The old Olympia Brewery doesn’t whisper it breathes. Every cracked brick, every rusted
door hinge, exhales a cold breath of forgotten things. Locals say the building is cursed. That
something was buried deeper than beer vats beneath its foundation. That workers vanished.
That screams once echoed from the underground tunnels — and not all of them were human.
I wasn’t there for the legends. I came to shoot decay, structure, and time itself. What I got
was something else entirely.
The moment I crossed the threshold, the air changed. Thick. Still. Like it hadn’t moved in
decades. My camera, usually a comfort, felt like a barrier — fragile in a place that didn’t
want to be remembered.
And then came the models.
I hadn’t scheduled anyone. They just… appeared. Two of them — striking, silent, dressed in
thrift-store elegance that clashed perfectly with the bones of the brewery. They didn’t say
how they got in. They didn’t seem afraid. They just moved through the space like they’d
been there before. Like they belonged to it.
We didn’t plan the shoot. It happened organically, as if something else was directing the
angles, the poses, the light. My lens caught moments I can’t explain — one frame where a
face seemed to blink from the shadows behind them. Another where the air around them
shimmered, warped, as if the building was reacting.
They vanished just as suddenly as they’d arrived. No goodbyes. No names. Just the echo of
laughter and a lingering scent of damp earth and something sweet… almost like lilacs.
The locals weren’t surprised when I told them.“
"They show up sometimes,” one said. “But not everyone sees them.”
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