Abandonment Issues: Angel with a Crown of Thorns House

"An angel with a crown of thorns." my wife Ninja says softly, pointing in through a bedroom window. Oblivious to the obvious, with my hands arched tightly between my forehead and cheeks, and the window, I respond in a raspy whisper, "A devil on both shoulders."



This was after we spotted a white house with a small hole in the roof, on the side of yet another dirt road in the vast expanse of rural Ontario. After we parked and hiked and the grass and poison ivy in the overgrown driveway tickled the a1one tattoos on my exposed calves. After finding the fire pit, the citronella torch, and the shed. After stealthily scoping the circumference and verbally announcing our presence. And just before we declared the location abandoned and made our way inside.

An angel with a crown of thorns, a devil on both shoulders.

A tricycle, an empty steam trunk and my own image reflecting back at me. Antiquated appliances and a fully furnished living room. Mould and moss and mud and muck, natural decay at its finest. Wine glasses atop the kitchen counter prompt me to reach for my flask, and I sip of the devil's brew. I can't so much turn water into wine as I can turn massive quantities of alcohol into piss and regrets. The kitchen counters stagnate in a state of constant collapse. Another glance back at the wine glasses prompts me to consider that maybe someone was in the middle of doing the dishes, and then suddenly vanished, or passed away, or worse. The laundry piled on the living room chair prompts a similar thought process. Chores, vanishing, death. Looters could also be responsible for this, emptying drawers and cabinets in search of valuables, I think to myself. Maybe the clothes were in the steam trunk before the looters got here? The TV is gone, but an old record player on the entertainment unit remains, covered in a thick layer of dust. A rotary phone hangs from the wall above a wooden rocking chair and crumbled chunks of drywall. Beyond that is a bedroom, which is in remarkably pristine condition in contrast to the rest of the house. It is on the window sill in this room that I see it, in all its glory. A bright halo of light pounds through the window above the angel with a crown of thorns.

On the second floor, random objects are strewn about, including several lampshades, which provides somewhat of a foreshadowing for what I would encounter in the basement.

The front door is locked, or blocked.


The family that prays together, fades together.


The tricycle of terror.


The TV is gone, the chest and cabinets emptied. The chair in the centre of the room is piled with laundry, as if someone was about to fold it before vanishing into thin air.


Sometimes, there are no words.


A self portrait is snapped as I catch myself passing by in a mirror.


This old empty steam trunk was a treasure in itself.


The needle never drops, the music never starts.


A child's room, at the front of the house, furniture askew.


The mould is overwhelming in the kitchen. I step outside for a moment.


The kitchen has rotted around the dishes, which are only half done. It appears that someone just walked off halfway through doing the dishes, and never came back.


Dishes in progress, paper towels still on the rack.

It is always interesting to come across appliances from generations past.


The great cabinet collapse.


The dishwasher is out of order. Large knives are partially buried in the muck atop it.


The rocking chair and the rotary phone. I stood here for a few moments, pondering all of the conversations that may have taken place right in this spot, and all of the emotions that would have been felt here.


This bedroom is in remarkable condition considering the mould and decay that has devoured the rest of the house. It is this room that is watched over by the Angel with a Crown of Thorns.


"What was that???"


The second floor is littered with a random assortment of objects, primarily lampshades. A foreshadowing of what I would encounter in the basement.


The air is thick with mould, I can feel it in my infected ears.


Autumn leaves fall onto the warped floorboards of a second floor bedroom.


The basement stairs catch my attention as I saunter back through the house, and I stop in my muddy tracks. A real what the fuck moment.

"Hello?! Is someone down there?" How the fuck are these lights possibly still on?


A very uneasy feeling comes over me as I snap this image. How could these lights still be on? Why is everything so clean and organized? Why is there a wet footprint in the corner?


Dexter and kill rooms and Gacy and pig farmer Picton and feet washing up on the shores of BC and similar thoughts chase me up the stairs and out of the light, and out of the house, and down the road, where we stumble upon yet another abandoned house, and to the south, another.

Running from the light, with no protection from the angels, and a devil on both shoulders, we fade away.

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Abandonment Issues: Bobcaygeon House of Hoarders

This isn't just a story about a man exploring an abandoned house, this is a story about living with the loss of loved ones. This is a story about consumption and compulsion and coping mechanisms.

This is a love story.

Immediately upon cracking open the door, I am overwhelmed. A repulsive stench is thick in the hot air and more powerful than anything my olfactory system has ever encountered. My eyes instantly begin to tear up, and after snapping the following photo, I cough into my elbow, and retreat.



I stand outside under a drooping willow tree, trying not to think about the pungent odor, but rather what I saw inside. A thick carpet of everything imaginable is a lopsided and unstable foundation to giant mountains of everything else. Intrigued, and already reeking of the pukey must, I take a few deep breaths, and re-open the door.



Much like the Rockies form a wall between Calgary and the West, the mountains of stuff, things and crap carve a maze throughout the first floor of this large farmhouse, blocking access to the rooms in the front of the house. The tiny over-stocked kitchen is covered in a thick brown film of bacteria, and I turn away. The dining room table is buried amongst scattered debris, mostly garbage. Newspapers, magazines, bills, flyers and hundreds of empty food containers, in every direction, as far as the eye can see. A string clothesline sags across the dining room from wall to wall above the table, and from it hang more plastic bags containing even more plastic containers and bags. I follow the maze out of the kitchen and into the living room, growing fairly accustomed to, but still repulsed by the intense stench. With every step my feet sink into the unknown depths of the stuff and things that have chipped off and fallen from the adjacent mountains over time. Traversing this valley is not easy, and care must be taken with each step to get a stable foothold.

In the living room, with garbage mountain behind me, the story begins to unfold. As seen in the lead photo, mountains of clothing reach glorious heights and are peppered with random books and other objects like pockets of snowfall accumulation. Antique chests and bureaus are all but hidden under and behind these massive mountains of dated clothing.



A photograph on the wall steals my attention, and i climb partway up the mountain for a better view. Under a big red bow, the photograph depicts a husband and wife, looking right into the camera. My camera. Surrounding the framed image are wedding photographs and dozens of ribbons bearing the occupants names, awarded for agricultural achievements in the local community. The entire wall is covered in spiderwebs, which have trapped nothing but dust.



The couple continue to stare at me, standing in their living room, staring back at them. A plaque to the left of the photograph contains a poem entitled 'Lifes Clock'. The energy in the room in this moment inspires me to read it aloud...

"The clock of life is wound but once,
And no man has the power,
To tell just when the hands will stop,
At late or early hour-

To lose one's wealth is sad indeed,
To lose one's health is more;
To lose one's soul is such a loss,
As no man can restore.

The present only is our own,
Live, love, toil with a will,
Place no faith in tomorrow-for
The clock may then be still."

Again, tears begin to roll down my cheek, partly due to the hot nasty stench in the air, but more so attributed to the dots I am beginning to connect, and the story that is unraveling.

With the five foot tall clothing mountain ridge bisecting the room, the maze leads me to a staircase, and i quickly hop up the stairs, two at a time. Corey Hart and a young Mats Sundin are smiling in the corner. Here, even more ribbons hang on the wall, pierced with rusty thumbtacks. These ribbons are for equestrian accomplishments, and bear the name of the couple's daughter. Obviously, I draw a connection to the Havelock Horse House. A buff topless dude on a poster is the only other obvious sign that this once was a girl's room. There is remarkably less stuff accumulated in this area, that is until I round the corner.







The maze continues to lead me through room after room, all of them packed with everything in the world and topped with layers of clothing. Using my hands, the tight hallways finally provide some stability on the shifting landscape beneath my feet.

 



The posters on the walls in one of the rooms depict KISS, motorcycles and scantily clad women, this was a boys room. Both of these kids rooms appear to have been left virtually as is, after the children left home in the early to mid nineties. The boys room however, eventually succumbed to the force of the shifting mountains, and was eventually buried under the weight of it all. As were all of the other rooms and hallways in the house. It became obvious that given more of that precious time, that last room, that girls room atop the stairs, would have also been filled up and buried.



Several fully furnished and decorated bedrooms filled with all of the makings of home, and then buried in more of them.



















Finally, a skinny staircase leads me back downstairs and into the pitch blackness of the foyer, where my camera flashes and illuminates a deer head mounted on the wall above me, startling me almost to death. A massive wooden shelf is blocking the front door, stuffed with books and board games, under the watchful eye of the deer.







A few shaky steps forward, I open the door and find myself on the other side of the great divide of Mt. Clothing. One of these front rooms appeared to be a study at one point in time, still filled with decorations and trinkets, buried under the pain of losing a loved one.





Lifes Clock is indeed still.



In a corner, i reach down and spin an old globe, kicking a cloud of dust into the atmosphere around the world, and then I retrace my steps up and around and down, slowly traversing the unstable ground of the valley floor.

At the door, I stop one last time to look around, hold a deep breath, and snap these final images of the filthy kitchen.





Back outside, the air never tasted fresher.

With the loss of a spouse, a lifelong partner, best friend and soul mate, we are left with nothing but time. Memories are not enough to hold onto, and eventually we lose those as well. My interpretation of the story told by this home, is that the surviving spouse couldn't let go of anything, knowing all too well that it can never come back. True love is a magical and beautiful thing, to that I can attest, but the loneliness that love leaves behind is my greatest fear.

Unfortunately, this is how love stories end.



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