I went to the infamous ‘Crooked House’ last year while it was still standing. It was well known for being full of personal belongings, left just as they were when the resident left. I’ve been to Pripyat untold times, and made urbex my life.
But I’d never experienced it to this extent before. Coming inside I was met by a handbag, next to the occupied coat stand was open, and spewing with receipts.
Since visiting here I have managed to research the people that lived here on ancestry websites. Everything I found fitted exactly with the documents in the house. Although I have included some personal items in this report, I hope I’ve done so in a tasteful way, and have carefully excluded anything I thought was too personal.
‘He’ was born in 1886 in Wisconsin . He met ‘Her’ who was 4 years younger than him, and they married young.
He was a practicing doctor, here is his ’drugs dispensed’ notepad dated 1939:
‘He’ was called to Europe at some point in WWII as a medic, he was in his 40’s. I’m not sure of the exact date, but I have since found some of his French / Belgium army papers online, dated 1942. ‘She’ obviously moved over at some point to be with him. Again I cant pinpoint a year, but the portraits of them together in the house are dated 1952.
They had a child, who lived here, raised a family here, retaining these memories of the past.
1980’s shot of a grandchild with her dog. She must be about my age now.
The details of the house were like nothing I’d ever photographed before. It felt weird photographing them. Some things I didn’t photograph at all. The only time I’ve ever felt like this whilst photographing before was at Dacchau.
After a while it felt like you knew so much about the former occupants, their occupation, their taste in furniture, their taste in spectacles:
So it’s heartbreaking when you find these:
In an upstairs bedroom, a few belongings still sit on a dresser, almost like a shrine. In front of the dresser is an urn, with initials on.
The final signs of the house were from around five years ago. It seems the last occupant was taken into a home. One can only presume the house was preserved as she always held onto the dream of coming back home and being better.
Then as we were preparing to leave, the weirdest thing happened…
All bar one of our group were standing in the hallway waiting for the fifth member to finish, when we noticed an envelope on the floor. It was next to the letterbox, crisp and white, not a spec of dust on it. The rear flap had been turned down, but not sealed. Out of shear curiosity of why such a new item was here we slid the paper from within.
It was a legal letter, outlining the death of the occupant.
She had died just over a week ago, and her funeral was to be held….TODAY. Right now. In the local church. The wake is in the pub across the street tonight from 17:00.
As the words left Osfas mouth we all fell silent, and a shiver went down my spine. We all felt so uncomfortable, and decided it was time to leave. Even typing this now gives me the same shiver I felt in that hallway.
Thanks for reading.
But I’d never experienced it to this extent before. Coming inside I was met by a handbag, next to the occupied coat stand was open, and spewing with receipts.
Since visiting here I have managed to research the people that lived here on ancestry websites. Everything I found fitted exactly with the documents in the house. Although I have included some personal items in this report, I hope I’ve done so in a tasteful way, and have carefully excluded anything I thought was too personal.
‘He’ was born in 1886 in Wisconsin . He met ‘Her’ who was 4 years younger than him, and they married young.
He was a practicing doctor, here is his ’drugs dispensed’ notepad dated 1939:
‘He’ was called to Europe at some point in WWII as a medic, he was in his 40’s. I’m not sure of the exact date, but I have since found some of his French / Belgium army papers online, dated 1942. ‘She’ obviously moved over at some point to be with him. Again I cant pinpoint a year, but the portraits of them together in the house are dated 1952.
They had a child, who lived here, raised a family here, retaining these memories of the past.
1980’s shot of a grandchild with her dog. She must be about my age now.
The details of the house were like nothing I’d ever photographed before. It felt weird photographing them. Some things I didn’t photograph at all. The only time I’ve ever felt like this whilst photographing before was at Dacchau.
After a while it felt like you knew so much about the former occupants, their occupation, their taste in furniture, their taste in spectacles:
So it’s heartbreaking when you find these:
In an upstairs bedroom, a few belongings still sit on a dresser, almost like a shrine. In front of the dresser is an urn, with initials on.
The final signs of the house were from around five years ago. It seems the last occupant was taken into a home. One can only presume the house was preserved as she always held onto the dream of coming back home and being better.
Then as we were preparing to leave, the weirdest thing happened…
All bar one of our group were standing in the hallway waiting for the fifth member to finish, when we noticed an envelope on the floor. It was next to the letterbox, crisp and white, not a spec of dust on it. The rear flap had been turned down, but not sealed. Out of shear curiosity of why such a new item was here we slid the paper from within.
It was a legal letter, outlining the death of the occupant.
She had died just over a week ago, and her funeral was to be held….TODAY. Right now. In the local church. The wake is in the pub across the street tonight from 17:00.
As the words left Osfas mouth we all fell silent, and a shiver went down my spine. We all felt so uncomfortable, and decided it was time to leave. Even typing this now gives me the same shiver I felt in that hallway.
Thanks for reading.
