It was 1993, and I’d just started as a freshman at St. Andrews Presbyterian College. I was in this advanced group of students called SAGE—St. Andrews General Education—and it quickly became my core friend group. We were all new, all trying to figure ourselves out, and SAGE worked because we shared strong academic priorities but came from a surprisingly diverse mix of experiences and perspectives. It felt like a ready-made community of the smartest kids on campus, and it made the whole transition into college easier.
One of the people I connected with was a friend named Adrian, who eventually became my roommate. Not long after arriving, Adrian and I, along with a few other kids, decided to go looking for an adventure around Laurinburg, North Carolina. We’d heard rumors about an abandoned hospital nearby, and late one night we decided to find it.
We parked outside and went in with flashlights. The inside was exactly as creepy as you’d imagine—cavernous, dirty, and filthy, with that abandoned-building feeling that makes every sound feel louder. There were even rumors that one of the floors had been an insane asylum, which only made the whole place feel more horrifying.
As we wandered through, we came upon a row of deep metal sinks along a wall. I swept my flashlight over a sink and saw inside what looked like a needle and a little bit of blood. Then I checked the next sink over, and the entire bottom of it was covered in blood. Even in the dim light, it was obvious there was a lot of it. We didn’t hang around to investigate; we all screamed and ran back outside.
Now, knowing what I know about blood, I’m convinced it was fresh—bright red and still wet. That’s what haunts me about that night. I can’t help wondering if someone was in trouble in there when we ran, and whether we left them to die. Maybe it was some poor junkie, maybe someone who needed help, and maybe we could’ve saved them. But that night we were stupid, scared kids.