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www.groovekorea.com / October 2014 74 Time seems to stretch and slow as I linger here in this forgotten wasteland. A strong, putrid smell fills my nostrils and fades as quickly as it had come. Edited by Jenny Na (jenny@groovekorea.com) hALLOWEEN Marred by time Upon approaching the institution, the signs of a timeworn place become clear — dead, unkempt grass, glass shards littering the premises, small shelters barely visible through the overgrown vines that cover them. For what purpose these buildings once served, we couldn’t know. They are in such a dilapidated condition that venturing into them seems pointless. Fortunately, the main building is in fairly good shape, and, as we soon discover, had been visited by two decades’ worth of tres- passers. The main entrance had originally been barred shut, but some- one eventually decided to break in, as no one would be breaking out now. As a result, a 1-meter-high opening exists where bars once were. It’s large enough to crawl through, but too small to walk through. Standing in the open hallway for the first time and looking back at the outside world through the remaining bars, I feel a deep sense of anxiety coming over me. The stark con- trast between the air outside and the rancid stench inside can be picked up immediately. It is so acrid that even taking small, quick breaths felt like we were doing our lungs a disservice. It would be the first of many signs that we should not be here. The rain has taken its toll on the structure, with the walls stripped clean by water damage and oily puddles mingling with pieces of trash. Scattered across the floor are traces of the mental ward’s abandonment: psychiatric evaluations suggesting treatment for di- abetic peripheral neuropathy, a computer manual for an IBM com- puter, a calendar dated 1996, ripped magazine pages featuring models with bangs too big for their faces. Life had certainly once existed here. As we move further inside, the rooms begin to show their true character. Through the square openings of closed doors we see rooms as dead as zombies, living caricatures of what they once were. The sheets are there. The mattresses, most of them, are still intact. Books are half-open, as if the reader had put them down for a short break. Fine curtains are still strung up above the windows, and only dust specks hint at their age. It is as if time has stopped. At the end of this hallway stands a ruined cafeteria, more remi- niscent of a World War II relic. Time seems to stretch and slow as I linger here in this forgotten wasteland. A strong, putrid smell fills my nostrils and fades as quickly as it had come. Room 222 Logic has been by my side for the first 20 minutes of this experience, but room 222 calls into question my entire dependency on rational thinking. The door suddenly shifts open a smidge, giving a creak loud enough to alert both me and the photographer to the doorway. Neither of us utters a word. The air is foul and silent. I have not felt such heaviness in the atmosphere until now. Logic would say, “Just the wind. Keep walking.” But on the second floor there is no wind. The air is stuffy and has the lingering trail of humidity circa mid-July. No wind, no breeze, barely any oxygen — unless the putrid smell of wa- ter stains counts. The door pauses, letting out only a small beam of light. With little hesitation, it abruptly creaks open again. The sharp sense that there is a third party in the room over- comes me. We get the intense awareness that we are un- welcome. “It’s still only the wind.” Logic knocks on all corners of my membrane, but it ceases the moment we behold a shadow flicker across the beam of light. A shadow, I wonder. From whom? Another stray wanderer like us? We finally decide to keep walking. But the sharp rise in tension plagues us with an unshakable feeling of dread for every floor and every room thereafter.