I’m an urban explorer. I’ve been exploring ruins around the west coast of the United States ever since I was 16, and at the time of writing this I’m 22. I haven’t gone near another abandoned area—even forests scare me now. I’ve grown paranoid, and I feel as though the only thing I can do at this point is publish this story and my findings. I fear I’m being tracked, and so after the truth gets out there, I will be discarding all of my devices. This is both a recollection of my own experience, alongside documents I found within my exploring.
When I was about 6, me and my parents moved from the humidity of Louisiana to Washington; back to my dad’s childhood town. It was a quaint place, though, it had a staggering number of disappearances. My dad told me that they had been happening even before he was born, but I had always assumed it was just hikers who got lost in the forests that marked our little town. It was another reason as to why I was an urban explorer, it was something to do. It erred on the side of danger, and I was overconfident. I told myself that I knew the forests, I knew the buildings. I couldn’t go missing, nor could any of my friends.
It started when I was 17. The air was crisp in a way only autumn could achieve, and I thought it to be the perfect day to go out and scout out new areas. I was going at it alone today, because of the fact that all of my friends were (apparently) busy. It wasn’t the norm, but I felt fairly confident that any if problems should arise, I could handle them. I usually went with a specific friend of mine, Aaron, but he had been gone for a good month. I was worried, but his parents reassured me that he was visiting some aunt due to his bad behavior; a long, hard, vacation away from everyone. I had tried to contact him, but he hadn’t responded.
Earlier in the day, I thought back to an area I noticed on my way home from visiting my grandparents. It was a bit of a swamp when I first went in, with odd huts and broken car parts scattered about. The homes went about to my chest, and didn’t have any doors. The farther I went, the more forested it became.
I didn’t really expect anything big when I first traversed the area. Just an interesting forest, with interesting huts. It was something to do; an expedition born from my increasing, adolescent boredom. I walked into that forest with nothing but a distant hope that I would find something exciting; at the very least it would end with me discovering a new place.
My wishes were granted. I stumbled upon what looked sort of like a sewer drain cover, but it seemed to have a five-spoke vault handle. It was obviously old; rusted, and somewhat covered by dirt. I was intrigued, I was curious—but most of all, I was excited. The excitement was nothing more than a simmering glow inside of me, but as I tried to pry open the cover, it grew.
The rust squeaked as I put pressure on it, turning the latch with as much strength as I could muster. It almost felt glued shut. After maybe two minutes of continual twisting and huffing from my end, the latch opened, revealing an equally rusty ladder that led into an almost never-ending darkness. My thrill reached its peak; cascading over from elation into trepidation. Upon revealing the secrets within the vault, my gut turned, and I shifted uneasily. The brightness of the day was swallowed by the darkness of the pit.
The eagerness still buzzed within me, and my curiosity was rising with each second I spent staring into the void beneath me. I had my doubts, and for a moment I considered going back into town to grab my friends, but I shooed it away. It would probably be dark by the time I had collected them, and I didn’t fancy the idea of trying to find this hidden little door in the night. I tried to think of other reasons to back away—I only had a flashlight and a small bag with a granola bar in it, my parents may get worried, etc.—but those thoughts faded as I stared into the hole. My curiosity won against all competing emotions.
Deep within me, I felt as though this hole is how people went missing. This deep, dark cove was daunting, and my conspiracies and paranoia only made it worse.
I readied myself for whatever was down there, and started to climb down the ladder. As I made my way down into the inky blackness, my mind began to race with all of the true crime stories I knew. Tales of all sorts of danger pervaded my head; filling me with an intense fear I hadn’t been familiar with before this moment. Alongside those real stories, the fairytale monsters and spectres of my childhood swam up from my subconscious, filling me with even more dread.
After a few seconds of this climbing and growing anxiety, I felt my foot touch solid ground. A pang of terror beat within my chest alongside the solace found within getting to the bottom of the hole, and I brought a trembling hand into my pocket, searching for my flashlight. I grabbed it out and clicked it on, staring at the crypt before me. An almost perfect cylinder made from smooth concrete stretched out and faded into darkness against the light of my torch.
I took a breath of the stale air around me, preparing myself to venture into the abyss that lied in wait. Throwing away my apprehension, I took a step forward and kept going, padding along the floor. I ran my hand along the wall as I walked; it was perfect, free of a single scratch or groove. I walked on until I couldn’t see the ladder behind me, and yet the surroundings didn’t change. It felt as though I was in a loop, or like this tunnel was endless.
Eventually, I was stopped in my tracks by a door. It was large, and made from metal. There were no windows, and it was surrounded by more concrete. I should’ve turned back; I should’ve discarded the idea of exploring this place further, but I couldn’t. My intrigue ran deep, and I reached for the doorknob. I twisted, and I pulled, and it opened.
Now, I believe that the door had been a caveat. The last effort made by the universe to avert the destruction hanging in the stars. However, fate was too potent, and it was ready to envelope me in its unforgiving, unwavering embrace. I yearn to go back, and to reverse my horrible and wretched discovery.
It revealed lights—white, almost blinding, lights. I was momentarily stunned by the sudden flash, and I quickly flinched away, covering and closing my eyes instinctively. I quickly recovered, nervously moving my hands away and opening my eyes. The light was still absurdly bright, and I had to squint a bit regardless of the recovery. Deep down, the question of why the lights were on fluttered to life, but I tamped that thought down in favor of exploration.
It took a moment to steel myself to enter, but I did so anyway, and the light became less harsh the farther I walked on. It was a long, wide hallway; sterile and full of doors. It was cold. There was no more concrete. Almost every door I attempted to open was locked, until I stumbled upon one that wasn’t. I wasn’t expecting it to open, but it did, and I stepped inside with little thought. My unease was mostly behind me now, replaced almost entirely with wonder and interest.
The room was cramped with file cabinets and held a single desk. A sudden twinge of anxiety settled inside of my stomach at the sight; the scene uncanny, and the entire situation confusing. Without much inner qualms, I rifled through the cabinets and desk, collecting documents and files with mischievous intent. I fancied myself a whistleblower, uncovering some government plot; perceived heroic pride shining in my heart as I stuffed the papers into my pockets and the small bag I brought. Soon, I had emptied the entire room, and I left to carry on down the hallway.
It wasn’t until another few minutes passed when I found an unlocked door. The last experience had calmed me, and I felt as though there could be no consequences. I reached out to the door, and opened it. What was inside would interrupt both my waking and sleeping peace forevermore. It was a figure, alone, in a room.
The smell of death and rot burned in my nostrils as I stared at the thing before me; it tingled in my brain, and before I even saw the creature, my mind knew that this wasn’t right. My instincts screamed at me to leave as soon as I got a taste of that horrible stench.
A harsh fear swelled in my stomach, terror overtaking my soul as I stared—horrified. The shape stood out against the shadows of the room, its face all too visible in the harsh, florescent light. It looked as though something too big tried to fit inside of a human, the skin unbelievably tight and stretched out. The features that sat upon its face contorted until almost unrecognizable, but there it was, a faint glimmer of familiarity stirred. What was once beautiful, deep, and expressive eyes were now pustulant and stretched out across his face; almost like they were two runny eggs.
Something rippled right beneath the skin, pulsating underneath the muscle. His mouth drooped, and the tongue hung limply like it couldn’t fit inside of the off-kilter maw. Whatever was underneath his skin shifted as the figure teetered, trying to face me. Bile rose to my throat, Aaron’s body blurring as tears welled up in my eyes. It felt like time had stopped completely around me. Everything was frozen.
Suddenly, he jerked out of stillness. His watery eyes rolled around in their elongated sockets, and he lurched forward like a ragdoll. I stood still, only a few feet away from him. I felt a scream build in my throat as I stared—it pounded against the corners of my lungs, readying itself to escape. All I let out was a sad little whimper as the skin-suit ambled towards me; the upper half of Aaron’s body sagging a bit.
I briefly believed I could outrun him, though the action failed me. Even when he came closer to me, I remained paralyzed. Finally, panic set into my limbs, and I turned around to escape. He was too close, and my heart dropped to my stomach as soon as I felt the firm grip on my shoulders. The yell I held back escaped me as I was pulled into Aaron’s cold, wet embrace. A film of viscous fluid was covering his skin, and as I felt his slimy fingers touch me, I felt a primal fear spur me into action.
I fought back the best I could, but Aaron continued to grip and push at me as we wrestled there, the bright lights making me temporarily blind. I ended up facing him, the contorted visage in front of me was nothing short of monstrous. His jaw still looked broken, and his eyes weren’t even looking at me. His nose was fractured, and whatever was underneath his skin quivered.
He pulled me to my knees, his hands strong yet gelatinous. They left a trail of sludge along my shoulders, and I sobbed and sniveled, incoherent begging leaving my mouth. He pushed me down to my knees, and then to my back. My shoulders were pinned to the ground by his hands. His torso was collapsing in on itself; and despite feeling the bones in his body, he was contorted in a way that made him seem boneless.
His hands lifted themselves from my shoulders, going up to my head in what seemed like a gentle, and loving hold. For a moment, I thought Aaron might still be in there, reaching out to his friend in agony. But the realization that my vertebrae was in perfect position to be snapped like a twig shook me from my reverie.
My hands darted out, and I felt my fingers enclose around my flashlight. All at once, I swung the heavy light upwards as hard as I could. I remember my scream sounding almost animalistic, the pronunciation strung together like a war car, “Aaron, Stop!”
Whether it was the flashlight, or his Earthly name, I’ll never know; but stop he did. I took that moment as my only opportunity to escape, and I sped out into the hallway. Aaron recovered quickly, and I heard his heavy footsteps chase after me. Despite my panicked flight, I couldn’t help but glance backwards. I saw most of Aaron’s torso flopping behind him, while his lower body propelled itself forward in pursuit.
As I ran through the corridor, the papers I had collected in my pockets flew out, trailing behind me. At that moment, I didn’t care for the documents I left behind. He was fast, but it didn’t matter. My head and body were screaming at me to run, and run I did. I made it to the door, my hands shaking as I threw it open. I stepped out and grabbed my flashlight out all at once, flicking it on and running through the concrete tunnel.
I reached the ladder in what felt like both too long and too quick, and I didn’t care to glance behind me as I began to climb. The milk-light of the moon shone through the opening, and I wondered how long I had been exploring in this land of horrors. When I reached the top, I closed the lid and sealed it shut. I felt my perspiration cool as I reached the night air, and the freshness of it soothed my lungs. Though, despite this, my brain still thought the stink the horror gave off.
That hallucinated smell wormed its way around me, following me despite how far I chose to get away from the site. It felt as though it was burying itself into every crevice of my body; twisting its way up around my ribcage, sinking infectious teeth into the back of my neck. It felt like the rot in the air around me was hugging my pores. It made me feel incredibly dirty.
I made it to my car and drove home, deciding that I would never return to that horrid place, and would look at the papers I still had in the morning. My parents weren’t awake, and so I made my way into the house and then my room, and I found that sleeping came quicker than expected. Any questions I had fell to the wayside of exhaustion. My body and mind had been thoroughly shaken, and it needed a rest. That was my last night of dreamless sleep. Ever since that day, nightmares follow me—clinging onto me like a disease I just can’t shake.
In that moment, I didn’t want to accept it. But I could tell it was him—that disfigured face sits behind my eyes, now. I’ve begun to wonder if the creature was somehow still Aaron, if he was reaching out for me. If he needed my help. I left him. If Aaron was still inside of that thing they turned him into, I left him down there to die. The guilt eats at me, remorse fraying the edges of my brain as I think of his face.
Now, when I open a door, I expect to see Aaron’s disformed body waiting behind it. I’ve grown a tendency to throw doors open—similar to how I did when I was child, expecting to see a ghost or monster waiting behind it.
I woke, and was immediately met with a drowsy sort of fear; scared to open my bag and check if it was real. I forced myself to get up, stumble over to my bag, and open it. The documents I had been so scared of met me, and somehow, I felt a sense of relief. It’s horrible to feel relief after what I saw, but I couldn’t help it. If I had documents—if I had proof—I could find out what was happening down there, and more importantly, I could stop it.
From that point on, I felt responsible for my friend—Aaron. I felt responsible for saving, or avenging him. And as I read the documents, I began to feel responsible for every name I recognized, and every name I didn’t. I don’t know if the subject names are their actual names, but regardless, I didn’t have any file that described Aaron (to my knowledge). I had kept a total of four documents, two of which I will disclose now.
_________________________________________________________
TO : Chief, Security Staff DATE : 29 October 1992
FROM : ███████
SUBJECT : Lockdown
Proper lockdown maintenance is critical to PROJECT RESURRECTION security. Please make sure every door within the site is locked before leaving.
_________________________________________________________
This was the earliest document I read, and at first, I was underwhelmed. Though, the project name, and the other documents sitting in my bag engaged me well enough. The next file I read was much more interesting, and displayed the tip of the iceberg for how sick project resurrection truly is.
_________________________________________________________
███████ ████████████ ████ PSYCHIATRIC SYSTEMS
PROJECT RESURRECTION
Case Number: 1150
Patient: A. 1150
Consultation Dated: 2017.10.22
Initial Date of Patient Consult: 2017.09.10
Patient Age: 18
Sex: Male
Observing Physician: Dr. Antonio Brandon
THERAPY STATUS:
Zero lucid state. Minimal activity associated with PROJECT RESURRECTION. Breathing seems to be steadier, and the pulse grows stronger with each day. Very good growth; the ████████ is transforming the body in ways unseen in most other patients. A. 1150 is predicted to gain some form of lucidity tomorrow.
DIAGNOSTICS:
A significant buildup of mucus in the lungs that is associated with past tobacco and marijuana consumption.
NOTES:
A. 1150 has experienced rapid growth and development in regards to PROJECT RESURRECTION. Full lucidity may be seen within a week or less. The ████████ may be dangerous, as it is spreading at accelerated speeds. Put in room 67 for further study, research, and surveillance.
███████ ████████████ ████ PSYCHIATRIC SYSTEMS PROJECT RESURRECTION
_________________________________________________________
I am unsure of why some things in this document are redacted, as I am under the impression that government files are not censored unless they are to be shared to the public, or someone who is not directly engaged in the project or documentation.
After reading these two documents, I felt all the emotions of last night hit me. I threw the files to the ground, and left the room. I suddenly felt a sharp pain in the pit of my stomach, the kind of dread that comes with loss of a loved one or the prospect of death. When I reached the hall, a sharp ache that felt like a white-hot flash of a migraine pierced my mind. My body and legs simply wouldn’t respond as I stumbled to the restroom; it was as though my head and body were underwater.
I staggered inside, falling against the doorframe as I tried to compose myself. All the feelings that I had neglected the night prior caught up to me, and as they reached a surmounting peak, both my body and mind felt the ramifications. The guilt, the trauma, and the fear swelled inside of me. It consumed me; a cancer that continually grew, stretching out the corners of my mind until it was nothing but horror and regret.
I collapsed onto the sink as my body throbbed with agony. My blood felt heavy, as though the guilt had materialized into my veins; as if the feelings were weighing me down. The pain had reached its pinnacle, and almost instantaneously, I was on the ground. I let it all out—all the screams that vibrated in my chest, waiting to be set free were out. I let out a primal shriek that encapsulated all the anguish. The screaming had hit a resonance where I could hear the roughness of the vocal cords, aching with stress. The strain caused sobs to break forth, wracking my entire body. I didn’t recognize his screams as my own—I thought they had to have belonged to an animal.
As I finally got the last of it out, I grew limp with fatigue. My body felt boneless as I melted onto the cold floor—heartbeat loud inside of my head. My pulse beat so quickly that I could feel it in every artery, pounding in my ears. It felt like every limb of mine was buzzing; trembling with the aftershocks. Tears welled up in my eyes, threatening to spill over my ruddy cheeks.
Lying there, I inhaled in quick succession, my toes curling as I panted against the floor. I was sprawled out on the tile, my chest rising and falling even as I lied still. My heart wound around my feelings tightly, rolling them around in my brain.
Waves of heat flooded my face as I felt the burn of tears rise in my eyelids. The rest of my body was cold, the frigid autumn temperatures enveloping me in a brutal embrace. Tired and heavy, I dragged myself up, the tears spilling down my rosy cheeks. Wetness tracked down my face, languid strokes of misery colored me deeper shades of red, soft sobs escaping me as I shuddered.
As I picked myself up, quiet, shuddering sighs escaped me. My adrenaline spiked, cooled, then spiked again. I ended up hunched over the sink, small sobs shaking my body in unequal trembles.
Tears dripped down my face, hot against my already flushed cheeks. The small droplets rolled off my chin and onto the bathroom counter; each moment I spent breathing felt like fire in my chest—like my lungs were tissue paper. At one moment it felt like I was taking too much air in, and the next I felt like I wasn’t getting enough. Fear clung to the strands of my brains, neurons firing and sparking with panic. Each inhale was fast, each exhale was shaky, and I felt myself dry heave as never-ending pain surged to life within my body.
I eventually calmed, and the night was a blur. That experience broke my mind; it shattered my reality. I don’t want to get into many details, as writing every experience that happened over a six-year period would be beyond my abilities. I’ll describe the gist of what was happening to my body; the nightmares, the sleep walking, etc., but I won’t go beyond that.
As the days passed, I began to lose sleep more often than I’d like to admit. It ended with me being unbelievably tired; the type of tired that seeps into bone and dries out the lips. The type of tired where I’d find it hard to string together sentences, and I couldn’t even think about trying to interact with anyone or go outside.
Nowhere felt safe. My house felt too lonely, my school was too large, the town was too loud. I developed a deep antipathy for the buildings and forests I had grown to love, and even thinking about them now leaves me feeling nervous.
Even when I had managed to find sleep without nightmares, I would never find peace. I would wake in odd places; on the bathroom floor, thighs soaked with my own cold piss. Once, I awoke and the first thing I felt were my numb fingers. I was barefoot in those blasted woods, and the tears on my face were frozen to ice.
The nightmares were more or less the same each time; sweet, beautiful Aaron being rotted away by fungi and decay. In the folds of his face, worms would twist and turn, and the hues of death would color him. In my dreams, I discovered my friends or parents dead; their jaws rotting, their skin flaking off in huge swaths, and the remains of their flesh pulsating grotesquely. A few times, I had visions of staring at myself, gnarled and twisted in all the ways Aaron was.
As the months went on, I began to grow paranoid. I didn’t touch the remaining four documents, instead deciding to keep them in a suitcase I packed in case I needed to flee. My parents became worried, and my friends had eventually stopped trying to text me, but I couldn’t care less. I was trapped in the horrors of my mind, and their continual bothering would only weigh me down.
Eventually, I was taken to see a therapist. Her name was Mrs. Julie, and she was alright. She was sweet, but she was a lazy therapist. She had soft, curly, raven-black hair. It would bob whenever she would move, and it was pretty fun to watch. Her office was clean but cozy; it lacked any flair, and the décor she had was uncomfortable to look at. Paintings that caused nervousness to gnaw at me, pictures of her family that looked fabricated or edited in some way.
Our conversations were never new. I would tell the same lie I always did, and she would never press it or say anything I didn’t already hear. My voice was slow, I had been told it sounded like I wanted to eat each syllable, like I was analyzing each vowel and testing it out as if I have never spoke before.
“And, when you came home that night. What happened?” She would question, after the formalities of asking how I am.
“Well,” I would say. “I got lost in the woods. I thought I was gonna die.”
She would hum, and nod, never taking her eyes off of the computer on her desk. Sometimes she would turn around in her swivel chair and look at her clown painting; but that was it.
When I was 19, I began to really think the government was following me. It was around the time I moved into my own apartment; a little one room. I got a job at some local corner shop. More people went missing, and I would occasionally spot something convulsing underneath someone’s skin. Mrs. Julie was getting nervous, too. She would fumble with her hands or words; anxious tics making themselves apparent to me. She would rock in place, avert her gaze, or talk in stuttered words.
On my 20th birthday, I met her outside of her office. “I feel like I died that day,” I muttered. She didn’t say anything.
After that day, we began to talk less and less about the experience. She would ramble about things like evolution, how diseases can change, etc.; now that I’m writing this, I wonder if she was a part of Project Resurrection. If she was…involved. She didn’t seem like she was; she was a very messy woman. She wore things like old flannels and stained denim jeans, spoke in a barely-concealed southern accent.
She was the daughter of the local priest, Reverend Woods. He’s a mean old man with a deep southern accent. He moved to our town in 1987, and my grandma claimed he was about thirty-five when he arrived. I hardly talked to him, but whenever that booming southern voice echoed throughout a store, or near the church, I would feel beats of fear echo within my stomach. It was the authority he held—both over me, and Mrs. Julie.
One day, Mrs. Julie was gone. I entered the office, and was greeted by a woman with silky blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. She stood in the door with a certain stiffness I couldn’t quite place—her muscles were tight, and her smile was too forced.
“Hello!” She said, with a too-sweet smile.
“Hi,” I replied.
“Mrs. Julie is on break; I’ll be your new therapist for a bit.” Her teeth were shiny, glimmering in the dim light. Pure, pristine white. “Are you okay with that?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “I don’t really mind.”
She looked at me like she could see right through me. I could almost smell government wafting off of her. She moved out of the doorway and invited me in with a swoop of her arm, and in I went. Mrs. Julie’s office stunk like cleaning supplies, and it was emptied out when I walked in.
“My name’s Jackie, but you can call me Dr. Carver.”
I tried the name out, seeing how it sounded coming out of my mouth. “Dr. Carver,” I tested. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like a single part of it. The day I met her was the day I made up my mind—I wanted to leave. I wanted to leave the town and never look back. I didn’t talk much to Dr. Carver; I gave the same short responses I gave Mrs. Julie. I left the office with an intense resolve, but somewhere in my mind I felt bad. If I left, and if I never went back to the tunnel I had discovered, would I be abandoning Aaron?
That’s why I’m writing this and sharing it to everyone here. I think I’m too weak to go back into those tunnels. I know, I’m a coward, but I just can’t. If anyone is able to find the place I’m talking about, and is brave enough to go in, then reveal it. I only have four documents and a single story about my friend, but if anyone can find more, then…God I don’t know.
Finding that tunnel was the worst mistake of my life. I feel like I’m just putting my responsibility into the hands of strangers, but…I don’t know. My mind feels so convoluted. Ignore my musings. If anything, this is advice for if you happen to stumble upon something like this. Spread the word.
Anyways, when I got home, I felt…almost an indescribable oppression present in the air. My neighbor, a woman named Sadie Lee, was outside with a cigarette in hand. Mosquitos bit at her firm, round arms as she watched my car drive up. She was an ominous presence, and having her watch me enter my home was unsettling.
The look she had in her eyes unnerved me. It made me stop in my tracks mentally. I felt swayed to stay—some longing to keep living my life was conjured inside of me. Then, I was suddenly overtaken by a need to look at myself. I walked to the bathroom, the steady drip, drip, drip from the sink tap all too loud as I entered. I looked at myself, bedraggled and sickly pale. Dark circles seemed to engulf my eyes, making them appear sunken. Gaunt. My entire face looked gaunt, now that I remember it. Pale, underweight, blushing with fever—although, I wasn’t actually sick. I just felt sick, and I consistently felt the physical repercussions of Project Resurrection dwell inside of me.
I took a second, looking for a moment longer; digging deep into my own eyes. I was asking myself a question that had no apparent answer; ‘why’. That, in and of itself could be the answer to my question. A good, solid ‘why’. A question within an answer, an answer within a question. How can an answer be wrong when ‘why’ leaves everything up to interpretation?
The question went unanswered, and has been unanswered. I then looked at my hair. Messy. Dirty—not greasy. Just dirty. I felt dirty. A grime I couldn’t wash away resting just underneath my fingernails—I’d bite at them to dig it out. A sickness burying deep underneath my skin, like worms crawling and nesting in my heartstrings.
I didn’t waste any more time to look at myself; to ask myself questions. I didn’t have any answers, and I still don’t. I grabbed my pre-packed bags and headed out to my car. I didn’t want to stay a minute longer, and while I should’ve told my landlord, I didn’t. I just left. I decided that I was going to a nearby town, which I’ll call Rooksville. All location names will be false for privacy reasons.
I still didn’t touch any of the other documents.
I stopped a grand total of three times on the way to Rooksville, and each time felt like a warning that I was getting closer and closer to something I should not go to. Each interaction I had felt like something out of an isolation horror movie; it felt like I was a lamb escorting myself to the slaughter. First, I stopped at a gas station in the middle of nowhere. Thick pine trees lined the edges of the roads, but off to the left side there was a small clearing and inside the small clearing there was a gas station and an old farm house. An awfully odd place for a gas station, but I was getting low on snacks and gas so I pulled in.