Lyster Sanatorium... again and again and again.

Then we were there again, the building still standing and looking awesome. To think they want to tear this thing down. That's why we're here, because it might be the last time we ever get to see it. I don’t know why this makes me sad, but it does. It's still just as fascinating as the first time I saw it, which was less then a year ago. A year before that again, the fascination was pretty much instant as it emerged from a small photograph of a big white building on the mountainside snapped at twilight a warm summer evening from across the fjord... my 250 mm lens was just short of giving me a good look at it. I would have never imagined I would set foot in this place and live (through the panic) to tell the tale. Not unless there was a gun to my head... and I would still have died from the panic I imagined. Which goes to show that a lot more is possible then originally expected. And even such low level impossibilities feels mighty good to conquer.

This time I have thought to come better equipped, with proper flashlights, a flash and a tripod. Tripod in hand, I work a lot slower then usual as it's not soothing my usual, restless self. My frustration was fairly faint though. My experience from my trips to Lier (abandoned mental institution) is that such hangups as a tripod needing to be adjusted would surely murder me slowly. Being forced to remain still made the nervousness ease up on me, as though the devil was on my trail back there. In this place, my behavior alters as well, but in quite a different way. I become infinitely chatty, thinking and speaking almost simultaneously, leaving no time what so ever for any elaborate consideration on the matter of whether this would be even remotely interesting to anyone, ever. I can be quite annoying.

In the deep darkness of the basement, the sweep of a tiny flashlight reveals a small object on the floor.
“Is that on of them sticks they used to lobotomize people with?” Ramona wonders. I believe I've told her about such things previously.
Not even a chill spreads at the mentioning of such macabre tools. For various reasons, I'm fairly sure she is wrong, but I hunch down to have a closer look. It's just a nut cracker, or rather half a nut cracker. When I give my interpretation of another object a moment later, it was Ramona's turn to be all rational.

“It's just a broken sifter” she clarifies, shooting down my more imaginative ideas, revolving around the fact that it is remarkable head-shaped. There are plenty fuel for the imaginative in this place. I used to see mosters everywhere, but now I feel only vaguely unsure when I'm walking around alone, wondering where Ramona has disappered off to.

As we slowly finish up with the basement, we run into the guided tour and get a tip that we might want to head up to the library while the sun is still in the right spot. Apparently there is a hole in the ceiling and the light is good just now. We head on up 4 flights of stairs, to the topmost floor (not counting the attic). I am very happy as I had thought this train had gone. We barely entered this floor during my first visit as the strange arching corridor was creeping me out (hard to imagine now), there was the added risk of going tumbling trough the floor the further up we went and last but not least: Janne had had enough at that point. She simply did not take as much interest in this stuff as I do. Last time, anything above the first floor was off limits. So some parts of this building remained uncharted, and now I would finally get to see them. The basement and first floor had been thoroughly explored, but some of the second, most of the third and almost all of the forth was still fresh to us.

As we step off of the solid and safe feeling stairs, I bring on my stealthy, soft gait, very aware that there is a long, crushing drop lurking beneath my feet. Under every slightly upward turned window in this hallway there is vivid decomposing going on. In one particular bad spot, I step in a doorway, grab onto it while reaching as far away from the rotten spot with one foot as I can, brushing my front against the wall. Ramona thinks I'm being super silly, so I cant help but rub it in when we later see this spot from below. It's hard to miss as some of the third floor ceiling has made it onto the floor and is now a sizable pile that I step over tentatively, always a bit unsettled when I cant see the floor under my feet. From beneath, this spot looks very bleak, and I'm happy I did my best not to step on it.

Sensitive me picks up even the slightest change in solidity underfoot, and is now moving increasingly slowly and silently, favoring the doorways and the sides of the rooms, while Ramona walks straight across the floor as though nothing is off, like this is just a stroll in the park. This is one of many times I've wondered what on earth is going on in her head. “Better safe then sorry” I think to myself. It's not as though I'm missing anything by choosing a slightly different route through the rooms. Come to think of it, to be safe would probably mean to be somewhere else entirely. I am well aware that many people would consider this utter stupidity, and not even faintly worthwhile. If they were to think nice and rationally though, they too would know that life is dangerous, and my 40 000+ km on the road in the last year is surely a much bigger threat to my safety. My insurance company realize this at least, that's why they keep demanding more and more money for my car insurance.

We find the library pretty easily and it is indeed splendid. Though fairly small, it stretches the full height of two floors with a gallery up top. Further up there is a rectangular hole in the ceiling (maybe 1,5x3 meters?) through which we can see the attic windows and the sunlight. Strangely unfazed by this (this would be the building layout of my nightmares, as it is very difficult to survey) I exclaim:

“I want a library just like this one!”

Before I even manage to cross the room and set up the tripod, Ramona is way ahead of me, wanting to show me the distinctions of oak, as she has tried to explain this before. As I realize the amount of plain, proper wood (oak even) in this room we are both a bit astonished. Ramona is the expert (at least I'm trying to stick her with the task as my expert consultant), but even I can tell that this must have cost a small fortune.

“You could put anything in here! Anything! A full collection of encyclopedia or what ever, this is so strong, it could hold just about anything!” Ramona's joy at seeing something so properly and nicely made is obvious.

“I don’t really want to leave. Maybe we should just stay here for ever and ever!” I giggle.

On the forth floor we run into the guided tour yet again the very helpful make shift guide gives us another tip: the most haunted spot is on the third floor around where there is a big hole in the floor he assures us. And we head down.

We work our way through the third floor as well and eventually arrive at the spot where a long strip of duck tape and a cheerful note used to mark the beginning of the off limit section of the floor. It now hangs limply down along the wall, so I venture a few steps further, rounding the corner to see that a big portion of floor has come undone. Later on, on the second floor, we realize that the hole is 2 floors deep, as the destruction has continued on through the second floor while it was at it, and ended in a big pile on the first floor. The latter remained solid. This stuff can not have been here the first time I realize, as it dawns on me exactly where we are. Surly I would have notice a big hole over head while walking on thin air down the second floor hallway. Thinking back, I remember being pointed to a section of the floor to feel it with my foot. The floorboards were all soft. Overhead, a dark area of the ceiling was already giving away the condition the upstairs floor. The blackening 110 years old floorboards looked pliable enough to give way to anyone insisting enough. That section of the third floor was already off limits due to safety. It is very peculiar to observe such changes. It doesn’t really unsettle or frighten me, as we are not particularly dim and have been thoroughly informed of the risks at hand and what to look out for, but it's sad. 110 is no age for such a structure. The grand dame could easily have been thriving still, but unaccustomed to the presence of humans in the last 20 years, this building has become a place for something else entirely. The lady in white flies again, but on weathered wings, as though in remembrance of a past life. Though in a once proud creation of mankind, we are strangely out of our element. As this all was neglected, nature itself has been pulling the strings.

“I might cry if this place is demolished” I say, not for the first time that day and only half joking.

But there is a lot of work to be done. Windows all around are leaking furiously and the woodwork is slowly coming undone. It's very cool that someone would dare to take on such a daunting task.

Checking out the rest of this side of the second and third floor, I stumble upon a familiar sight. With my recollection mostly revolving around stills from previous trips, this whole section of the house is familiar, but this room captures me instantly. I remember the pix I took here and decide that they didn’t do it justice. The pix weren’t bad, but this room is soooo nice. I lean on the doorway, feeling so very strangely at home. This room isn’t particular in any sort of obvious way, but I feel that this room is a very good place to be. Might be the calm blue paint and the big windows with the sunny, breathtaking landscape outside that is eating at my brain, but this is very nice. I snap a few more pix, but I instinctively know that this isn’t the sort of stuff that attaches to pixels. Oh well, wouldn’t stop me trying.

We find a few more interesting pieces of furniture on one of the upper levels and I carefully place the tripod, instruct Ramona on which button to push, and then head on up in front of the camera, not for the first time that day. I feel so embarrassed, but I feel very strongly that some of my shots need people and I have, as of yet, not been able to convince any of my friends to take up a career in modeling. Also, I hate asking people for help. I will just have to do. Ramona is having a blast as I am chit chatting, trying to excuse my behavior.

“I can see you like taking pictures of yourself” she says laughing.

I'm wondering if she really knows this little about me, or if she is merely pretending, so she can make me even more ill at ease (if even possible). Most of the pictures are useless though, as my discomfort is very visibly present in my posture. This, needless to say, works very badly when you are supposedly a fearsome, supernatural being.

I did take one self portrait I was happy with though. It was me sitting on the stairs in the basement, looking sort of happy. It was hard-won though as I nearly smashed in the back of my head a few seconds earlier, slipping on the damp stairs. It was also by the way much too damp to actually sit on, so I had to pretend to sit on it instead. My head was even lost in a sort of blue haze that looks way funny. I wasn’t aware of any fog on the lens at that point, and there seems to be non on the pix before nor after. But this place was much to damp to trust anything coming from a camera, especially anything back-lit by a window.

We check back with the guy who is in charge before leaving. As we talk for a while about photography, exploring and so on, me and Ramona (mostly me I suppose) becomes thoroughly convinced that we should come back in a few weeks. So one more trip it is I suppose. I did say that this would be the very last trip, but than again I've said that every time we've been here. We've spent a good four hours, and then even rushing a bit at the end. We head on over to the car and drive home in silence mostly. It always gets like this as I'm the one that talks usually, but after visiting such places I have too much to think about to even realize I'm being dead quiet. Luckily, Ramona is like that always so she hardly notices. This time I stay thoughtfully quite for days though, only speaking when prompted.