Written 7-3-25
“You’re living at the old paper mill!?” I asked. “Like, that haunted old concrete warehouse we’d sneak into in high school?”
“Yup. That one. But it’s not actually haunted you know,” Kevin grinned, as we walked up the sandy bike trail through the woods.
I just moved back home after a failed 5 year attempt at making it in the big city. While I was able to actually use my degree as a therapist at a counseling center, the cost of living there made me feel like I was constantly drowning. So I’m back home for now, reconnecting with old friends while I figure out my next move.
“Here it is,” said Kevin, as we emerged through some thick brush onto the old overgrown parking lot of the building. It was just as I remembered it. From the front, a sprawling single story of chunky concrete and block covered in several generations of graffiti and moss.
Back in high school, Kevin always took the unconventional path. He was the first of our group to get into weed (back when it was still illegal.) And I’ll never forget the time he bought Salvia and we smoked it in his parents basement. Geesh…
“The township put the property up for sale a few years back. But I had too many memories here to let it get bulldozed and replaced with another soulless apartment building,” he explained.
He led us through the main entry, which was no longer boarded up. As we came inside, I felt the air shift cooler, but it wasn’t as dark as I remembered. The boards and windows along the main hallway had been removed, allowing fresh air and light to flow through. Already it felt less creepy and more inviting. But there was still the haunting story that lingered in the back of my mind the whole time.
“Of course I couldn’t afford to buy it, but I stirred up all the local artists and non-profits behind a vision of restoring the place into a kind of community art studio. We used all the trendy buzz words to pitch it to the township board; ‘building local culture’, ‘promoting tourism’, ‘sustainable design’, shit like that.”
The hallway opened up to a big empty main room. In the center was a collection of plastic swimming pools, cans, and totes, all filled with water which dripped down from a large broken skylight above.
“Fortunately, Matt Brown… you remember him from school? …just got elected to the board, and he was sympathetic and able to sway the town over to our cause,” Kevin explained.
On a wooden table built from plywood and two by fours, was a plastic bin filled with old coffee mugs, dirty spoons, and bowls caked with oatmeal.
“Don’t mind the mess, this is just my makeshift dish pit because it’s the only source of water in the building. Most of my work is downstairs,” Kevin explained, leading us towards the dark stairwell.
While the building appeared to be one story from the front, it was actually three or four levels embedded into a steep hillside which sloped down towards a mucky wetland area in the back. I think that’s part of why it felt so creepy. It was like we were descending into a cave. It didn’t help that there were no lights, besides the open windows and dinky flashlight Kevin carried.
I couldn’t resist any longer, I had to bring up the story. “Don’t you ever get creeped out, being here? You know, because of when someone found that kid’s pinky finger in the muck out back. I think it happened in the 90s right? And it turned out he was murdered by his mom when they were squatting here! Yikes… And remember how we’d scare the girls we brought here, by pretending to see the kids ghost, then chase them around in the dark,” I grinned.
I saw Kevin smiling too, in the dim bouncing light in the stairwell.
“Yeah, that’s how most people remember this place these days. But I’m trying to change that story. It’s part of the whole art project,” he shared, as we reached the bottom level.
Surprisingly, bright sunlight was pouring from the room at the end of the hallway. As we headed towards it, we passed by several smaller empty rooms. I forgot just how big and empty this place was. I guess Kevin would say it’s full of potential.
“The part of the story most people forget is that the mom had severe mental health issues,” Kevin continued. “Remember how the local insane asylum was closed down in the 1980s, and they kicked out all the residents? Without the support they needed to survive, many of them became homeless. She was one of them. I’m not excusing what she did, but just adding important context.”
His words made me feel a little guilty for treating it like a spooky ghost story this whole time, forgetting the human dimensions. As we neared the end room, I noticed some of the side rooms had things in them. One was filled with old furniture. Another held a bunch of rugs and carpets all rolled up, leaning against the concrete walls.
“Lewis Sloan.”
“Huh?”
“That was the boy’s name. Lewis Sloan.”
“Oh, got it. Sorry,” I replied.
“No need to be sorry. It’s not your fault. But we can do a better job to remember him, without making his story central to this whole project.”
“Right,” I agreed, shifting my weight unsteadily.
We stopped just outside the illuminated room. Through the door I could see the walls covered in bookshelves, surrounding a comfy looking old sofa.
Kevin turned to the wall in the hallway. Looking up, I saw a configuration of soft driftwood mounted on a large corkboard. The driftwood formed the shape of a kid, leaping from a log (made of moss) to grab a branch. Along the bottom, many small twigs were carefully cut and glued together to spell out; “In Memory of Lewis Sloan. 1989-1994”
“I just finished this piece, made out of driftwood I pulled from the muck out back,” explained Kevin, with a kind of solemn reverence. “And I got the poison ivy rash to prove it!” He lifted his pant leg revealing a large swollen red patch of bumpy skin.
This moment touched me. I’d never seen this side of Kevin before. I just remembered his wild cynical side back in our school days. Never serious, always making absurd jokes. But this was a more mature version of him that I couldn’t help but admire.
“Alright, now moving on from that… welcome to the Dungeon of Artful Delights!” Kevin announced, stepping boldly into the final room.
This room was larger than the rest, with a high ceiling. Sunlight streamed in through the tall vertical windows in the back wall. The other walls were covered with bookshelves, filled with old faded books. A patchwork of colorful rugs and chunks of carpet covered the floor, softening the brutal concrete feel. The center looked like a makeshift living room. A number of comfy looking old sofas surrounded a large sturdy coffee table covered in papers, brushes, pens, and other crafty artifacts.
“All these books I collected over time from local libraries and bookstores. The rejects destined for recycling. Now they’re helping to warm up the space, both literally and figuratively. They help insulate the room from the cold concrete walls. Plus they look nicer, and provide an endless resource to jog the imagination if you ever get a creative block,” Kevin explained, waltzing casually through the space.
I tilted my head to read a book title on the shelf near me; “The Human Predicament: Dissolution and Wholeness by George W. Morgan, 1971”
“Huh. Yeah I could spend a lot of time in here… like a cave explorer excavating hidden gems.” I said, as I skimmed through the fragile yellowed pages.
“And I just got this off-grid power setup working too!” he shared, excitedly switching a lamp on and off in the corner. Its power cord traced along the bottom corner of the wall, to a small plastic box; the battery bank, I presumed. More cords traced from the box out through the nearest window.
“Now come, check out the atrium!” Kevin’s enthusiasm was infectious. Bringing the space to life.
He opened one of the tall windows, and we climbed awkwardly through it out to a space about as big as a basketball court. It was surrounded on three sides by the tall exterior walls of the building, open to the sky above, allowing many small trees and plants to grow from the cracks in the concrete floor.
One of the sides was open, facing downhill towards the wetland. I could already smell the earthy muck. It wasn’t bad though. There was a faint whiff of spearmint too, which reminded me of my childhood visits to small inland lakes. We would rub it all over ourselves trying to ward off the mosquitos.
“One of my friends, Maren, has started trying to grow things here,” Kevin explained, gesturing to a few small mounds of earth on top of the concrete. In one of the beds, several scraggly tomato plants were starting to grow, amongst a thick bed of greens.
“Lambsquarters,” said Kevin, breaking off a bit of the greenery and handing it to me. “It’s basically a weed, but it’s edible.”
I hesitated, examining the leaves. They were covered in a white dust that almost seemed to sparkle. “Is this going to get me high?” I asked.
“Hah, no. It’s not that kind of weed,” Kevin answered. “That’s over there…” he gestured at a sunny patch of tall weeds tucked into a corner. And eating those wouldn’t do much anyways. You can think of lambsquarters kind of like a wild spinach.”
With a little reluctance, I bit a few of the leaves off and chewed. It wasn’t exactly tasty, but wasn’t bad either. The taste was probably closest to raw spinach, like he said.
“Thanks. Not bad. Could use a bit of salt and butter though,” I shared, swallowing. I decided not to take another bite, but held onto the rest.
“Maren explained to me how this is actually a pretty good spot for growing things because the hill faces south, so it gets a good amount of sunlight. Plus, the muck in the wetland has excellent fertility so she hauls buckets of it up here to build these growing beds.”
For a moment, my mind drifted back to the disembodied finger found back there. I started imagining it rotting in the muck, covered in worms and maggots.
“She likes to explain how we’re composting trauma here too,” Kevin shared.
This reoriented my mind to the driftwood sculpture Kevin had made. The image of Lewis playing. The abandonment of those, like his mom, who needed help and support. And the place was beginning to take on a new, deeper meaning for me.
“Oh and these trees growing in the cracks are mulberries, so in another few weeks they’ll be loaded with tasty berries!” Kevin shared, as we walked under a healthy looking tree that was about 15 or 20 feet tall.
Looking back towards the room we came from, I saw two solar panels propped up at an angle facing the sun, their wires tracing back inside through the window.
“This is really cool, man! I love what you’re doing here!”
His enthusiasm had infected me. Any residual sense of the spooky past had been fully washed away by this point; replaced with an exciting sense of creative potential.
“Maybe in the future some part of this project could serve to help those with mental health issues,” I suggested.
Kevin grinned, “Maybe that’s why you’re here.”
“Oh, uh I don’t know…” I stammered. I just got back home. I wasn’t ready to commit to something like that yet.
“There’s lots of extra space, as you saw. And you can’t beat the rent. Just a hundred bucks a year,” he explained.
“Nah, I really… Wait, did you say $100 for a whole year?” I asked.
“Yep. It’s mainly just to cover the basic fees and insurance.”
I thought about it for a minute. It would be nice to get out of my parents house. As much as I love them, I also can’t stand living with them… I’d definitely be roughing it if I lived here, but it’s the summer ‘and living is easy.’ I could always go back to the parents’ place once the weather turns cold. Who knows, this could be a cool way to get reconnected in town.
“You know what. Maybe I will. Let me sleep on it,” I said.
“Cool man. You’re welcome to crash on a couch here to get a feel for it too.”
I looked back down at the greens in my hand. Lambsquarters, that’s what he called it.
“Ah, what the hell. Why not,” I said, taking another big bite of the bitter greens, chewing and swallowing them with enthusiasm.
“Hell yeah!” said Kevin. “I’ll call up Maren and a few other friends you should meet. They’ll bring their instruments too. It’ll be a good night,” He smiled.
For the first time since I can remember, I actually felt a tiny glimmer of hope about the future. Maybe moving back home was the right move after all.
