Kings Park Psychiatric Center: Patient Wards

The last building we explored at the abandoned Kings Park Psychiatric Center (after Building 93 and a doctor's cottage) was a large building that once housed patient wards. The door was wide open so we just walked right in—there wasn't much left inside but the peeling paint, humorous graffiti and eerie corridors made it a worthwhile place to creep for a bit.

There are so many buildings on KPPC's campus (more than 100 during its lifetime) that I can't be sure exactly which one this was—and we saw several others that had very similar layouts—but it had what appeared to be individual rooms as well as larger spaces and balconies on every floor. The peeling paint was particularly artful and I could do an entire post just waxing poetic about layer after layer of the curling, cracking, pastel flakes.

I generally think that most graffiti is terrible in abandoned places, and of course wish I could see these places in a more pristine condition, but occasionally I'll come across something that makes me laugh. "Call your mother, she worries" was one of my favorites, especially because my mother was actually with me exploring KPPC—after our New York City Farm Colony adventure she was hooked.

Although not nearly as full of stuff as Building 93, this building still had some of its bathroom fixtures, built-in cabinets, radiators, doors and shattered mirrors. I love the mystery that abandoned spaces have and I like to imagine how each room was used and who might have lived there—what was stored on those wooden shelves and most importantly, who last used that moldy toilet paper?

Kings Park Psychiatric Center: Doctor's Cottage

After we explored Building 93 at Kings Park Psychiatric Center—and after we defrosted ourselves in the car for a bit—we took a peek inside of two other abandoned buildings on the sprawling campus. There were several nearly-identical houses right across from Building 93 that were used as housing for doctors and the doors were wide open so we invited ourselves in.

This was my first time exploring an abandoned residence. It feels strangely intimate to be inside of what was once someone's home—there were hangers still in the closets, patterned wallpaper peeling off of the walls and even a toilet brush still in the toilet. While its human residents are long gone, these cottages must be very popular with animals—there was literally piles of poop everywhere.

The houses were built in the 1920s and although KPPC wasn't fully abandoned until 1996, judging by the decor the houses look as if they haven't been occupied since the 70s. I realized my tripod was broken when I tried to set it up in the cottage—it had fallen out of my bag in Building 93—so my photos are a little grainy, but seeing the inside of an abandoned home was a fascinating counterpoint to the enormity and impersonality of Building 93.

Kings Park Psychiatric Center

On Saturday we finally ventured out to Long Island in hopes that we'd be able to creep on a 57-room abandoned mansion that I learned about back in November. The mansion is literally surrounded by a golf course, and because our day was going to be spent doing things of questionable legality (aka trespassing), we thought a cold, windy day would keep prying eyes off of the golf course, and us. Well, unfortunately (for us) the mansion seems to be undergoing a renovation or is at least much more well-secured than we expected—video surveillance, a new fence, chains, locks and new plywood over broken windows—so we did a quick walk around and then moved onto Plan B.

I had very little current information about the mansion, so I had drafted a Plan B before making the trip—to explore Kings Park Psychiatric Center in Kings Park, Long Island. KPPC was in operation from 1885 until 1996 when it was closed by the State of New York. The hospital campus has contained more than 100 buildings during its 111-year run, although I had only heard about one—Building 93. A 13-story, neoclassical building built in 1939, #93 was used for patient housing. Floors began to close in the '70s, and less than a third of the building was in use when it closed for good in 1996.

I was surprised to find several other buildings sitting abandoned, but I had my heart set on getting inside of #93. It wasn't as easy of a creep as the New York City Farm Colony (or anywhere near as nice of a day), I'm not entirely thrilled with the photos I got, and my tripod fell out of my backpack and broke (ghosts, probably ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ )—but it was easily my favorite abandoned building experience to date. Our very first creep was an abandoned hospital on Staten Island, but a psychiatric hospital has always been top of my wishlist.

I'm not exaggerating when I say that I could have spent weeks exploring Building 93, but we only made it through two (of the 13) floors before deciding to leave because we were so cold. That cold and windy weather that I had sought for the mansion creep? Not so great for exploring a building whose windows had all long been broken out. We mistakenly assumed that being inside of a structure would at least shelter us somewhat from the gale-force winds, but it felt inexplicably windier and colder on the inside (ghosts, again ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ). I was bummed that conditions were so miserable, but I was beginning to lose feeling in my hands (and my patient, understanding dude had just about run out of both of those qualities).

After nearly 20 years of sitting abandoned, I expected the place to be empty but it was full of stuff—chairs, hospital beds, clothing, medicine cups—and I felt like we hit the abandoned hospital jackpot. Psychiatric hospitals are by design labrythine and difficult to get out of, or in our case, into. Even if we had wanted to take something, there was physically no way to get it out of the building (getting ourselves out was harrowing enough)—but that didn't stop me from falling in love with all of the Charles Eames / Herman Miller-esque fiberglass, pastel-colored chairs scattered about.

After extracting ourselves and warming in the car for a minute, we briefly explored two more buildings on the campus—a doctor's cottage and more patient housing (deserving of their own post)—but it's a return to Building 93 that I'm already dreaming about.

Old Sheldon Church Ruins

One of the main reasons I had for renting a car for a day on our recent trip to Charleston was to visit the Old Sheldon Church ruins in Beaufort County. After we visited Magnolia Plantation and the Angel Oak, we drove about an hour west to check out the ruins. I became aware of the ruins thanks to Kaylah of The Dainty Squid, who shares my love of all things creepy, and I couldn't pass up the chance to see Spanish moss-covered ruins surrounded by a graveyard.

Built in the 1750s and originally known as Prince William's Parish Church, the church was burned by the British during the Revolutionary War. It was rebuilt, only to be burned again (or more likely just torn apart) during the Civil War as General Sherman cut a path of destruction from Savannah to South Carolina. There's enough left to get a general feel for the layout and size of the church—I can see why this is such a popular spot for weddings that they had to erect a sign stating that unauthorized events were prohibited on the property.

The churchyard also contains a handful of graves and tombstones, including that of Colonel William Bull, a prominent figure in the development and design of Savannah—he also funded the construction of the church and it was called "Sheldon," after his plantation. The tombstones vary widely in design and age and they're scattered kind of haphazardly around the property. There were several groups of people that visited the ruins while we were there so it doesn't exactly feel abandoned—but I'm glad that despite the many attempts at destruction, the Old Sheldon Church is still accepting visitors.  

New York City Farm Colony

Sunday was unseasonably warm and sunny, and in the morning I met my mom for breakfast downtown at the Pearl Diner. She asked what I was up to, and I told her that I planned to go to Staten Island and creep on the ruins of the old farm colony. She asked if I'd like company, and I said "of course," which is how I found myself exploring creepy abandoned buildings with my mother on a 65-degree day in February. I already knew my mom was not like a regular mom—she's a cool mom!—but her willingness and enthusiasm for an urban exploration adventure of questionable legality just cemented that impression.

I had known about the New York City Farm Colony ever since I moved here, but for some reason it popped into my head recently that I had to go check it out immediately. I remembered reading about the city selling the property to a developer for $1, and I knew that I'd regret not seeing it while it existed as ruins.

It was actually sold over a year ago and according to a New York Times article from January, 2016: 

At a cost of about $91 million, Mr. Masucci would rehabilitate five remaining buildings on the site, tear down five others and preserve a 112-year-old men’s dormitory as a stabilized ruin. He would also construct three six-story apartment buildings and 14 multiple-unit townhouses, some with built-in garages, for a total of 344 condominiums. They would start opening next year. 

Obviously the timeline was a bit ambitious, because over a year later there is virtually no evidence of new development (or clean-up of any kind) on the property aside from a few new sections of fencing.

The Richmond County Poor Farm was established in 1829 and it was renamed the New York City Farm Colony when Staten Island officially became a borough in 1898. The (mostly elderly) residents were required to work, which included actual farming of fruits, vegetables, wheat and corn. Residency declined after the implementation of Social Security, and in 1975 the facility closed and has sat abandoned ever since.

There are multiple buildings on the overgrown property, each in varying stages of decay. Some have collapsed, either partially or almost entirely, and some are more structurally sound. We went in a few of them, but they're mostly empty and covered in graffiti. Although the colony is not exactly a public park, we saw several other people walking around while we were there—groups of fellow explorers, at least one fashion photography session, and what appeared to be a movie being filmed (which featured a woman in a wheelchair that my mom and I both looked at each other and asked "do you see her too?").

My mom lamented the barren nature of the buildings, and I agree—abandoned places feel much spookier (and make for better photo subjects) if they still have stuff in them. Objects like chairs, beds, desks, papers or other relics of human life make buildings feel abandoned as opposed to merely empty. We did see a few things—a bed frame, a few chairs, a rusted desk—but these buildings have obviously been frequented by people for decades. We still had an incredible time exploring and it couldn't have been a more perfect day—just a normal Sunday outing for a mother and daughter who share a love of all things creepy and a questionable regard for authority.

Bayside Cemetery: Fall

Ever since I went to Bayside Cemetery earlier this year, I've been thinking about going back. Bayside has fallen into disrepair throughout the years, and around Halloween someone actually broke into one of the mausoleums and stole remains—I promise it wasn't me. I first went in May of this year, and it was overgrown with grass and weeds. I remarked that I would love to see it in the fall, so I went on Sunday to fulfill that need.

I didn't realize just how different the cemetery looked in the fall vs. in the spring, until I looked back at my photos from my first visit. Everything is covered in piles of yellow, orange and brown leaves—sometimes I found myself hopping from one fallen tombstone to another like they were paving stones. Bayside isn't totally abandoned (we saw grounds workers in May) and new security measures seem to be in place since the Halloween incident (new barbed wire along the fence and "No Trespassing" signs) but it's the closest I've seen to an "abandoned" cemetery within city limits.

Most cemeteries I visit have noticeable decay and even the most well-kept places can't avoid crumbling stones or the effects of weather, time and vandals. The most interesting thing about the condition of Bayside is the amount of stones that have been knocked clear off their bases. Most of these stones are enormous—I can't imagine the noise they must make when they take their final fall.

I was surprised to see at least two fresh burials from September of this year, so maybe Bayside is finally getting the attention it hasn't had in the recent past. As thrilled as I was to be traipsing through rows of tightly packed tombstones and piles of leaves, I couldn't help but already start to look forward to revisiting Bayside in the snow.

Historic Jersey City & Harsimus Cemetery

After meeting my eighth Muffer Man, I headed back east toward downtown Jersey City and stopped at the Historic Jersey City & Harsimus Cemetery. The cemetery was incorporated in 1831, after a cholera epidemic forced the city to create a larger cemetery on the outskirts of town. The site of the cemetery had previously been host to several Revolutionary War skirmishes and to an active ammunition bunker during the War of 1812.

The cemetery was badly neglected and abandoned until a volunteer group took over in 2008 and began to clean up and restore the grounds. It was during these restoration efforts that a series of tunnels and chambers were discovered through an old door set into the hillside. The tunnels were filled with bones, unburied coffins and boxes of munitions leftover from the war. Unfortunately I didn't get inside of the tunnels, and in fact, I was lucky enough to get inside of the actual cemetery. 

When I finally found the entrance, I discovered that the gate was locked. As I started to walk away disappointed (George Michael-style—head down, Charlie Brown theme playing), I noticed a man approaching the gate from inside of the cemetery. I went back and asked if I could "just look around," and to my surprise he unlocked the gates and waved me in. He mumbled what sounded like "the ghost got out again" as he was re-locking the gate, and I laughed until he said it again and I realized he was actually saying "the goats got out again."

All summer long the cemetery is using goats to help clear the weeds, and they were apparently having a hard time keeping them inside of the cemetery. I'm very grateful to the man that let me in, and to the other man tending to the goats who allowed me to explore the grounds ("Get some shots of the goats," he said. "They won't bite!"). I'm assuming they were the two veterans who now live in the caretakers cottage in exchange for watching over the cemetery, which sounds a lot like my dream job that I never knew existed. 

Although I would have loved to explore the tunnels, the cemetery grounds are plenty fascinating on their own. If you just wandered into the Jersey City cemetery, you would have no idea that it was abandoned or was once in such bad condition. It's only when you take a closer look do you start to notice broken stones, sunken graves and areas still covered in weeds.

The Historic Jersey City & Harsimus Cemetery immediately reminded me of Eastern Cemetery in KY—both places were saved from years of neglect and abuse by a group of caring volunteers. Additionally, the cemetery regularly hosts fundraising events such as movies, plays and concerts, with all proceeds going toward their maintenance, upkeep and preservation efforts. 

Abandoned: Sandy Hook, NJ

Back in June, when I posted about my day spent exploring the abandoned parts of Fort Totten, Kate commented that I should check out Sandy Hook, NJ. She had lived near there and promised that the now-defunct US Army post at Fort Hancock was lousy with abandoned gems. We didn't wait too long before taking her advice—along with the ferry to Sandy Hook—a few Sundays ago.

Sandy Hook is technically a barrier split approximately 6 miles in length and is located at the north end of the Jersey Shore. Sandy Hook is owned by the government, mostly controlled by the National Parks Service and has three public beaches (including one of the largest "clothing optional" beaches on the East Coast). Fort Hancock is home to the Sandy Hook Light, the oldest working lighthouse in the country; Battery Potter, the first disappearing gun battery in the US; and Battery Peck, a 6-inch disappearing gun battery.

My dude and I took bikes and the area is filled with nice paths for both walking and biking. It still very much feels like a military base, with rows of identical buildings—distinguishable from one another only by their varying levels of decay. The Officers' Club, completed in 1879, is one of the best crumbling mansions I've ever had the pleasure of seeing in person. I was intent to find a way to get inside of it until I overheard someone describe it as a "raccoon hotel," and I decided it was better left unexplored (for now).

We took a free NPS tour of Battery Peck—private, technically since we were the only ones on it—ate our lunch with a view of the Manhattan skyline and strung a hammock up on the lawn of the Officers' Club. The Sandy Hook ferry is a bit pricey and infrequent, but the ride was nice and it was a perfect day trip away from the city.

The Ohio State Reformatory: Chairs

One thing that JMP and I kept noticing as we toured the Ohio State Reformatory was all of the chairs. In almost every room that we entered, there was a chair—almost always alone and almost always a different style. I seem to always notice chairs when I'm in abandoned spaces—like the Ellis Island Hospital complex or the creepy dentist chair in the Staten Island hospital—and they add so much character and feeling to otherwise lifeless spaces.

A lone chair sets such a lonely scene, suggesting that a space's inhabitants simply got up and left, but at the same time suggesting that they may one day return. They humanize empty spaces and provide much-needed scale. We wondered if they were placed deliberately, and if so, we commend the chair-placer on duty that day—every one we came across was better than the last.

The variety of different styles kept us searching for more, and every time we found a new one we were thrilled. I'm always on the verge of becoming overwhelmed by incredible places like the Reformatory, and searching for specific things helps me stay focused. I only regret that I didn't happen to catch a ghost relaxin' in one of the chairs—catching an elusive JMP, however, was equally satisfying.

Longaberger Basket

The last stop on our recent #ALLCAPSEPICROADTRIPOFDELIGHTS was the (now former) Longaberger Basket headquarters in Newark, Ohio. I have always appreciated novelty architecture, but I've become more and more obsessed with seeking out examples of it. The Longaberger Basket is just about perfect in the "buildlings shaped like what they contain" department, right up there with Twistee Treats, donut shops like Randy's Donuts and the Big Duck (the latter two are top of my wish list).

I've said it before, but the whimsy of novelty architecture is something that is sorely missing in most people's every day lives. Unless of course, you drive down Ohio's Route 16 frequently, which has a near-perfect view of the big basket. If you never find yourself in rural Ohio, know that you can creep on the basket from Google Earth, where—just like Willy the Whale—the basket and its adorable shadow can be viewed at any time.

The basket was completed in 1997 at the insistence of founder Dave Longaberger, and at what would turn out to be the peak of the company's success. Two years after the building's completion, Longaberger died. Due in part to changing decor tastes, sales of the expensive baskets began to decline, and the company stopped paying taxes on the basket in 2014. Longaberger currently owes $577,660 in property taxes, and in mid-July they relocated their remaining employees to a space at their nearby manufacturing plant. 

We arrived at the basket late in the day, and there were two cars in the parking lot but by all accounts the building already looked abandoned. The large side parking lots are overgrown, the flags out front are in shreds and from up close you can see that the exterior paint has begun to peel. Because the company is so behind on the taxes, the possibility exists that the basket will be seized and put up for auction, with the minimum bid set at around $570k. This might be a steal if the basket wasn't located in Newark, Ohio, or if it wasn't so costly to maintain—I read somewhere that the handles need to be heated in the winter to prevent ice from forming and crashing through the massive skylight. 

I knew the basket was big—seven stories with handles and brass tags 160 times the size of a standard Longaberger basket —but it's definitely something that needs to be seen and experienced in person. 

Although it was a bit out of our way, finally making it to the big basket was a total dream-come-true for me and the perfect way to end our already-perfect roadtrip. I'm interested to see how this next phase of the basket's life turns out, and I do hope that it lives on in some way. However, if it does happen to stay abandoned and fall further into disrepair, a return trip to Newark is a must—the only thing better than a seven-story, basket-shaped office building is an abandoned, seven-story, basket-shaped office building.

Bonus Basket! I couldn't resist making one last, last stop at the nearby Longaberger Homestead, home of the "World's Largest Apple Basket," which was hand-woven out of hardwood maple and stands more than 29 feet tall.

Abandoned: Warner and Swasey Observatory

After fueling up at the Diner on 55th, and before roasting in the sun at the Rubber Bowl, JMP and I explored the Warner and Swasey Observatory in East Cleveland. The observatory was built by the owners of the Warner and Swasey instrument and telescope company, and given to Case University in 1919. The observatory originally had a 9.5 inch refractor and grew over the years to include a 24-inch telescope, library and lecture hall.

Light pollution from downtown Cleveland began to make observations difficult beginning in the 1950s, and a new facility was built 30 miles to the east. The observatory was officially abandoned in the 1980s, and plans to turn it into a residence fell through in the mid-2000s. There are a few boarded up windows and locked doors, but we actually just walked in through the back door, which was wide open.

Since the observatory has sat abandoned for so long, it's covered from top to bottom in graffiti. Most of it is run-of-the-mill, unimaginative penis drawings and swear words, but there were a few phrases that made me laugh, like "Long Live Bob Ross + Happy Trees," and the people that amended "You Will Die" with "probably" and "might."

The main observatory, despite missing a few dome panels, was such a thrill to see. I'd seen photographs of this building many times, but nothing prepared me for how cool it was to actually stand inside of the large rotunda. It must have been really extraordinary to observe the heavens from here in the early 1900s, and even though thinking about space really freaks me out, I would love to have seen the observatory in its heyday.

One of the main thoughts I left with was how large the observatory seemed from the inside vs. my expectations. It seemed as if we kept going through hallway after hallway and finding room after room. The auditorium was a last minute, A+ find, although it was so dark that we had to use flashlights just to barely make out the lecture hall. We found a classroom with a chalkboard still hanging, and some rooms with somewhat new construction suggesting plans that never fully materialized.

We almost missed the smaller observatory, but I'm so glad we stumbled on it before we left. Of course I wish that we had been able to see the observatory as it was originally, or at least not covered in layers and layers of average graffiti, but it's kind of a miracle that it's still standing at all after so many years of neglect.

Eastern Cemetery: Abandoned

On our way to Cave Hill Cemetery in Louisville, KY to visit the final resting place of Colonel Sanders (naturally), we missed the entrance and had to turn around. JMP pulled into what looked like another entrance to the cemetery, but it turns out it was for a different cemetery, one adjacent to, and separate from Cave Hill.

Eastern Cemetery opened in the 1840s, making it one of Louisville's oldest cemeteries. While we were exploring, we were approached by a man that had been cutting the grass. We immediately thought that we were in trouble, but we couldn't have been more wrong. He had noticed our out-of-state license plate, and just wanted to share some information about the cemetery with us. His story was incredible, and made our visit so much better than it would have been otherwise.

The sordid story of Eastern Cemetery goes something like this: in 1989, a disgruntled employee came forward with information that the cemetery had been reselling old graves, perhaps starting as early as 1858. Cemetery officials would keep track of which graves were frequently visited by family and friends, and ones with no visitors would be marked "OG" in the records, for "old grave." OG's would subsequently be resold, and according to a New York Times article about the scandal, "the remains of up to 48,000 people were buried in graves that were already occupied."

Whoever owns the cemetery assumes liability and by law must make efforts to reinter all of the mistreated remains—an astronomically expensive and exhaustive task—so the cemetery has sat abandoned since the 80s. In 2013 a volunteer group was started to help clean up the cemetery, and their efforts are very obvious—in fact, most of the cemetery no longer looks abandoned. Our de facto tour guide said that when his group started, the grass was more than 7 feet tall around the headstones.

Speaking of the headstones, what did the cemetery do with the old stone when they resold the plot? Our guide said that was a mystery until recently, when a stone expert pointed to a particular grave with an unusually carved headstone. Not only was the cemetery reselling graves, but they were shaving names off of headstones and reselling them as well (!!). As if that wasn't crazy enough, Krug's stone was re-carved twice. After we saw once instance of this, I became obsessed with finding others. I think we found a few that were suspicious, including a lot of plain granite stones with plaques attached, which seems like a great way to easily change a stone.

The story of Eastern Cemetery is so crazy to me, but I can't help but wonder if its residents aren't the only ones to have suffered such indignities—the cemetery business model is not a very sustainable one, and who knows how long they would have gotten away with it if someone hadn't blown the whistle. If i lived nearby, I would love to volunteer to help maintain the grounds. I'm grateful, however, that the residents of Eastern Cemetery seem to be finally getting the care they deserve, and especially thankful for the volunteer who stopped to share his incredible story with us.

Funtown Mountain: Abandoned

On our way out of Cave City, Kentucky (after a blissful night spent sleeping in a Wigwam) we couldn't resist stopping to check out Funtown Mountain. Originally opened in 1969 as Guntown Mountain (you can see where the G was amended to an F recently), the attraction included a gift shop, haunted hotel and chair lift ride up the titular mountain.

It was reopened as Funtown Mountain in June of 2015, but closed in September of that year when the owner ran into financial trouble and missed some loan payments. Cave City officials declared the park a public safety hazard, and the property went up for auction in April of this year. It sold for $295,000 to a Cave City local who plans to turn it into a destination, a project estimated to cost anywhere from five to twenty million dollars.

We creeped around for a while before I thought I was actually going to die from the heat and insanely bright sun. We climbed up a flight of very rickety wooden steps and discovered an overgrown snack bar car, restrooms, a creepy white-washed bus and what looked like the remnants of some sort of bumper ride. We were sure there was more to the park, but we were running low on time (and cooling mechanisms) and didn't want to push our luck.

The Haunted Hotel and adjacent fortune-telling hut were definitely a highlight. Although we couldn't find a viable way into the "hotel," it was still such an A+ find. Parts of Funtown Mountain feel as if they've been abandoned for years—instead of months—but I can still see why someone with big dreams would be able to see its potential. I'd love to revisit Funtown if it ever reopens, but they might find it difficult to improve on the creepiness of a legitimately abandoned Haunted Hotel.

Rubber Bowl: Abandoned

When I knew I was going to have a few days in Ohio after our recent road trip, I started making a list of abandoned places that I wanted to try to creep on. Ohio has its fair share of abandoned places and I'm constantly mad at myself for not taking advantage of all the Midwest has to offer back when I lived there. I've been determined to make up for lost time, and top of my list was the Rubber Bowl. Built in 1940 as a football stadium for the University of Akron, the Rubber Bowl closed in 2008, and despite plans to renovate it, it currently sits vacant.

In addition to hosting football games, the Rubber Bowl was also a performance venue, hosting the Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey Circus as well as concerts by The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, The Grateful Dead, Simon & Garfunkel and Black Sabbath.

The stadium has a seating capacity of 35,202, and is right next to Derby Downs, home of the annual Soap Box Derby. In fact, the Soapbox Derby was happening at the exact same time we planned on creeping on the stadium, and we were almost deterred by the crowds. I'm so glad we had the courage to go ahead as planned anyway, because the stadium was an absolute post-apocalyptic dream.

We initially went into the interior of the stadium, which doesn't have much left in it except piles of bleachers and other debris. The stadium, striped of its bleachers down to the concrete feels more like the Roman Colosseum than a modern-day arena. It's crazy how big the stadium felt, probably even more so because we were the only ones there. The toilet rooms confused me (so close together!) until JMP pointed out that there were once stalls to separate them from one another (duh).

I'm definitely still a novice when it comes to exploring abandoned places, but I can't imagine finding a place much better than the Rubber Bowl. Abandoned spaces are fascinating to me because of contrasts—seeing a place that was once filled to the brim with people, now completely empty; man-made concrete and steel structures being reclaimed by nature, green crawling and sprouting from every crack. The Rubber Bowl is a perfect example of this, with its evergreen artificial turf looking game-day ready, while the rest of the stadium crumbles around it.

The Ohio State Reformatory

The second stop on our recent ALL CAPS EPIC ROAD TRIP OF DELIGHTS was the Ohio State Reformatory, in Mansfield, Ohio. The Reformatory opened in 1896 and housed more than 155,000 inmates until it closed in 1990. The building was designed by Cleveland architect Levi T. Scofield, combining three architectural styles; Victorian Gothic, Richardsonian Romanesque and Queen Anne. The hope was that the architecture of the complex would encourage inmates to turn away from their sinful lifestyle, embrace their spiritual lives and repent.

The Reformatory may be most famous as a filming location for the Shawshank Redemption, which has always been one of my favorite movies. Shots of the cell block were filmed at the Reformatory, and you can visit the warden's office, the space where Red has his parole reviews and the apartment where Brooks (SPOILER ALERT for a 22-year-old movie) meets his end. The movie also filmed scenes around Ohio in Ashland County, Upper Sandusky and at Malabar Farm.

The six-tiered, east cell block is the largest free-standing steel cell block in the world. The OSR reminds me a lot of Eastern State Penitentiary, although the overall layout and visitor experience is a bit different. It's mind-boggling to stand inside one of the teeny tiny cells, trying to imagine being locked inside of such a cramped space—not to mention also having to share it with another person.

In addition to two cell blocks, the Reformatory also has an entire administration wing with offices and residences. There's an old library, shower room, solitary confinement, a chapel, and a whole maze of different rooms and spooky corridors to explore. The Reformatory is often associated with paranormal activity (but what old place—especially old prison—isn't?), and they offer "Ghost Hunts," which include a tour and "independent investigating" from 8pm-5am.

This was my second visit to the Reformatory, and while I appreciate the info to be gained from a guided tour, being able to roam the place at our own pace was ideal. Mansfield is a little out of the way if you don't find yourself in Ohio often but if creeping around old abandoned places is your jam, the Reformatory is a great place to spend the afternoon —or night if you're really brave.

Willy the Whale

My friend Jean-Marie and I recently embarked upon a three-day road trip that we dubbed the ALL CAPS EPIC ROAD TRIP OF DELIGHTS (you can browse our silly hashtag on Instagram, if you'd like: #allcapsepicroadtripofdelights). The destination was Wigwam Village no. 2 in Cave City, Kentucky, but as with any proper road trip, it was mostly about the journey. Our first stop after picking up our rental car was the site of the former Mother Goose Land fairy tale park, in Canton, Ohio.

Mother Goose Land opened in Canton in 1954 and closed in the 1980s. It sat abandoned until fairly recently, when Willy and the park's entrance gates received some much-needed attention. The park originally had storybook and animal displays such as Humpty Dumpty and the Old Lady Who Lived in a Shoe, and sadly Willy is all that remains. You can actually see Willy from Google Earth which delighted me to no end when I first went looking for him and spotted his distinctive shape.

Across from Willy there is a mural which appears to fairly new, paying homage to fairytale characters such as Humpty Dumpty, the three little pigs, the three blind mice, the gingerbread man, Puss n' boot and even (a quite sinister-looking) Willy himself. There's not much else to the park and it was deserted when we were there on a Saturday morning. I wish I had been able to see the park in its heyday, but  I'm so grateful that Willy survived and that attention, however little, is once again being paid to Mother Goose Land.

Staten Island Hospital: Abandoned

As soon as I found out about an abandoned hospital on Staten Island, I knew that it was perfect for my first abandoned building adventure. I've creeped on plenty of abandoned things from afar, but I've never really had the courage to go inside of any—until recently. Luckily I had the very best creepin' companion to help me make the leap, and it ended up being one of my favorite adventures to date.

I definitely do not endorse breaking the law, and trespassing/breaking into anywhere is bad—let's just get that out of the way. I also try to live by the "take nothing but photographs" rule, which we strictly adhered to, although we did find some wonderful things. I don't know much about the history of this particular hospital, but it opened in 1837 and basically became abandoned from the top-down—lower floors were occupied by dental clinics and children's programs into the early 2000s (the last date we saw on anything was 2005).

The artifacts definitely got older and more plentiful the further we went upstairs. In one room we found a filing cabinet overflowing with records, most of which were from the 1960s. Various checks, doctor's slips, accounting records and patient index cards poured out onto a table. My favorite document from 1970 showed an expense of $46.05 paid to "Staten Island Pickle Works." One of the attic rooms contained what might actually be the world's creepiest dental chair and the most wonderful pink cabinets filled with medical tubing and other debris. We also found two separate rolling IV stands—one of which had a bag attached whose contents expired in 1984.

On one far end of the top floor, we came across a room piled high with boxes of patient records. We found admissions papers for people who struggled with addictions, a birth certificate from Puerto Rico and binders full of the personal information of people who were vulnerable and needed help. To see the most intimate details of so many people's lives reduced to a soggy, decaying pile was really sad.

The layers upon layers of peeling paint (so much institutional green and pink!) reminded me of Eastern State Penitentiary or the abandoned hospital complex on Ellis Island. It's fascinating to me how places become abandoned, and what gets left behind when they do. A lot of the windows were open or broken, and a few of the doors were left wide open, so I'm sure nature helps things along, but the decay process is so interesting to see. A lot of the building had been raided, presumably by scrappers, but it overall felt very structurally intact and in pretty good shape, considering the neglect.

We spent about 3.5 hours exploring every single room, and it ended up being the absolute perfect abandoned place for novices like us. We did briefly see a cat, which was slightly unnerving, but otherwise we had the place to ourselves. I love trying to figure out the history and imagining the different lives that the building has lived. We were very glad to find that most of the interior hadn't been ruined by graffiti, although we did see some on the first floor. I'm not sure what the future holds for this place, but I'll never forget how kind it was to us on our first abandoned adventure.

Fort Totten: Abandoned

Recently I had a personal day that I had to either use or lose, so I took a weekday off for a little solo adventure. I started my day at a great new (to me) diner in Queens—a spot wonderful enough for its own post—and then headed out to Fort Totten. Fort Totten was built by the US Army in 1862 to defend the East River approach to the New York Harbor. Most of the fort is now a public park, owned by the city of New York and other parts are used by the NYPD and FDNY for training purposes.

I had heard that Fort Totten was lousy with abandoned buildings so I was eager to go check it out, and it seemed perfect for a solo adventure since it's far enough away that I knew I'd have a hard time convincing anyone to come with me. It took about an hour to get to there on a bus from the end of the 7 train line in Flushing, Queens. I was immediately surprised by how busy and not abandoned everything seemed—I was disappointed only because I had been expecting the park to be much more desolate and overgrown. I think I actually made a mistake going on a weekday (when the park was teeming with NYPD, FDNY and Army reservists). I imagine it's much quieter on weekends, but with most places in the city, the opposite is true. 

Once I adjusted my expectations and began to explore, I did end up finding a bit of the abandoned element I had been seeking. A lot of the buildings are crumbling and barely visible through the ivy and other thick vegetation, but others are in various states of restoration. The Willet Farmhouse was built in 1829 and has a sign out front that proclaims "Please Pardon My Appearance, I am a Candidate for Historical Preservation,' but the entire house looks as if it's been swallowed by vines. 

The YMCA building was built in 1929, and now stands abandoned. It appears to be a dumping ground for filing cabinets, office supplies, industrial sewing machines, boxes of papers and boots. I didn't go further than the first room I came to, but I'm fascinated by abandoned spaces especially concerning what gets left behind. I would love to go back and explore the building further, and the more I think about it, the more I feel like Fort Totten is definitely worth a return trip.