Something Was WRONG in This Abandoned Farmhouse (We Felt It Immediately)

A single footstep—heavy, deliberate—somewhere above us.

We all froze at the exact same time.

“You hear that?” I whispered, turning my head slowly like the movement alone might trigger whatever was up there.

Another step.

Then another.

Not a creak. Not the groan of an old beam settling.

This was the unmistakable rhythm of someone walking.

And the worst part? We hadn’t even made it inside yet.

The Location That “Everyone” Avoided

Welcome back to Morbid Minds—except this time, we weren’t walking into a paid haunted venue with staff on standby and rules posted at the entrance. This was different.

This was a massive abandoned farmhouse out in the wilderness of Warrick—one of those places that looks fake in photos because it’s too big, too isolated, too perfect for something terrible to happen.

A smaller channel—Exploring with Rachie—recommended it to us. She’d sent a few locations before, but this one came with a warning vibe even through her message. Like: You can go… but don’t say I didn’t tell you it’s weird.

We’d seen drone footage.

From the air, the property looked like a rotting kingdom: multiple buildings, broken roofs, windows like empty eye sockets, and a long path leading up to it that felt like a one-way road into trouble.

It was freezing that night. The kind of cold that bites through layers and makes your fingers clumsy—exactly the kind of weather that turns small problems into big ones.

And we already had a problem.

The path split into two tracks.

We guessed.

Wrong.

So there we were—thousands of pounds worth of camera gear—crawling through bushes like idiots because we were too lazy to backtrack five minutes.

I remember laughing and swearing, trying to keep the mood light.

But the woods didn’t laugh back.

Then—

A sharp sound cut through the trees.

A weird, metallic clack… almost like a child’s toy scraping across concrete.

Someone muttered, half joking, “That sounded like Jigsaw.”

And my stomach dropped because the sound genuinely did.

The kind of noise that makes you picture a tricycle rolling in the dark where it shouldn’t be.

We weren’t even inside the farmhouse yet.

And we’d already been scared twice.

“Danger: Unsafe Building”

The farmhouse came into view like a giant carcass.

A sign hung crooked near one of the entrances:

DANGER — UNSAFE BUILDING

As if that would stop anyone.

There was an open door. A broken window big enough to climb through. Multiple structures around the main house like extra mouths waiting to swallow us whole.

We stepped inside the first building and called out, loud and clear:

“Hello? Is anybody in here?”

Nothing.

No reply.

No movement.

Just the sound of our own boots on debris.

Still, we didn’t trust it. Abandoned doesn’t always mean empty.

So we did what we always do when a place feels wrong: we tried to prove it was safe before we blamed anything “paranormal.”

We’d recently bought a thermal device—something that could show a heat signature if a person was hiding nearby. Human or not, we wanted to know.

And it showed nothing.

No heat.

No figures.

No signs of anyone watching us.

Which should’ve been comforting.

But in places like this, silence isn’t comfort.

Silence is suspense.

The Farmhouse Was Bigger Than It Looked

When we found the main hallway, the mood changed instantly.

It wasn’t just “an old house.”

It was a proper house—wide corridors, multiple rooms, staircases, old doors still hanging on their hinges like they were waiting to be slammed.

The kitchen looked like it had been hit by a storm of anger. Punch holes in the walls. Damage that wasn’t from decay—it was from people.

That kind of damage always unsettles me more than ghosts.

Because it means someone came here with energy… and left with none.

Then we found it:

A music room.

And next to it, what looked like a studio—soundproofing, heavy doors, bird mess everywhere, a weird warmth in the air like the room held onto old activity.

We joked a little to keep the nerves down.

But the joke didn’t last.

Because the house started answering back.

The First Bang

It happened upstairs.

A loud bang.

Then another.

Two thuds like footsteps.

We all looked at each other at once.

“It wasn’t me,” I said immediately, because I was filming down the corridor and my feet hadn’t moved.

And they knew it.

That’s when the atmosphere changed from “exploring” to “investigating.”

We told the viewers: we’ve checked the buildings, we haven’t seen anyone, no animals, nothing on thermal. So if we hear things… we can’t just blame it on a random trespasser.

Then we started calling out.

“Is there anybody here with us tonight?”

We set devices down. A music box facing down the corridor. A couple of trigger objects. A little black device that reacts to movement/energy.

And for a while, it was all… nothing.

Just us in a broken house trying to make a dead place speak.

Then we found something that made the whole thing darker.

Bullets on the Floor

At first, I thought it was trash.

Then someone picked one up and the light hit it.

A bullet casing.

Then another.

Then another.

Five in total.

And not tiny ones either—clearly fired, with the back blown open.

The joking stopped.

Because bullets mean one of two things:

Somebody used this place as a shooting spot.
Something happened here that people don’t talk about.

We tried to rationalize it—maybe police training, maybe some kind of range, maybe idiots messing around.

But even if it was “just training,” the thought was the same:

This place had a history of danger.

And we were standing right in the middle of it.

The Voice That Wasn’t One of Us

We moved to another part of the building and started again.

“Did you follow us down here?”

That’s when it happened.

A sound like an old man grunting, close enough to feel personal—like someone standing up from a chair right beside us.

I snapped my head toward the sound.

The others did too.

“Was that you?” someone asked, eyes wide.

“No,” came the answer instantly.

“I heard it too.”

That’s the moment you realize how fragile bravery is.

Because when one person hears something, you can doubt it.

When three people hear it?

You start calculating exits.

Our device spiked—green, orange, then red—like something had stepped between us.

And the scariest part wasn’t the spike.

It was the timing.

The spike happened exactly after the voice.

Like a response.

Like a confirmation.

The Whistle

A few minutes later, it was a whistle—sharp and clear, cutting through the stale air.

Not wind. Not pipes.

A whistle.

We all paused again.

Then another whistle.

Someone cursed under their breath. The mood was shifting from curiosity to fear.

We tried to reason it away—could it be outside? Could it be traffic? Could it be someone messing with us?

But the thermal still showed nothing.

The trail cam outside hadn’t caught anyone entering.

And the building had that heavy, listening silence again.

Like it was holding its breath.

The Hallway

We ended up in the hallway because the noises kept clustering there.

We moved the music box so we could stand without setting it off.

We went quiet.

We told each other to talk low.

And that’s when I heard something that made my scalp tighten:

A deep inhale—close.

A breath that didn’t belong to any of us.

I looked at them.

They looked at me.

“No one did that,” I said.

They swore they didn’t.