Once upon a time, I used to write for a D.C. based website, contributing regularly with my own column called “Hidden in Plain Sight.” The idea came from growing up in D.C., surrounded by historical landmarks that tourists and locals alike tend to walk right past, without ever knowing their significance. I wrote about old buildings and structures that were converted into something else, and covered locations that were off-limits to the public. 

Sometimes these were sanctioned visits, but a lot of them were condemned, dilapidated, or abandoned structures. Those places I snuck into were in varying states of disrepair, renovation, or demolition, but also private property. I knew if I was caught, I’d have to face some awkward questions. 

There were other risks, too–I think my editor was less worried about the dubious legality of my forays into abandoned structures, and more concerned with the physical dangers of sneaking around derelict buildings in the dark. 

And the physical risks weren’t limited to me falling off a railing and breaking my neck, either. In chatting with a photographer friend about her exploits breaking into abandoned farm houses, comparing notes and strategies, she said, not thinking too hard about it. “You’re wearing a mask every time you do this, right?”

I replied, “Oh, to conceal my identity in case there are security cameras and such?”

She says, “no, so you don’t breathe in black mold and asbestos.” 

When I brought all this up to that former editor, he said, “I feel very dumb for not asking you this question.” 

Sometimes people know what they like, but can’t quite put a finger on why, or determine when exactly they developed an interest, fascination, or obsession. Looking back on some of my more daring adventures, I think I can pinpoint exactly when I first felt the urge to cross over and trespass into someplace I didn’t belong. Friday, January 12th, 2001. I was twelve. 

I grew up in Silver Spring, Maryland, and attended the massive Montgomery Blair High School (albeit on and off), with well over 3,499 other students. This school was moved from Wayne Avenue in 1998, to the location on University Boulevard, just off 495. 

Technically, I went to both versions of the school. The “Old Blair” was converted into two separate schools, sharing the same building: Sligo Creek Elementary and Silver Spring International Middle School. I went to the latter for sixth and seventh grade while the renovations were still underway. Several sections of the school were active construction zones, and strictly out-of-bounds to students. The third floor became a place to hide after lunch and cut class. The former front entrance was boarded up, storing only the letters for the school’s sign. The most interesting destination for those with a penchant for sneaking around was undoubtedly the abandoned Elizabeth Stickley Auditorium. The renovations wound up being more extensive and expensive than originally planned, and the auditorium was at some point written out of the budget. The behemoth 1,200-seat auditorium, named after Blair’s longest-serving member of staff, was closed in 1998. 

We students knew there were access points into the auditorium from inside the elementary school, but all of the doors were locked. The only entrance to the auditorium from inside the middle school was facing the parking lot and in plain view of anyone coming in or out of the building. It was a set of double-doors, with a thick steel chain, coiled tight around the handles. However, there was no lock. I can remember the exact day because all the students were excited about the half-day in the middle of January. The faculty had a professional development day. We got half of the Friday off, then the following Monday off for Martin Luther King Day. We joked about it being a three-and-a-half-day weekend. But I can’t for the life of me remember who was the first one to figure out the chain wasn’t secured to anything but its own weight. 

Word circulated through the students that the chain could be easily slipped off, and anyone could sneak inside. That afternoon, four classmates of mine showed me how to do it, and keep the coil wrapped around the handles to look undisturbed. We had access, but we didn’t have flashlights. 

The first thing anyone noticed was how disconcertingly massive it was. The second was its unsettling emptiness. The five of us stood in the dark, letting our eyes adjust, breathing so quietly we could hear the elementary school kids through the walls. The double doors had the tiniest gap, letting in a knife’s edge of daylight from the parking lot outside. We acclimated to the gloom, and followed the sloping aisle between seats to the front of the stage.

Standing on a stage in an empty auditorium gives a disorienting sense of perspective. I could see the catwalk above me, covered in dust, but with lights and cables still attached. Across the room, behind the audience, was a sound booth with the windows still propped open. I imagined stage crew techies, dressed in black, moving a spotlight into position, chattering to each other on their headsets. Not anymore, though. This place was desolate. 

The things left behind by the previous students looked unnerving. A bottle of hair gel on the dressing room counter and a box of light bulbs by the make-up mirror made the place look like it was just in between productions, not condemned for good. Stray cans of paint on the stage floor, marked with sharpie by the stage crew. Unwieldy set pieces were propped up neatly against the wall. An in-tact copy of Silver Chips, Blair’s student paper, was on the floor. It was the final issue from the old building, printed in May 1998, complete with ads for prom-ready corsage flowers. 

Granted, this time capsule we had walked into was only dormant for a span of three years, but that made it all the more eerie. Every corner of the abandoned auditorium indicated it was, until very recently, an active space, full of life and energy, now silent and hidden under a layer of dust. We lost track of time. In that moment, I was riding a tweenage high of discovery and fascination. I felt as though we had found something meant to be kept secret. We found a set of double-doors into the past. While we were on the stage, still marveling at how cavernous the space was, we all froze when we heard the chain on the door handles unravel. The doors opened wide, and quickly. A hall monitor had evidently found the door was tampered with, and made his way into the space. Thankfully, it was so dark, he couldn’t see us standing still. When we scattered like roaches, the hall monitor shouted for us to stay put. I found a door leading into the elementary school, and booked it for the exit. 

None of us were caught, but the hall monitor spread word through the staff, and a new padlock was added to the chain the following week. I never got in trouble for my first break in, but I never got to go back inside. 

Thousands of years ago, in the foothills of Mount Parnassus, high above the Gulf of Corinth, Oracles were consulted by the Greeks. The area, now known as Delphi, was the site of a massive temple complex dedicated to Apollo, and home to one of Ancient Greece’s most well-documented religious practices. The Pythia, high priestesses of the temple, served as conduits for divine communication. Within a sacred chamber deep inside the temple, they entered a trance-like state. Writhing in ecstatic movements, speaking in dactylic hexameter, they prophesied answers for their querents. By having access to a sacred space, they were a window into the future. 

It was later discovered that fissures in the rock beneath the temple led subterranean gas to escape into the chamber. The gas itself, even before the last hundred years since the temple’s excavation, is believed to be the cause of the Oracle’s trance. Not a connection to the supernatural, but a combination of naturally-occurring chemicals from the very earth under their feet caused a psychedelic reaction for the Pythia. 

The phenomenon isn’t exclusive to the Greeks. The world is filled with “haunted” places. In these spooky spots, people have been said to experience chills, sweats, an overwhelming sense of terror, and sometimes death. These are also symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning. 

I will never know if the thrill I felt in the Elizabeth Stickley Auditorium was due to an airborne spore that latched onto my bloodstream, or if it was simply the electric excitement 12-year-olds feel when they experience something for the first time. I do know that being in the auditorium was terrifying, and it inspired me to investigate and photograph abandoned structures ever since.

Photographs by Nicholas Karlin, drawing by Daniel Knox

This piece is in Recommend If You Like The Spooky Issue Fall 2026. You can find physical copies in bars, cafes and stores in Chicago and Washington, D.C. The newspaper is available for purchase here. 

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