Overgrown brick walls with iron fencing leave a gap directly facing the old skatepark as if to say, "Break a leg! Seriously, do it, we're right here."

Lonicera Medical Centre
Our care is a promise and a threat.

Lovely.

The i's on the sign are dotted with pixel hearts so familiar I think they're blatantly taken from retro games—from the looks of it, modern technology at the time this place was still operating. Not that I'd know them well from personal experience, only from other people's nostalgia.

Emergency ←
Reception ↑
Outpatient pharmacy →
Parking →

Vague directions for now defunct parts of the hospital spark a metaphorical light bulb above my head. Parking! That's it! All the designated skateparks may be gone, but a big empty parking lot could breathe new life into the local scene.

Time to scout the area and expose those ghost-hunting frauds. But on the off chance that ghosts are real, I bet they'd appreciate the company. There can't be much to do once you've conquered death.

After all of tonight, my phone is still charged at eighty-five percent, plenty of juice to get the footage I want. Camera pointed at the ground, the very first thing it captures is, of course, a massive pothole.

"That's Montreal for you," I mutter, making a mental note to use this bit as a blooper.

The tour of the old medical institution's exterior would be quiet if not for the sound of my footsteps. Broken windows, graffiti that exceeds my humble newbie skills, it's kind of a vibe. With some effort, we can make something better than our old parks.

"This is it," I narrate as I pan the camera across the empty lot waiting to be claimed. "Our new base of operations."

If my comments are any indication, my voice rarely matches my enthusiasm. But fellow skaters shouldn't need me to sell this place. It's free, open twenty-four hours a day, and in surprisingly good condition—what else do I have to say?

I start a new recording in selfie mode and extend my arm as far as possible so that it's not merely an uncomfortable close-up of my face. Trudging back to the main entrance, I say, "So the reason nobody's added this to our list of skate spots is because people think it's haunted or something."

With another flip of the camera, I put the front doors and possibly copyright-infringing logo on display.

"Anyway, I'm gonna go in there and prove that those people are full of shit."

The camera shakes as I hop on the stairs, needlessly dramatic. Cobwebs and dirt hang in the corners of the unmoving automatic door like a curtain that was pulled open for my arrival. The signs of abandonment are clear, but so are the hints that someone was here not too long ago.

"It's not even that dirty. You'd think it reeks of death up here, but..." I pause to sniff my surroundings. "...it smells really sweet, actually."

Red tube-shaped flowers grow in huge clusters along the walls. I tug at one of them, revealing a wooden stick hidden inside. After awkwardly fiddling with one hand for far too long, I finally untangle the mystery object.

It's a wooden sign, like the ones I made for my protest. Except mine said stuff like "Stop killing third places!" and this one says, uh, "MURDERERS". All caps.

I'm sure that means nothing.

Pretending I didn't see anything, I put the sign down, uncanny message facing the ground. I slip a hand through the small gap between the glass doors to push them apart and stumble my way inside. It's chilly, notably colder than outside, making the air feel healthier than it should. The yellowish brown remains inside the disinfectant dispenser likely do more harm than good at this point.

First impressions: there's no way to sugarcoat it; this place is fucked. Cracks all over, paint chipping off the walls and merging with the debris—it's no wonder people are hearing strange noises. Can't move an inch without stepping on something in here.

With my non-injured leg, I kick rubble out of the way to the beat of the lo-fi track playing in my ear. Where others see desolation, I see adventure.

"Man, fixing this place would be waaay more trouble than tearing it down for something new," I continue my deadpan commentary. "Something new like a giant skatepark. Just saying."

Behind toppled bookshelves and worn out couches, magazines are stacked on an oval table. Neither health nor lifestyle reading material, no—they're video game magazines.

On top lies a winter 1999 issue featuring charmingly ugly illustrations of mascots that are still someone's favourite thirty-five years later. Despite it falling apart, it would probably interest a few collectors out there.

"I dunno about you guys, but I'm sold," I comment as I dig deeper into the pile, revealing more nineties gaming journalism. That's as far as it goes, so the place was probably abandoned in '99.

Looking up, I see a reflection of my fall-induced messy hair, which I wouldn't have any other way, in a small CRT TV mounted to the wall.

I kinda want that thing.

If it's been left here since before I was born, then it's up for grabs now. Back to the pocket you go, phone friend, we don't need this on camera.

As I sneak around for no reason other than my own amusement in acting like this is the next Great Canadian Heist, I find all the cables dangling from the TV torn. Its numerous wall mounts patched up with tape don't give me a lot of faith in their stability.

When my surroundings brighten, I do a double take.

There's static noise on the screen.

I blink.

And it's gone.

What the hell was that?

Whatever it was, I obviously can't leave until I figure out the trick behind this, or else I'm gonna look like a fraud myself!

At the reception, I flip through faded documents, whirling up dust that tickles my nose in that annoying way that doesn't quite make me sneeze. Empty drawers are pulled out all the way, and more paper is scattered on the floor around them.

What would anyone even hope to find here, blank forms and business cards? This investigation footage is turning out pretty bland.

As I repeatedly hit the desk bell, it hacks out its last dying rings. "Hellooo?" I call out, not to get an answer, but to prove that I'm alone.

Hah, imagine actually getting a respo—

Bzzzt!!

"Ow!?"