I've been leading groups into abandoned places for nearly ten years now.

Fort de la Chartreuse, outside of Liege Belgium, has always been my favorite.

It's a sprawling maze of brick tunnels and cold rooms that saw heavy use during World War II.

The occupying German forces supposedly used parts of it for interrogations and detainment,

though no official records were kept.

Now the fort lies abandoned and boarded up, overgrown, forgotten except by urban explorers and

local scouts daring enough to sneak in after dark.

Tonight was one of those excursions. We had our rules,

strict silence, total darkness. The road running alongside the fort wall was busy enough that

headlights passed often, forcing us to climb quietly and swiftly. We'd anchored ropes at a

sheer wall months earlier, barely noticeable from the street.

I went in first, as usual, slipping silently into the fort ahead of everyone else, finding my assigned spot deep inside the tunnels.

My job was simple, wait silently at a narrow junction, directing explorers toward the main path if they hesitated or got turned around.

Once inside the fort, everything shifted. The air was always precisely 57 degrees Fahrenheit,

no matter the season, and though the road was close, not even the rumble of trucks penetrated

these walls. It was like entering a vacuum, utter stillness

that pressed against your eardrums. There was a constant breeze, slight but noticeable, moving

through the tunnels in gentle pulses, almost rhythmic, like slow breathing. I squeezed into my spot,

a small recessed alcove cut into the brickwork and waited.

It was pitch black, no flashlights permitted, only touch and sound. Even after all these

years, the place still unsettled me. The tunnels were narrow, tight enough that I had to

tilt my shoulders sideways in some passages. Sound bounced

...