The Underdog

I've heard he calls home to a furnished room located somewhere about the top floor. The electricity remains on within this wing, powering only few electrical necessities. If the static mumbling of a radio is heard you've pressed your luck too far; hide! During the day he roams the vacant halls; a loaded shot gun always at side. Stories of trespassers stalked down and greeted with the barrel of a riffle, as his finger stutters over the trigger. I've heard with ease he'll track you down, but with any luck you'll be escorted off, somewhere, as he trails behind with weapon raised, like some type of crazed gun man quarantining a hostage party off to an isolated corner. All is fair game in the ruins, after all who would really know where to find you?

Maybe he's just keen on exploiting fear, using the sight of a bullet comfortably nestled down a hollow metal rod aimed at your skull to make you second guess your curiosity. Hell, perhaps one day he will finally snap and gruesome Sullivan County news will be made. That would sure set an example. I've heard even just walking up to the property will draw the attention of a private security team, whom will ask you to promptly leave the premises. But with no guns drawn this alternative seems like a risk to test. I've heard these stories, these frightening accounts, supposedly experienced by some unfortunate explorer, passed down in warning to another. The tales claiming to be laced in validity and truth. But where the truth ends and entertainment begins I can not predict. I am just glad I heard these stories after I made it out.

A.


B.


C.


D.


E.


F.


G.


H.


I.


J.


K.


L.


M.


N.


O.


P.