Human Resources

My rattling apartment windows reflected my gleeful grin as thunder shook the sky. I couldn’t believe the recent statistics for my website. I already had more than thirty visits since I had responded to those troll comments on my blog yesterday. That was more traffic in twenty four hours than I had gotten in the last two months combined. I could feel that I had something here. This might be the lucky break I’ve been trying to manifest since leaving college behind. I’ll finally attract the notoriety I deserve. Everything hinged on capturing my exploration of the dilapidated factory and bringing back proof of what I found in the basement.

There were only a handful of other videos on my website. The second most viewed was *Ghost Mine*, from when I explored the abandoned Tomlin Minerals Mine and where I filmed those chains moving on their own, and the rusty gate closing by itself.

The most popular by far was *Laurel Oak Orbs*, from my trip to the Laurel Oak Cemetery last Christmas. Thinking about how those spirits swooped across my screen still gave me chills. As if a mote of dust or some kind of static artifact could move like that. They were real, unexplainable orbs. My next two videos would blow everything out of the water. Now all I needed was time.

Thankfully it didn’t take much convincing for Mike to pick up my shift tomorrow at the bar since the tips on Halloween go crazy. I’ll spend the night editing and then hopefully start uploading in the morning. With my shitty internet, the uploads might take most of the day, but if everything goes well both videos should be live by nine o’clock at the latest.

This would be the first time I showed myself in front of the camera and spoke directly to my audience. I didn’t care how many takes it took. I needed the vlog to feel organic and off-the-cuff.

I know it’s not a fair criticism since I don’t usually film when first scoping a place out, but I’m still beating myself up for not bringing my camera when I visited the warehouse last week. Well, fair or not, tonight was the night I made up for that mistake.

I gave my set-up one last check; I had set my tripod to face the double-hung windows on my far wall, in front of which was the old yellow wingback chair, perfectly centered, and wine-red curtains I had picked up from the thrift store last week, duct taped to the wall since I couldn’t use any nails. I also made sure that all of the various cables were collected and tucked away out of frame.

The furniture arrangement was as much *Interview with the Vampire* as I was Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise but considering my practically non-existent budget and small one-room apartment, it was the most dramatic shot I could arrange. The rain was supposed to continue until well past midnight. That could do so much heavy lifting for the ambience, oh god, please keep the rain coming, it would be so good!

My gear itself got a quick once over as well; camera, ventilator, flashlight, heavy-duty gloves, spare batteries for the camera, all check. I decided not to take my waterproof jacket since I was afraid the swishing sound of the material would dominate the audio. To protect again the rain I wrapped up my camera, ventilator and batteries within multiple layers of grocery bag each and then stowed everything in my crossbody sling.

I grabbed my keys, turned out the lights and locked up the apartment. As I forced my front door shut against the warped frame, bits of yellowed white paint chipped to the ground and the small copper ‘5’ above the keyhole slanted 90 degrees. Considering all of the rent my landlord was charging, couldn’t he at least replace my apartment number?

°

I decided to park two blocks away and climb the small hill towards the train tracks near the east side of the factory. That hill should give me a great view of the grounds at large. I was glad that I had the foresight to switch to my contacts, as I was drenched two steps from my car. My glasses would’ve fogged up anyway with the rain, but add in my hot breath drifting back from the ventilator and I would’ve been absolutely helpless.

Though most of the building was badly reduced by the extensive fire damage, I could still pick out specks of untouched paint here and there, next to exposed pylons. All-in-all the remnants of the abandoned Franklin-Boem factory still spanned half a city block in length, and half that in width. It truly was a gargantuan structure.

The original fencing lay in a blackened heap near what remained of the south side entrance to my left. There was security when I scoped the place out last week, but thankfully there didn’t seem to be any of them crawling around anymore. The old prefab unit that the construction crew had used was moved off-site, too. Christ, move into our town, nearly burn down a neighborhood and then leave like it’s not your problem. Typical predatory corporate mindset. Well, I’m going to expose whatever freaky shit they were doing in that basement.

I tightened the straps on my ventilator and slinked towards the curled remains of garage doors ahead, where box trucks would stop for deliveries. Once inside I retrieved my camera and worked to steady my breath.

The rain was really coming down hard on the floors above. I could hear it pattering against warped sheets of aluminum and concrete. Rivulets began to cascade down from the upper levels, turning the gravel lot into a muddy swamp. My ventilator made a small clicking sound with each inhale and exhale. I put on my gloves and turned on my camera, then began slowly retracing my steps down the dark hallway, using the green tinged view through the flip screen as my guide. I was so tempted to talk, but I wanted the video to speak for itself, and my vlog afterwards to do the narrative heavy lifting.

I turned left at the empty first aid compartment, clocking the out of service elevator ahead. I remember the doors being ajar and wanting to get a few shots of the guts. I poked my head into the shaft and nearly had a heart attack as a bat flew out and down the hallway behind me. Fucking asshole flying rat. I got my shots then continued on to the stairwell around the corner.

There was a steady stream of water flowing over the stairs, it was very slippery and the railing was loose in the concrete. One wrong step here would be a bad time. I descended carefully by testing every footfall before fully settling my weight. I was one floor down from ground level but had two more flights to the basement. I stopped on this floor instead of continuing down. There was another room which badly freaked me out last time that I absolutely had to get footage of.

I scanned around, getting shots of the dilapidated stairs and hallway. I could hear water flowing behind the walls, and threadlike trickles began to filter out from small holes in the ceiling. I could hear a train horn in the distance. These lower-level rooms were the creepiest to me, they were still stocked with broken furniture, soiled documents and other remnants of supplies. Much of the internal walls were largely undamaged. It was a stark contrast compared to the ceiling and stairwell. It was very easy to imagine people working here.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a glutton for conspiracy, but I don’t think even a hardboiled skeptic could admit that the lack of damage so close to the origin source of the fire makes any sense. If the fire *started* in the basement then why were the floors below ground level in better shape than the floors up top? I mean, heat is supposed to rise, right? Either someone’s lying or the safety systems on the upper levels were compromised.

°

The sign hanging above the door had since fallen, cracked in half and sinking into the floor. All that remained was the image of a winking, grinning yellow star wearing big, fluffy marshmallow white gloves. I wanted to sprint into the room and start sweeping my camera around, but I was careful to control my pace.

I panned the camera across the destroyed sign, then slowly up ahead and back the hallway behind, eventually transitioning to the door, tracing the outline and then swooping in low at around doorknob height, pulling up towards my chest as I framed a wide shot of the classroom. The soft clicks of my ventilator would make for such killer ambience in this hellhole.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. The room was way creepier than what I remembered; a large, wide wooden desk on my right, lumps of manilla paper sitting sodden and bunched up on the floor against the flashing, and six small brightly colored plastic chairs, with all of the seats oriented towards the chalkboard behind the large desk.

I still couldn’t fathom how a room like this had been built in the bowels of a factory. I knew Franklin-Boem was a darling in the contracting space for the federal government. Maybe some of their employees had to live on site for extended periods and this was a daycare? It was such a small room though and I hadn’t found another one like it. It didn’t add up, and I couldn’t get enough.

The majority of the damage to this room seems to have been caused by the torrents of water released from the sprinkler system, instead of the fire itself. A stretch of cubbies against the back wall were now mostly crumpled and sinking into the soggy floor. There was a veinlike black and pink mold crawling up one of the corners. I turned back towards the door, getting a nice steady shot spanning the entire classroom.

Shit!

On the bottom right corner of the chalkboard were written names written in chalk; Kyle, Macey, Sarah, Ian, and two others I couldn’t make out, presumably the kids who had sat in these chairs. Those felt wrong to capture. I’ll need to edit those out, right? I clapped my hands to add an audio cue as a signal for when I was editing later.

A patch of sunken ceiling behind me burst, causing a thin stream of water to trickle down near the black mold. I squealed and nearly dropped my camera as I whipped around towards the sound.

The water was catching on something poking out from the mold, something I hadn’t noticed before. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Sticking out from the fluffy pink and black veins was the corner of an artist’s canvas.

Reaching into frame, I pulled the full scope of the canvas from the sticky glob, and to my abject surprise, an entire fucking easel too. I really had to put some muscle into it for the last few inches and I ended up falling on my ass when it all came free. I let out a sharp sigh. “What kind of clown-car-ass-mold is this?”

I scavenged the remains of a table leg from some broken furniture in the hallway and poked the end into the pinkish-black grime. It sunk a few inches before connecting with the wall. I noticed that if I put my shoulder into it I could keep pushing deeper. I let go and the plank held in the wall.

There was a wet slurping sound from the mold, like someone sucking the back of their teeth with their tongue, followed by a puff of pink spores. I thanked my choice of personal protective equipment, knowing I wasn’t breathing any of that putrid nonsense. I stepped back and filmed the plank as it began to sink on its own into the mold until it was fully submerged. Nothing could convince me that I didn’t just capture something supernatural. I was grinning ear-to-ear under my mask. This couldn’t be going any better.

I turned back towards the painting; it almost looked like a Rorschach. The artwork depicted numerous small splotches in rows and columns, six in total, with a large rectangular stroke towards the top, and a bumpy red blob at the bottom right, it definitely looked like a humungous apple to me. If I had to come up with a working theory it would be that one of the kids had painted this, and in the haste of evacuation it was shoved into the sodden, moldy wall. I’m not some spineless skeptic shill. I don’t need a perfect answer and I’m okay knowing that there are things which can’t be explained by science.

I could easily interpret the painting as a childish attempt to depict this classroom. Six dots for six chairs, and the rectangular slash could be the desk and chalkboard. The big red apple too. It was what every good teacher had on their desk, and what kid didn’t want the best teacher ever?

I vowed for no audio for the stretch of urbex, but I made an executive decision to enhance the overall experience for my eventual viewers. I set my camera down on the desk and began straightening out the chairs. I repositioned the easel painting near the chalkboard to a spot just behind the desk.

Once everything was in place, I stepped back out of the class and began refilming, lingering a bit longer on the broken sunshine sign and walking cautiously into the room. I began sweeping from chalkboard to chairs and then focusing on the black mold, stumbling back in mock surprise as I caught the painting in frame. I let out a long sigh and a soft “Oh shit... a kid’s painting?”

I walked around the classroom making sure to capture every detail until eventually settling back on the painting.

“Alright, I don’t know how this got here. How did this fragile painting stay up when everything else fell apart? I don’t know if it’s my nerves, but I’m getting a bad feeling. It’s time to go.”

I moved to leave, stopping underneath the doorframe, wondering if this was okay. I suddenly wasn’t sure I had made the right decision to stage the scene and voice myself. I clapped my hands to herald another possible edit. From the sunken floor the goofy cartoon sun on the dilapidated sign peered up at me, pointing back over its shoulder with a puffy white glove.

°

Upon closer inspection the stairwell leading down had gotten much worse. After some careful urban spelunking, and a mental note to edit out the various unflattering perspectives from the camera pointing up my nose, I had made it to the basement floor

The creep-factor was at an all-time high. Not even the emergency lights worked down here anymore. I meticulously retraced my steps, sweeping my flashlight in slow arcs down each hallway. When I was here last time, I had placed a small strip of reflective tape across an exit sign to help guide me when I eventually returned.

Minutes passed and I thought I should’ve found the sign by now. This section had gotten so much worse. There were unidentifiable, charred heaps stacked against the walls. Sections of wall were peeled, revealing the guts of the rooms beyond. There were even cracks in the concrete where the fire had presumably burned so hot that moisture had flash boiled from the stone.

My mind raced through every horror movie trope causing every feature of the suffocating dark to morph into a silent killer waiting for the perfect moment to strike. My ears began to ring and my breath came in sharp rasps as I thought of my camera and flashlight batteries running out and being stranded down here all alone.

I kept walking down the charred tunnel until I finally caught sight of the reflective glare of the tape. The exit sign had fallen from the ceiling and landed behind the remains of a cabinet, so I hadn’t immediately noticed it.

I passed the sign and swept my camera down the last stretch of hallway. I was thinking about what to title the video when the sounds of an old-timey jingle flew down the hallway towards me on scruffy static wings. Someone was down here and they were playing music from a radio, but I couldn’t pick out the tune.

I suddenly heard heavy footsteps against stone and a voice with a deep, wet drawl sang out into the darkness. *’…but if you leave me… to love another… you'll regret it… all… someday…’*

My breath burst from my ventilator in fast, sharp clicks.

I flicked my flashlight towards the end of the hall and then back down. I was too scared to hold it up for long, though I had only needed a glance; more of that mold was growing over the walls and ceiling, hanging like a curtain, and covering the space where a door used to be. A pink hand emerged and grabbed a bundle of the fabric, swishing it partially to one side, revealing a sinewy white leg stepping forward into the hall.

I bolted back to the staircase. I didn’t care anymore. I’ll grab the shit painting from the daycare room and call it a day. Nobody visits my website anyway. I’m not dying here to get torn apart by some failed artist Ted Bundy lookalike freak.

When I crested the dilapidated stairs without hassle, I began to laugh. Fuck! That was scary. I practically sprinted back to the classroom. Rain was now falling through holes in the ceiling. I nearly slipped as I made the turn past the sunken sunshine-sign and into the children’s room.

Made it! I’ll just take…

The painting was gone. I heard a wet *slurping* sound followed by a succession of heavy footsteps crashing towards me from behind. Something hard smashed against my skull. My ears rang and my vision burned white hot.

°

My hands and legs were bound. Something wet was jammed into my mouth and tied around my neck. Thankfully my camera wasn’t destroyed. It lay on the cold wet stone ahead of me. I slithered as best I could towards the illuminated screen. Lit candles were sparingly scattered around the dark space, small islands of light revealing a landscape of charred debris. I couldn’t see the walls and all I could smell was the putrid rag shoved into my mouth. Rain splashed in puddles from the invisible ceiling above. There was a faint static emanating from a radio somewhere ahead. Every so often a stream of classical music would momentarily pop through the static.

Looking at the green image of my camera’s flip-screen, I saw an easel holding a blank canvas, about twenty feet ahead. In front of the arrangement lay a pile of pink matter crested by a single, large stone.

Something approached from behind me. I felt a sharp pain in my right side. A hot wetness caked my shoulder and thigh.

A tall pale naked figure paced languidly into frame. It held a long shard in one hand with which it began to wave harshly in the air towards the canvas, splattering dark lines and dots across the canvas.

Once satisfied, it reached down for the stone atop the mound; Long fingers wrapped around the rock and with both hands plucked it up with a wet slurping sound. It hoisted it high into the air and brought it down hard onto the pile.

It repeated the act over, and over.

I didn’t know what I was initially looking at but it was clear now; he was smashing the stone against someone’s remains. Had this person died in the fire? What the fuck does that matter! I had to get out of here! The right side of my stomach and lower back were numb, and my shoulders ached. I couldn’t feel the wetness anymore.

The pale man was eventually satisfied with the effort and pulled the stone once more from the battered flesh, pressing the slimy red surface of the rock against the fresh canvas, leaving behind another foul painting.

My ears rang like the trumpets of apocalypse and my heart thundered against my ribs.

It began moving the painting out of frame, eventually returning with the easel holding a fresh, blank canvas.

I didn’t want to see it again. I closed my eyes. Its voice was like so many bugs crawling across the surface of my brain, a rancid, gurgling bass.

*”…my only sunshine…You make me happy… when skies are gray…”*

°

The small radio speakers carried the news anchor’s voice across the jagged depths of the ruined factory basement. The perky television voice flowed over the blackened edges of shattered glass, old chemical treatises and office furniture, eventually breaking against three empty wooden easels arranged in a crescent under a shaft of ambient light pouring in from a hole in the rubble ceiling above.

*’…that’s absolutely right, Dan. The remains of a large building are not naturally stable. As we saw with the second round of fire on Halloween, severe, systemic fire damage can cause entire sections of the remnants to suddenly reignite, even if the original violent blaze was quelled by the heroic actions of the Harriman fire department…’*

The painter surveyed the empty space with pleasure.

The broadcast continued. *’Thank you, Ken. Well, of course, us at HNY News send our hopes and prayers out to anyone who lost someone in this tragedy. We will be inviting a spokesperson for Franklin-Boem, joining us shortly, to discuss the next steps for the location. As for weather, take it away Kim!”*

*“Thanks Mark! For the weather ahead, we are looking at more rain. Great to be a gardener, though there will be a cold front moving in on Wednesday, the dark skies won’t linger.…”*