Door 8

The top floor of the apartment seemed so empty without the furniture that once adorned it. Instead, my eyes were drawn to the worn paths in the floor between the rooms.

The Engine House’s boiler, which would have been fired all day all day, virtually from the day the shop opened until the day it closed.

The company headquarters. Abandoned last time I drove past it, though it is the classiest building in downtown South Bend.

An observation room, possibly for children, has drapes around a 2-way mirror. You know, to dress up the fact that someone could be watching anonymously on the other side.

The great entrance to the Service Building shows the detail once present in the old hospital.

The head distiller could walk out of their office to this balcony and overlook the whole fermentation process in a glance.

Between the repair shops and the stock department is this odd little structure. No, the walls are not level–it’s not your eyes. The shops slope left, the structure slopes right.

“What’s that diamond thingy on the Pilot House?” you ask? It’s a 1920s-era radio transmission direction finder, a pre-radar navigation aid. Lit with diffused flash.

The view into one of the asylum rooms of Norwich Hospital. A long time ago, a window broke, letting the vines crawling up the bricks outside to move indoors and across the floor.