I’ve explored abandoned places for 5 years. Nothing prepared me for what I found in Hellborn

I really need your help.

I’ve been an explorer for 5 years, and I can say in my own words that I’ve never found anything like what I found recently.

I’ve explored abandoned stations in Japan, old houses, and even abandoned bunkers from World War II.

I’m an adventurer, it’s in my blood.

The town of Hellborn is a fertile place for legends. If you’re really a good explorer, you’ve felt at least once the urge to put your backpack on, turn on your camera, and go deep into that cursed town. With me, it was no different.

I rented a small apartment on Alphabet Street—a funny name for a street. I know. Over the days, I recorded short interviews with the local residents, who told me about an old women’s psychiatric colony, founded in the early 2000s, meant to take in women of all ages under the care of nuns. Everything was fine in the beginning, the goal of helping those women was being met, until the investigation in 2007.

Bodies.

Blood.

Babies.

The place treated those women like animals, their bodies having a single function: to be a container for a fetus, which would later be sold, or in the worst cases, cut open and sold in pieces.

I’m a person sensitive to this case. I know human evil has no limits, especially when money is involved.

That whole religious facade hid all the evil, under the guise of ‘helping.’

Like the curious explorer I am, I went to the place.

I got my gear together, which was a bag with a medical kit, ropes, and granola bars.

I put a knife on my belt, because in case you didn’t know, it’s never good to enter abandoned places without something to defend yourself. I learned that when I explored an old abandoned building and ran into someone who wasn’t very friendly, who ended up leaving a scar on my arm, but that’s not relevant right now.

The sun was still shining on the horizon. I arrived at the place after a long walk through the forest.

The place was in decline.

It was a concrete and wood structure, surrounded by roots that were trying to consume what little was still standing.

I walked carefully, the soles of my shoes sinking into the mud.

Around me, there were only trees. The place was completely isolated.

When I got to the old wooden door, I pushed it gently.

It opened.

Inside, there was only darkness.

The air was heavy.

The smell of iron rose up.

With every step, the wood creaked.

There was no way I could walk on that floor. If I kept going, the ground would probably give way under my feet because of the rotten wood, so I decided to explore from the outside.

Walking around the large structure, I lit up some windows with my flashlight. The weather was cold, the place was silent. That’s when I moved my flashlight beam away, and the reflection of something metal glinted.

It was a camera.

It was next to an old well, made of stones and covered with a large wooden lid.

I put the camera in my backpack, finished exploring, and went back to my small apartment. On the way, I ran into Mrs. William, who gave me a forced smile and offered me a piece of cake. I politely declined, went up the stairs, and took a hot shower. Later, I decided to connect a cable to my computer and to the camera, which was an old model. The metal was rusty, with brown stains on the surface. The screen was cracked, but still, it was in good enough condition to use.

The exploration of that psychiatric place was fine, until I opened the camera files.

In the recording, it showed a young guy with yellowish hair, white skin, a flushed face, and green eyes shining with that excitement that only an explorer has when seeing an isolated and dangerous place in the middle of the forest.

He was speaking Russian. From what little I understood, he was talking about the history of the place, about wanting to find something dangerous to show his friends. He didn’t look older than 16.

Unlike me, he managed to get inside. The wood looked like it would give way with every step he took, but that didn’t scare him. He kept showing the rooms, the rusty equipment, the aged wood, the stained clothes on the floor. When he decided to show the outside, he turned the camera to the well, zooming in and commenting on the lid.

In the next file, the camera was on the ground. No sign of the kid. The camera was pointing at the well, which now had its lid off. But that’s not what made my fingers tremble. It was the sounds. Hoarse screams, coming from inside the well, along with the sound of what I assume were bones cracking, like dry branches. And then silence.

The video ended like that.

I just sat there for a few seconds, staring at the blurry screen of my computer.

I took these recordings to the local police. They just patted me on the back, saying it was probably just some teenager trying to pull a prank.

I asked them to investigate, to look for that kid’s face in some missing persons database, but they refused. They told me to finish my stay and go back home.

I know that wasn’t a prank, but I decided not to try to prove my point.