Like most of what I write about here, I can’t articulately explain the draw I feel towards abandoned buildings. Something about the contradiction, the decay. There’s a building on Frankfort Avenue that has been on my mind for months. First it was just abandoned, and I’d heard rumors that it was caught up in some bizarre real estate legal limbo—couldn’t be torn down because it was a historical property, couldn’t be renovated because nobody actually owned the place.

I never noticed it until it started rotting. So fucking poetic. I’ve tried taking pictures, from every angle, lurking around the corners for hours. Nothing I’ve ever captured on film even comes close to the way being there makes me feel. I want to pull in real close on the details—the shutters hanging off their hinges, wide angles of the turrets against the sky, or the way the house looks shoved inelegantly between Genny’s diner and that Mediterranean restaurant.
A couple months ago, a sign appeared on the door. “For Sale.” What the fuck. So someone must own this place. There was a handwritten phone number underneath and no real estate agency sign stuck in the yard out front. I thought for awhile that it was a joke. Oddly, somehow the house has largely escaped vandalism, but maybe the “for sale” sign was some smug prankster’s gag—conjuring up an urbex hipster’s wetdream (namely, mine) that this house could 1) ever go on sale and 2) actually be habitable.
Or destructible. Taking a sledge hammer to the walls and ripping off the shingles with my hands is just—if not more—appealing than living there. I’d take rolls of film the whole time. Set up tripods all around me and crawl up and down the roof every few minutes to get some few hundred shots off.
Now I drive past the house nearly every day on my way to work. Earlier this week, I almost plowed into the back of the car in front of me, whipping my head around to make sure I’d read it clearly: “Free.”
Free. The house is free. There are at least 3 or 4 large sheets of poster board nailed to various external walls of the house, all declaring the same thing. Take this house. It’s free.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. It’s a historical property, they won’t let you tear it down, plus the taxes, plus I’m sure it’s infested with rats, blah blah blah. You’re all exactly right. I’m sure the taxes are exorbitant, it’s a money pit, no doubt. I’m not going to take it; I’m not an idiot. But the fact that there’s somebody trying to get rid of this house so desperately that they’re willing to literally give it away just adds to the mystery.
I want to know more, but I’m terrified of the inevitable disappointment. Someday, the house is going to be gone. Even if it’s restored—especially if it’s restored—it will no longer capture my imagination the way it has since it started to decay. I don’t know how to make sure I get the most out of it while it’s still around. Don’t know whether to keep writing about it, photograph it, buy it, take it, or burn it to the fucking ground.
EDIT: Couldn’t help but do a little digging. Frank Faris, the guy who owns Genny’s, bought it with the intention of turning it into a parking lot. It—being historical—is under protection and Faris, now facing thousands of dollars in fines, wants to give it away. Since putting up the “Free,” sign, over 40 people have expressed interest, including a Baptist church down the street and one guy who wants to turn it into a strip club. Fuck me, it’s enough to break your heart. Break my heart.