"The Pipe Man":
I decided to check out the old textile mill on the outskirts of Detroit one Friday after work. My usual buddies had plans, and I’d done plenty of short solo explores before, so I figured going alone wouldn’t be a big deal. The place had been abandoned since the late 80s—four stories of rusted machinery, collapsed rafters, and forgotten looms. Perfect for photos, perfect for a little adrenaline. I parked a block away around 10 p.m., grabbed my flashlight and backpack, and slipped through a gap in the sagging chain-link fence.
The main entrance had long been boarded shut, but a side door hung crookedly from its hinges. I eased it open, and the smell hit me first—dust, mildew, old oil soaked so deep into the concrete it felt alive. Every step forward made my shoes crunch on broken glass and scraps of metal. My flashlight cut through the dark, catching on piles of shredded cloth and scraps of thread curled like dried vines. The quiet felt thick, heavy, like the whole building was holding its breath.
I moved deeper into the mill, down a narrow hallway lined with crumbling offices. Paper littered the floor—yellowed invoices, timecards, hand-scribbled notes from people who had probably retired or died decades ago. A wall calendar still clung to a tack in one room, frozen at June 1987. On the dusty desk below it sat a rusted stapler, some pens fused together by grime, a cracked mug that still had a faint coffee ring inside it. None of it mattered, but all of it made that familiar thrill rise in my chest—the feeling that I was walking through a preserved moment in time.
Then something dropped. A soft thump further down the hall.
I froze, listening. Probably a rat. Or part of the ceiling giving up. Still, the sound nudged me back into alertness. I adjusted my grip on the flashlight and kept moving.
The factory floor opened up like an aircraft hangar—massive, silent machines sprawled across the concrete, looms hunched like metal skeletons waiting to be woken up again. Chains dangled from overhead beams, swaying slightly in the draft. Conveyor belts sagged under decades of dust. I climbed a narrow metal staircase to the upper level, wincing as each step groaned under my weight. Up on the catwalks, the whole place felt even more cavernous, my footsteps echoing above the lifeless rows of machines.
I leaned against the railing to take a couple photos, and that’s when I heard it again—this time a scrape, metal on concrete. Closer. Too close to be my imagination.
I called out, “Hello? Anyone here?”
My voice echoed back at me, swallowed by the dark. No answer.
I told myself it was just the building settling, but the hairs on my arms stood up. My pace slowed. My light swept the shadows like I expected something to leap out of them.
At the far end of the catwalk, I found a door leading into a cluster of storage rooms. I stepped inside and found crates stacked to the ceiling, some pried open with bolts of fabric spilling out like guts. In the corner was something that didn’t belong to the 1980s—something recent.
A filthy sleeping bag. Crushed food cans. A half-empty water bottle. My heartbeat crawled higher in my chest.
Someone was living here.
I took a step back, ready to turn around and leave quietly, when I noticed a notebook lying open beside the sleeping bag. Pages filled with tight, frantic scribbles. I raised my flashlight to read it—
A low mutter floated from behind a stack of crates.
Words. Muddled, sticky with anger.
“…get out… mine…”
I froze. My flashlight swept toward the voice.
A tall man stepped into the open, emerging from the shadows like he’d been part of them. His coat hung in tatters, grime smeared across his face, beard twisted and matted. His eyes were wild—too wide, too bright. In his hand, he held a length of rusted pipe like it belonged there.
My throat tightened. “What are you doing here?” I managed, trying to sound calm.
He tilted his head, lips peeling back in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “This is my place,” he rasped. “You… shouldn’t be here.”
“I didn’t know. I’m just exploring. I’ll leave right now.”
He stepped closer. The pipe dragged slightly across the floor. “Exploring… stealing… same thing. People come and take my things.” His gaze snapped to the notebook, then back to me. “You saw it. Can’t let you go now.”
My body reacted before my brain did—I turned and ran.
His footsteps pounded behind me, uneven but fast. “Come back!” he shouted, voice cracking. “We need to talk!”
The catwalk vibrated under my sprinting feet. My flashlight beam jerked wildly across rust and shadow. I hit the stairs too hard and my foot landed on something slick—oil, maybe. The world tilted. I tumbled down half the flight, smashing my knee against a step. Pain flared hot and sharp, but I scrambled upright and kept moving, limping, gasping.
From above, he shouted, “Where are you? I see your light!”
I ducked into a side room, full of old sewing machines, and snapped my flashlight off. The darkness swallowed me whole. I crouched behind a machine, forcing my breath shallow, quiet.
His footsteps clanged onto the lower floor. Slower now. Searching.
“I know you’re down there,” he crooned, voice sliding between sweet and furious. “We can share. You don’t have to hide… unless you’re trying to take something.”
Silence stretched, broken only by my heartbeat hammering in my ears. My knee throbbed, and warmth trickled down my leg—blood. Sweat dripped down my back in cold lines.
A door creaked.
He stepped into the room.
The scrape of the pipe against metal machines was louder this time. “Here…?” he said, tapping one machine. CLANG. “…or here?” Another clanging thud.
I tried to edge away in the dark. My hand brushed something sharp—broken metal or a snapped needle. It sliced straight into my palm. Pain flared white. I sucked in a breath, too loud.
He froze. “That you?”
The pipe slammed into a machine right beside me.
I bolted.
Flashlight back on, beam swinging just enough to guide me. He lunged behind me, pipe slicing the air so close I felt the wind of it.
“STOP!” he roared.
I ran blindly through the hallways, bouncing off walls, searching for the right exit. Panic made everything blur together. Then—finally—the side entrance door appeared through the dark. I slammed into it, burst out into the night air.
His hand closed around my backpack strap. “Got you!”
I twisted, yanking myself free as the strap tore. I sprinted across the lot, dove for the fence, scraped my arms climbing over, hit the ground running. I didn’t look back until I was in my car with the doors locked.
In the rearview mirror, he stood at the fence line, pipe dangling at his side, staring at me like he was memorizing my face.
I drove straight to the hospital. Told them I’d fallen while hiking. They stitched my hand, wrapped my knee, asked no further questions.
I never went back to that mill. And I don’t explore alone anymore.
Whatever that man was guarding in there, it belongs to him now. Forever.
"One Occupant":
I’d always had this habit—slipping into forgotten places after the sun went down, just me, my flashlight, and whatever silence the city hadn’t already chewed up. Detroit was full of ghosts if you knew where to look, but that old textile mill on the outskirts… that one had been calling to me for weeks. Photos online showed rusted looms, collapsing rafters, walls peeling like old scabs. Perfect for exploring. Perfect for a little trouble.
I parked a block away behind a curtain of overgrown bushes, killed the engine, and let the night settle around me. The place loomed in the distance, wide and dark, like a sleeping animal. I walked the rest of the way in, boots crunching through gravel and dead leaves, until I reached the broken chain-link fence. A gap gaped wide enough to slip through.
Inside, the air changed immediately—thick with damp metal, mildew, the faint chemical sourness of fabric long rotted. My shoes crackled over scattered glass. Rows of huge, silent looms stood like rusted skeletons, draped in webs so thick they looked like abandoned shrouds. My flashlight beam skimmed old safety posters still clinging to the walls, their warnings faded into ghost-pale letters. Protect Your Hands, Protect Your Future.
The excitement hit first—the rush of stepping out of time, into somewhere the world had forgotten. I snapped a few photos, careful not to let my footsteps echo too loudly. But the deeper I pushed into the mill, the more things started feeling… wrong.
It was subtle at first. A crumpled blanket shoved into a corner. Empty food cans. A plastic bottle half-filled with murky water. Someone had been living here recently—or was still living here. I told myself it was just squatters, nothing new in a place like this, but my pulse ticked up a little. My flashlight felt suddenly too bright, so I kept it pointed low and moved quieter.
In the storage wing, that’s when I heard it.
A voice.
Low. Fractured. Like someone arguing with himself.
I froze, tilting my head. The words were blurred by distance and cracked by emotion, but the tone was sharp—angry, slipping into despair, then rising again. Something like: “Not again… you can’t… leave me…” The sound bled through the wall ahead. My muscles tensed. I knew I should turn back.
Instead, I inched forward, curiosity pulling me by the collar.
I reached the next doorway and killed my light. The room beyond was lit only by the faint flicker of a fire burning in a metal bucket. Crates and barrels crowded the edges. And in the middle of it all, a man sat hunched on the cold floor, thin and jittery, rocking back and forth. His clothes were filthy. His hands shook. Around him lay a rusty pipe, a broken bottle, a few other things that looked too much like weapons.
He muttered to himself in frantic loops. “They took it… took it all… but I’ll get it back, I will…”
A shiver crawled up my back. I stepped away, slow and careful—
—and my foot hit a loose board.
The crack echoed like a gunshot.
The man went rigid. His head snapped around, eyes wide and hollow, staring straight into the dark where I stood.
“Who’s there?” His voice was a jagged snarl. “I know you’re watching. Come out.”
I didn’t breathe. Didn’t shift. Just prayed he’d convince himself it was nothing.
Instead, he stood. Grabbed the pipe.
“You think you can sneak in here?” he barked, stepping toward the doorway. “This is my place!”
That broke the freeze. I backed away fast, pulse hammering, trying to remember the way out in the maze of rooms. Behind me, his footsteps hit the concrete—fast, angry.
“Hey! Get back here! You stole from me, didn’t you?”
I sprinted down a side corridor, my flashlight bouncing wildly. Papers scattered under my feet. Shadows sliced by moonlight from broken windows. I ducked into a room full of overturned desks and file cabinets, heart racing, and killed the light again. I crouched behind a stack of boxes, forcing my breaths to stay quiet.
His footsteps approached. Slower now. More deliberate.
“I see you…” he whispered into the darkness, almost coaxing. “Hiding like a rat. Come on out. We can talk.”
A metal scrape sliced the silence—the pipe dragging across the floor.
“You won’t leave like the others. You’ll stay. You’ll stay with me.”
He kicked aside debris, searching. Getting closer.
I shifted the smallest inch—and a loose sheet of paper crackled under my shoe.
He froze.
Then: “There you are.”
He lunged.
Instinct took over. I burst upward, knocking the boxes aside in a crashing avalanche. His swing missed my shoulder by inches, smashing into the wall with a vicious clang. I tore through the doorway and down a moonlit hall, lungs burning, his footsteps slamming behind me.
“You can’t run forever!” he shouted. “This mill is mine!”
A stairwell flashed into sight—leading down. Bad idea. No choice. I flew down the steps, wood splintering beneath me. The basement air hit like a wet slap—cold, thick, metallic. Pipes rattled overhead, dripping slow, rhythmic drops. My breathing echoed too loudly in the confined space.
He reached the top of the stairs.
“Down there?” he called. “You’re trapped now.”
I pushed deeper, weaving through boiler rooms, shadowy maintenance corridors, hulking shapes of machinery that looked alive in the dark. Finally, I spotted a narrow metal door. When I pulled it open, stale air puffed out of a small utility tunnel. I crawled inside, shoulder and knees scraping concrete.
Behind me, his voice drifted through the basement. “I can wait… you’ll come out eventually…”
I kept crawling, the tunnel tight and filthy, until it opened into another forgotten chamber. No footsteps. No voice. Just the rhythmic drip of water and the distant hum of the outside world.
Then, somewhere above—CLANG. Pipe hitting metal.
He was still searching.
I found an exit door half-buried behind debris. Rusted, but unlocked. I shoved through it and stumbled into the night air behind the mill. The overgrown lot swallowed me as I ran, heart in my throat, toward the fence. I squeezed through the gap and didn’t look back until I reached my car.
When I finally did—
A thin figure stood at the fence, a dark silhouette in the moonlight, watching me drive away.
He didn’t chase. He didn’t shout.
He just watched.
And something about that stare followed me long after the mill disappeared in my rearview.
I never explored alone again after that. The thrill had always felt worth the risk—until the night it wasn’t.
"The Voices":
I decided to check out the old textile mill on the outskirts of Detroit one Friday evening after work, the kind of half-formed plan that sounded harmless when the sun was still out. The place had been abandoned since the late ’80s, long enough for it to fade into rumor—haunted by machines that still hummed at night, people said, or used as a hideaway for squatters and drifters. I’d seen photos online of rusted looms and collapsing walkways, and something about it pulled at me. My buddies were busy, but I’d done a handful of urbex spots alone before. I told myself it would be quick—get a few shots, walk the main floor, be back in my car before midnight.
I parked a block away, tucking my car behind some bushes where the streetlights didn’t quite reach. The cold air carried that late-autumn industrial smell—old brick, burned rubber, and something faintly metallic. I hopped the sagging chain-link barrier, the metal groaning under my weight, and slipped through a side door hanging crooked on rust-eaten hinges.
Inside, the darkness seemed to swallow sound. My flashlight cut a narrow path through dust that drifted like ash. The main floor stretched out into a cavern of forgotten machinery—loom frames, conveyor systems, carts loaded with fabric scraps that had long since lost their color. The faded safety posters on the walls peeled like dead skin, warning workers about hazards that no longer mattered. My footsteps echoed softly, each crunch of debris a reminder that no one had been here to clean this place in decades.
I wandered deeper, climbing a metal staircase that flexed just enough to make the hair on my arms stand up. The second floor looked like someone had flicked a switch and frozen time: desks overturned, chairs on their sides, papers strewn across the floor in brittle drifts. A calendar from 1987 curled on the wall. I took a few pictures, drawn by the eerie stillness that places like this always held—a kind of suspended breath.
A narrow hallway lined with dented lockers stretched ahead. As I walked toward it, a faint scrape echoed from the far end—metal dragging across concrete. I stopped, angled my light, and saw nothing but collapsed crates and shadow pools thick enough to hide a dozen things. Probably rats, I told myself. Or the building settling.
I kept exploring, checking rooms one by one. I ducked into what had once been a break area: vending machines with their glass fronts smashed, chairs rusted into place, graffiti sprayed across the walls in colors gone dull with time.
That’s when I heard it again—the scrape, closer now, followed by a low murmur. Not the wind. Not rodents. Voices. Two of them, too muffled to make out.
A little jolt ran through me. I pulled out my phone and texted my friend Alex quickly: “Inside the mill now. Weird noises. Probably just squatters.” His reply came back in seconds: “Seriously, be careful. If it feels sketchy, get out.”
The voices drifted again—soft, rough, indistinct. I stepped lighter, moving toward a wide storage area stacked with wooden pallets and old shipping crates. As I got closer, the murmur sharpened into words.
“No, that’s mine,” a man muttered, his voice slurred.
“You took the last one.” Another voice, lower, irritated.
I froze. I eased behind a pallet, heartbeat hammering, and turned off my flashlight. The dark pressed in, but I didn’t dare risk being seen.
Footsteps shuffled. A sour smell crept through the room—cigarettes, sweat, clothes worn too long without washing. In the faint bluish glow from a broken window, I could make out two figures: one tall and gaunt, the other shorter with a thick, hunched frame. They were rummaging through a battered backpack, pulling out cans and bottles, arguing under their breath.
I shifted my weight, and my foot nudged a loose bolt. The tiny metallic clink felt impossibly loud.
The tall man’s head snapped up. “What was that?”
The shorter one grabbed something from the bag—something long, solid. A bat. “Someone’s in here,” he growled. “Hey! Come out. This is our spot.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
The tall one fished out a penlight and swept it lazily over the stacks of pallets. “I heard you. Don’t play games.”
The beam slid dangerously close to my hiding spot. I could feel the heat of adrenaline flushing through my body, muscles tensing for whatever was about to happen.
He took a step toward me. “I see you moving back there. Don’t make me drag you out.”
I knew staying silent would only make things worse. I forced my voice to stay even. “Hey. I’m just exploring. Didn’t know anybody was here. I’ll leave.”
The shorter man laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “Exploring,” he repeated. “This ain’t a playground, kid. What you got on you? Wallet? Phone?”
The tall one flicked open a pocketknife, the blade catching a slice of reflected moonlight. “Hand it over,” he said, “and maybe we let you walk out.”
Panic flared hot and sharp. I didn’t think—I just ran.
I bolted out from behind the pallet, my shoes skidding on dust-coated concrete. “Hey!” the tall one yelled, lunging. The shorter one swung the bat, hitting a crate with a splintering crack.
I sprinted down the hallway, my breath burning in my chest. Their footsteps pounded after me. A bottle flew past my ear and exploded against the wall, spraying shards—one slicing a thin line across my forearm. I barely felt it.
Down the stairwell. Two steps at a time. Nearly tripped. Caught myself on the railing. Footsteps still behind me, closer.
I hit the ground floor and veered hard left toward the side exit. I could hear them shouting—threats, curses—but the words blurred into pure fear-fuel.
I slammed through the side door and burst into the cold night air. I didn’t look back. I sprinted toward the fence, muscles screaming, lungs burning. I scrambled up the chain-link, fingers slipping, then threw myself over the top and hit the ground hard on the other side.
Their voices echoed faintly behind me: “You’re lucky this time!”
I didn’t stop running until I reached my car. My hands were shaking so badly I fumbled the keys twice before I got the door open. I peeled out, heart thudding like it wanted to escape my chest.
Later that night, I made an anonymous report to the police. They said the mill was known for transients and was nearly impossible to keep secure.
I never went exploring alone again. Not after hearing how close danger can breathe down your neck in a place the rest of the city has already forgotten.
"No Witnesses":
I had this habit—some people would call it reckless, others would call it stupid—of wandering into forgotten places after the city went quiet. Midnight always made the empty spaces feel different, like they exhaled once everyone else was asleep. Old factories, crumbling warehouses, locked-up office buildings with shattered windows and peeling paint. Places that were once loud and alive but now felt like fossils of another time. I didn’t go with friends. I liked the solitude, the way silence settled on my shoulders like a heavy coat.
The textile mill on the edge of Detroit had been sitting in the back of my mind for weeks. I’d seen grainy photos online: rusted looms, spinning frames coated in dust, dim hallways where the only light came from beams broken through the roof. People said it had been shut down since the early 80s. Some said the owners left in a hurry, others whispered about accidents and cover-ups. I never cared about the stories—just the thrill.
One Friday night, just past 11 p.m., I decided it was time. I parked a block away behind a wall of overgrown shrubs, grabbed my flashlight, my phone, a bottle of water, and slipped my backpack on. The sidewalks were empty, streetlights buzzing like they were straining to stay awake. When I reached the property, the front gate was padlocked with a chain thick enough to anchor a ship. But the fence beside it bowed inward, a narrow slit where someone had cut through years ago. I pushed in sideways, feeling the rough metal snag my jacket and pull at my sleeve.
The air inside was colder, heavier. It smelled like damp cloth, old dust, and something metallic that stung the back of my throat. The silence wasn’t complete—there were distant drips, the scrape of something loose shifting upstairs, the faint whisper of wind slipping through cracks. My footsteps echoed across the concrete floor as I swept my flashlight over the main hall. The machines were enormous, hulking silhouettes frozen mid-motion, like giants interrupted mid-breath. Strands of thread still hung from some of them, swaying gently in the draft, casting thin trembling shadows on the walls.
I took my time moving through the space, letting the atmosphere wrap around me. It was the kind of place where your own imagination turned shadows into shapes, shapes into figures. A trick of the dark, I told myself. Just a trick of the dark.
A rusted stairwell led to the second floor. The steps creaked loud enough to make my skin prickle, every thud echoing through the building like a warning. The hallway upstairs stretched long and narrow, lined with doors barely clinging to their hinges. I ducked into a room that looked like it used to be an office—metal desks overturned, filing cabinets collapsed on their sides, papers decaying in dusty piles. I knelt and picked up a faded memo. Production quotas. March 1984. A handwriting note in the corner: Behind schedule again. It was like the whole place had been paused mid-sentence.
That’s when I heard it.
A low murmur drifting through the hall. Too soft to understand but too familiar to be the wind. Human. I froze, breath caught halfway up my throat, straining to separate the sound from the building’s natural groans. It came again—two voices, faint, blurred, like they were buried beneath layers of distance.
My first thought was other explorers. Teenagers maybe, or photographers. My second thought—the one that tightened every muscle in my spine—was that it wasn’t that kind of murmur. There was weight in it. Intent.
I clicked off my flashlight and waited for my eyes to adjust. The dark softened, revealing a faint glimmer at the end of the hall. I moved slowly, quiet as I could, feet rolling carefully over broken tiles. The closer I got, the clearer the voices became.
They were coming from a room at the very end. A bigger room—maybe a break lounge once, now littered with overturned tables and broken plastic chairs. I hugged the wall and leaned just far enough to peek inside.
Two figures sat crouched near a shattered window. The only light came from a small lantern on the floor, its flame shivering in the draft. One man was tall, gaunt, shadows sinking into the hollows of his cheeks. The other was shorter, bundled in a hooded jacket so tightly I couldn’t see much of his face. Between them sat two large duffel bags, sides bulging.
I should’ve left right then. Walked backwards, quiet as a ghost. But adrenaline has a way of making you bolder than you should be. I crept behind a stack of wooden crates, close enough to hear their words clearly.
“You sure no one pokes around here?” the tall one asked, his voice sandpaper rough.
“This place is a grave,” the shorter one muttered with a laugh. “Been using it for weeks. Only rats care.”
He reached into a bag and pulled out a small packet. Even in the dim lantern glow, the white powder was unmistakable. My pulse started hammering. Hard.
“Last batch moved quick,” the short one said. “But that guy downtown? He’s playing games.”
The tall one’s expression changed—sharpened. “If he doesn’t pay, we deal with it. Same as last time.”
Last time.
That phrase stuck in my brain like a hook.
I leaned in, trying to see what else was in the bags. A loose crate edge scraped beneath my hand. The faintest sound—but enough.
Both men snapped their heads toward me.
“You hear that?” the tall one hissed.
“Rats,” the short one said at first. But his hand dove into the duffel and came up gripping something metallic. A knife. A big one.
The tall man stood slowly. “Check it out anyway.”
Panic surged through me like cold water. I stayed still, barely breathing, as the short man began walking toward my hiding place. Each step felt like a countdown. When he got within maybe ten feet, my heel nudged a loose board. It groaned.
“There!” the tall one roared. “Someone’s here!”
I exploded into motion.
I sprinted down the hallway, not even thinking, just running. My flashlight bounced uselessly in my hand, so I let it fall. Behind me: pounding footsteps, shouts, curses.
“Grab him!”
“Don’t let him get out!”
I threw myself into the nearest room, slammed the door, shoved a desk against it. The door shook instantly with their weight.
“Open it!”
“You made a big mistake, kid!”
I scanned the room desperately. No back door. No trapdoor. No—
The window.
The boards over it were old, brittle. I ripped at them with shaking hands, splinters biting into my skin. The last board broke and the window gave way. Broken glass sliced my palm, warm blood streaking across the sill. I squeezed through, dropped hard.
My ankle buckled with a pop. Pain shot up my leg so sharp I almost screamed. But the shouts behind me lit a fire under every nerve. I limped, half-ran, stumbling over weeds and debris.
They burst out a side exit, lantern light scanning wildly.
“Where is he?”
“He couldn’t’ve gotten far!”
“Find him—no witnesses!”
I crouched behind a rusted truck carcass, hands trembling, breath shaking so loud I had to clamp my jaw shut. The tall one passed close—close enough that I could hear his breathing, low and furious. His knife glinted as he moved it from hand to hand.
“Come out,” he whispered. “We just wanna talk.”
A lie so thin it might as well have been smoke.
I waited, seconds stretching into lifetimes, until their voices drifted farther away. Then I crawled to the fence, slipped through the gap so fast I scraped my shoulder raw, and ran.
My keys slipped twice before I managed to unlock the car door. I threw myself inside, started the engine, and tore away from the curb like something was still chasing me. I didn’t slow down for miles. Only when my hands stopped shaking enough for me to hold the wheel steady did I finally pull over, chest heaving, sweat cold on my skin.
I didn’t go back to places like that after that night. The thrill wasn’t worth hearing those footsteps behind me again—or imagining what would’ve happened if I’d been a second slower.
But sometimes, when it’s late and the world is too quiet, I still think about that mill. About the men inside. About what they heard, what they saw. And I wonder if somewhere out there, they remember that night too. If they ever think about the stranger who almost saw too much. If they ever went looking.
And when I hear something in my apartment at 2 a.m.—a floorboard settling, a faint creak—I lie awake and hold my breath, just to make sure the footsteps aren’t coming back for me.