, frowning down at my compass (no use looking up, it being the new moon and all), when I became suddenly aware of, well, a presence. A presence and an absence. It was quiet, altogether too quiet, like someone had thrown a blanket over all the bugs and moving creatures of the wood, and I was absolutely convinced that if I looked up at that moment, someone would be right in front of me, staring back.

Gentle reader, I’ll admit it, I froze up. Dread is not sufficient to describe the feeling. It was cold, numbing terror. My hand was shaking, and I was staring at the compass needle spinning round and round, and I could almost feel the breath of whoever stood in front of me. I felt that if I raised my head even a fraction, I would see feet perched just on the horizon of my peripheral vision. I squeezed my eyes closed, steadied my breathing, lifted my head, and, finally, sweat pouring down my face, opened my eyes.

There it was. It towered over me, vast and improbable in the wan glow of my flashlight. A barn, and not a small ramshackle one, but a massive towering construction, the multi-level type you only see on large, serious farms. And it was right here in the middle of the woods. I looked at it and it looked at me. Its paint was peeling, and the roof had partially caved in; it had doors, but they hung limp off their rusted-through hinges, leaving the building open, inviting. How could I refuse such an invitation?

I walked in and I have been here since. I don’t know how long I’ve explored. It’s been some time, but there’s still no sunlight. Most places I explore are simple: one large room, a hayloft, a few stalls, and not much more—if there’s even that much. But every time I think I’ve finished exploring this place, something catches at the corner of my eye, pulls my attention. A whisper of something more. Another few moldering stalls, a worn ladder leading to another level, a rotted pulley system on an upper floor. My phone’s battery is getting low, so I should probably head out soon, but I can’t quite remember where the entrance was. Besides, I don’t want to leave yet. I’ve just spotted something else

It’s a hatch in the ground, covered in dead leaves and gnarled roots. There’s a lock on it, heavy and incongruously shining, like it’s fresh out of the box. There’s got to be a basement beyond that door, and I want to see it. I need to see it. The soul of the barn is down there, and I can feel it calling for me. This place was made for me. It has waited for so long. It wants to get out. I can feel it breathing, sobbing. I can hear the heartbeat, deep and strong, coming from below. There’s a light there, shining dim through the boards. The lock is thick and strong, but that’s why I brought the bolt cutters.

Will post a follow-up when I’ve opened the way Below. Pics to come.