Haunting buildings with a past.

                                 Haunting buildings with a past

It stood there, still proud but slowly deteriorating, outlined against the evening sunlit sky. From what I could feel from inside my car, it generated a haunting sense of beauty, like a vase of flowers in the process of withering. I stopped the car and got out to take a closer look. It was an old hospital abandoned to the weather, scattering its memories and glory to the winds. I stood there, fascinated. This huge building must contain many human stories of pain, suffering, and death—also stories about medicine's gift of life. I got back in the car to find my hotel for the night. I planned to return the next morning with the idea of examining this building more closely.

While eating my dinner, I thought about the abandoned hospital I had just seen. When I checked in, I asked about the building. I was told it was constructed by the Russians when they dominated the country. At the time, they constructed two big new hospitals on opposite sides of the town. Once the Russians left, the town could not afford the upkeep of two big hospitals. One was sacrificed.

I have always been fascinated by hospitals. They are like small towns catering to all the modern conveniences: lighting, water, heat, laundry services, pharmacy, canteen, flower and gift shops, conference rooms, and sitting spaces. They are generally surrounded by a garden for walking and enjoying being outside. I was looking forward to exploring the building tomorrow.

After a leisurely breakfast, I took the car and parked it outside the abandoned building. The morning light of a sunny but windy day showed me a different picture. It was a sad, drab building weighted down by its lifeless state. I saw many broken windows with graffiti on the lower walls. I entered the maternity section, which was indicated by Russian words and several old posters of babies in mothers' arms. From my school years, I had learned a little Russian. I had an eerie sensation of babies crying and yelps from delighted fathers. Even the smell from the surrounding garden changed to a smell of damp and decay, with a very faint scent of medical products. I went into a large room where I saw old iron beds lined up against the walls. This must have been where mothers had their babies. To my surprise, I saw an old woman sitting on one of the iron beds. I went up to her to ask if she was all right. She turned her head toward me, and I saw a wizened face with sad, tired eyes looking back at me.

“Yes, but I can only speak English at a schoolgirl level.”

I sat next to her and took her hand in mine. She seemed very pleased with my gesture. Slowly, in halting English, she told me her life’s story. At times we both had tears in our eyes. Here is a summary of her story.

She told me she occasionally comes to this hospital because she was born in this bed. Of course, she didn’t know at the time that her mother gave birth to twin girls. Her sister died at birth. She said she only found out when she was five. The revelation was of great comfort to her because, as her mind and emotions started to develop, she always felt lonely. Once she knew she had had a twin sister, she spent hours talking to her ghostly image to combat her feeling of loneliness. Very occasionally, her family saw her talking to somebody. They asked her who it was. She just stared at them with a blank expression. They classified her as a little odd. Her family were farming people, spending from dawn to dusk tending their animals and fields. She had a very rudimentary education in the local school up to the age of sixteen. She had a brother ten years older than her. She never told him or her parents about her constant feeling of loneliness. At sixteen, she was on the land helping the family with all the farm chores. When alone, she talked to her sister. It was a great comfort. At twenty-five, she married a kind and gentle man from a neighboring farm. They tried, but never had children. He died two years ago. She realized in her youth she had lived under Soviet occupation, but now she was living in a country that was a member of the European Union. For her, the hardships of daily life—worrying about the farm, weather, and money—were enough. Today her parents were dead; her married brother looked after their parents' farm. Her husband left her a smallholding—enough land to feed herself from. She had come here today to talk to her sister. I took her in my arms and hugged her. I left her talking to her sister.

I wandered out of the maternity section. I looked at a map on the wall and made my way to the main entrance area. This meant walking down two long corridors with high windows letting in the light. You could see many of their glass panes had been broken, allowing the birds to fly in and make their nests where the high ceiling touched the wall. These charming visitors left many droppings on the floor, forcing me to dance down the hallway rather than walk. I was just about to reach the central meeting point when I heard the faint sound of human voices coming from a recess in the wall on the left side of the corridor. I stopped and shouted down, “Anybody there?”

I heard footsteps on the floor below approaching the stairwell. An authoritative voice replied, “Come down so I can see you.”

I went down to face a broad-shouldered man with a torch in hand that he shone in my direction. Through the beam of light, I had difficulty seeing his face. He spoke excellent English, but with a heavy German accent.

“Who are you? Nobody ever comes here. The police classify it as forbidden territory. Didn't you see the sign at the entrance?”

“No, I didn’t, as I came in through the maternity section. My name is Michel Hurd. I am just passing through your town, and I was curious to visit this abandoned hospital.”

“I see. Come with me.” He led me down a passageway that had a curious smell, not only of damp, but something earthy. We entered a large room with a high ceiling. It was lit by a powerful lamp attached to a generator that made only a slight engine hum. What staggered me was that there were multiple racks holding tray after tray of growing mushrooms.

The man with the torch turned to me, and seeing my surprise, immediately tried to put me at ease.

“We export them to France. In the corner, sitting at the desk working out the next shipment through an exchange of emails over the internet, is my partner Harry. I am William. Now that you have seen our operation, I would ask you to keep it to yourself. Few people know about it. There is nothing illegal about growing mushrooms, but our presence in this old, derelict hospital might be considered off-limits for an activity of this nature.”

“You can count on me. I am just amazed to find an operation that appears so substantial hidden in a slowly crumbling building.”

“For the present, free rent is an important factor.”

I wished them luck and retraced my steps. At the top of the stairs leading down to the mushroom growers, I continued on to the main entrance and reception area.

I sat down on a bench and tried to imagine what the place was like in its heyday. This area would have been a hive of activity: the coming and going of visiting families, white-coated doctors rushing to appointments, the presence of a patient or two permitted to sit with their families. The ambiance would have been a mixture of joy, sadness, and seriousness. A strange blend. I imagined a desk in one corner where people registered, signed out, and paid. I wondered what rules applied to hospital costs under Soviet occupation—something I made a note to look up later. I got up and went over to the map. I decided to check out the kitchen and call it a day. It meant taking a long corridor, turning right at the end, and then walking down a short passageway to find the kitchen area.

As I entered a very large kitchen, I saw an old man sitting at a table in the middle of the room, drinking from a glass of water.

My immediate reaction was to ask him where he got the water. Without turning his head, he replied, “There is a well outside in the yard. Clear, cold water if you want a drink, but you will have to use the bucket to pull it up. There is still some water left in the jug over there by the oven. You will find a glass in the cupboard above.”

I thanked him and got myself a glass of water. I returned to the table in the middle of the room. I purposely sat opposite the man and thanked him for showing me where to find a drink. He was dressed in an old suit that had seen better days. His hair was matted with grease and dirt. Most of his face was covered with a large black beard. There was something appealing about his eyes. Not only was their light-blue color unusual, but they conveyed a kindness and understanding that was quite exceptional.

I asked him if he lived here.

“No,” he said. “On the streets. I am one of those people that interests politicians at election time. We are people who live outside the social structure of the town. There is a group of us that comes here occasionally to talk about our situation. I come here more often to find silence and peace. When the weather is bad, these old buildings give you some protection. But most of my street friends believe this place is haunted and are fearful of coming.”

“May I ask you why you live on the street?”

“Lost my job, lost my wife, lost custody of my two daughters. I fell into a deep depression. I turned to drink to try and live outside the reality of life, living in a false land of dreams. It was not long before I was on the streets. Today, I no longer have the desire or energy to return to the world I once knew. In some peculiar sense, I feel free from trying to be an upright, productive member of society. The one thing I miss is my girls.”

He looked at me with those haunting eyes. “Do you feel the burden of social order?”

“I understand the burden is there, but I accept it. As I am only visiting this old hospital out of curiosity, and before I disturb you further, I will leave.”

As I left, I thought about all these abandoned buildings stretching across the world. From a distance, they look empty and desolate, left to slowly disintegrate in the weather. But I suspect many are inhabited by marginal people seeking refuge. As I got into my car, I chuckled at the thought of the mushroom men profiting from the space for commercial enterprise. Man's inventiveness and imagination seldom sleep. The car started on the first turn of the key.

David Nutt                               September 2026