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Mr. P. Explores, Cleveland, OH (2026)

10/18/2026

Along the waterfront in Brooklyn’s Sunset Park neighborhood stands one of New York City’s most extraordinary examples of early 20th-century industrial architecture: the Brooklyn Army Terminal. While the enormous complex is impressive from the outside, its most remarkable feature is hidden within Building B, where a cavernous, eight-story atrium, towering concrete columns, staggered balconies, and old railroad tracks create a scene that looks almost like something out of a science fiction movie. It is an astonishing piece of engineering, a reminder of an era when American industry built on a truly monumental scale.

Construction of the Brooklyn Army Terminal began in 1918, during the final months of World War I. The United States Army needed a massive transportation and supply center capable of moving troops, weapons, equipment, and other military supplies from American railroads onto ships bound for Europe. The complex was designed by renowned architect Cass Gilbert, whose other famous works include New York City's Woolworth Building and the United States Supreme Court Building in Washington, D.C. Unlike those highly ornamented landmarks, however, the Brooklyn Army Terminal was designed almost entirely around functionality, efficiency, and the movement of enormous quantities of cargo. Completed in September 1919, after World War I had already ended, the complex was among the largest reinforced-concrete structures ever constructed at the time.

Building B was the architectural centerpiece of the terminal. Its most spectacular feature was a gigantic central atrium running nearly the entire length of the building, surrounded by eight stories of concrete loading platforms. Rather than having balconies stacked directly above one another, Gilbert designed them in an alternating, staggered arrangement. This unusual configuration allowed enormous overhead traveling cranes to lift cargo from railroad cars below and deposit it directly onto loading platforms at different levels. Two massive five-ton electric cranes traveled along tracks high above the atrium floor, moving supplies throughout the building. Freight trains could actually enter the structure itself, where their cargo was unloaded and distributed throughout the warehouses. Elevated bridges connected the buildings, while nearby waterfront piers allowed supplies to be transferred directly onto waiting ships. It was an incredibly advanced transportation system for its time, essentially an enormous mechanical machine designed to move the materials of war.

Although the terminal was completed too late to make a significant contribution to World War I, it became absolutely essential during World War II. The complex served as headquarters for the New York Port of Embarkation, a vast military transportation network responsible for moving American troops and supplies overseas. More than 20,000 military and civilian workers were employed at the terminal during the war years, with some accounts placing peak employment even higher. The wider port operation handled approximately 3.2 million troops and 37 million tons of military cargo during the conflict. Day and night, trains arrived, cranes operated, trucks moved equipment, and ships departed the waterfront carrying everything from am******on and vehicles to food, clothing, and medical supplies. For countless American servicemen, the Brooklyn waterfront was one of the last places they saw before heading overseas.

One of the terminal's most famous moments came in September 1958, when a young Elvis Presley departed from Brooklyn aboard a military transport ship bound for Germany. Already one of the biggest musical stars in America, Presley was serving in the United States Army and was being sent overseas for military duty. His departure attracted enormous attention from reporters, photographers, and fans. It remains one of the more unusual chapters in the terminal's history, connecting this massive industrial complex to one of the most recognizable entertainers of the 20th century.

Following World War II, the Brooklyn Army Terminal continued serving military needs throughout the early Cold War. However, changes in shipping technology gradually made its enormous infrastructure less practical. The development of standardized shipping containers, modern cargo-handling equipment, and newer port facilities reduced the need for the elaborate system of railroad tracks, cranes, and staggered loading platforms that had once made Building B so revolutionary. The Army closed the installation as a military base in 1966, although government agencies and private businesses continued using portions of the complex into the early 1970s.

As activity declined, enormous sections of the terminal became underused, and the aging buildings entered a period of uncertainty. Building B's once-bustling atrium grew quiet, its cranes sat idle, and the railroad tracks that had carried thousands of freight cars gradually became obsolete. Although the terminal was never completely abandoned in the traditional sense, portions of the property experienced the deterioration and neglect familiar to so many former industrial and military facilities. Its tremendous size made demolition expensive, while converting millions of square feet of aging warehouse space into something useful presented an equally enormous challenge. For a time, the future of the complex was far from certain.

Fortunately, the Brooklyn Army Terminal escaped the wrecking ball. New York City purchased the property from the federal government in 1981, recognizing its potential as a center for manufacturing, warehousing, and commercial activity. A massive redevelopment effort began during the 1980s, with Building B among the first areas targeted for rehabilitation. Aging mechanical systems were replaced, elevators were modernized, utilities were upgraded, and enormous warehouse floors were divided into spaces suitable for smaller industrial tenants. Rather than demolishing the historic structures, the city adapted them for an entirely different economic era. The terminal was also added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1983, recognizing its architectural and historical significance.

Perhaps the most remarkable aspect of the redevelopment was the decision to preserve Building B's extraordinary central atrium. Although freight trains no longer enter the building and its enormous overhead cranes are no longer operational, much of the original industrial infrastructure remains intact. The old cranes still hang high above the floor, while the staggered concrete balconies continue to overlook the enormous open space. Railroad tracks remain embedded in the ground, and faded markings identifying destinations such as Greece, India, South America, and the Azores can still be found throughout the atrium. Even an old Long Island Rail Road passenger car was placed inside the space as a historical curiosity. The result is an almost surreal combination of functioning modern industrial space and preserved military transportation history.

Today, the Brooklyn Army Terminal is one of New York City's most successful examples of adaptive reuse. Managed by the New York City Economic Development Corporation, the 59-acre waterfront campus contains more than 4.3 million square feet of space and accommodates over 100 businesses employing approximately 3,500 people. Its tenants represent a wide variety of industries, including advanced manufacturing, food production, biotechnology, fashion, creative businesses, and climate technology. New tenants continued moving into the complex in 2026, demonstrating that this century-old industrial giant still has an important economic role to play. The terminal also hosts cultural events, public art, and community activities, while its historic atrium and waterfront public spaces can be visited by the public.

For those fascinated by abandoned industrial architecture, Building B is particularly interesting because it looks like a place that should have been left behind decades ago. Its immense concrete interior, silent cranes, weathered railroad tracks, and seemingly endless rows of balconies possess the atmosphere of a forgotten industrial ruin. Yet, unlike so many comparable structures throughout the Rust Belt and elsewhere, it never became another casualty of demolition or permanent abandonment. Instead, it was given a second life without sacrificing the architectural features that made it extraordinary in the first place.

The Brooklyn Army Terminal is a reminder that enormous industrial buildings do not necessarily have to become obsolete simply because the industries or technologies that created them have disappeared. Sometimes, the best way to preserve history is to give an old building a new purpose while allowing its original character to remain visible. More than a century after its construction, Building B still stands as a magnificent monument to American engineering, military logistics, and the possibilities of historic preservation. It is proof that even the most imposing industrial giants can find new life when someone recognizes their potential rather than simply seeing an outdated building occupying valuable real estate.

I had the chance to revisit this massive work of industrial art in the summer of 2025. The day was perfect and the light was in just the right time of the day to achieve some amazing shadows. If you are ever in the Brooklyn area, definitely stop by and have a look at this amazing structure (and YES, it did appear in both the first and second season of the TV show "Fallout," acting as an HQ of the Enclave!). Have a great Saturday, all and enjoy the view! -Mr. P.

10/17/2026

A look through a vast and varied industrial property in Chicago, Illinois that appeared to have been built in stages and in wildly different architectural styles over many years. A place bursting with interesting and colorful graffiti pieces, stunning reflections in puddles and lines for days. Sadly, the whole building was demolished a few years back for redevelopment; I was surprised that a place like this lasted as long as it did, considering how high property values are in Chicago. In any case, enjoy the view and have a wonderful Saturday and a kick off to your weekend! -Mr. P.

10/16/2026

Wandering through an abandoned storage warehouse last autumn in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. This massive reinforced concrete behemoth was once used by the US Navy to store documents and personnel records. Now, it stands empty, with plenty of reminders that it was once an active and bustling place decades ago. Enjoy the short tour and have a great Friday out there, all! -Mr. P.

10/15/2026

Tucked away in Cleveland’s old industrial corridor between Carnegie and Cedar Avenues stands a reminder of the city’s manufacturing past and the environmental consequences that sometimes came with it. The former Accurate Plating Company was once a busy metal-finishing operation that served Cleveland’s industrial economy. Today, its story is one of manufacturing, pollution, abandonment, vandalism, and efforts to give a badly neglected industrial property a second life.

The buildings themselves predate Accurate Plating by several decades. Constructed in stages between approximately 1913 and 1930, the industrial complex originally housed operations associated with the Cleveland Electric Illuminating Company before being used for warehousing and other industrial purposes. The structures were typical of Cleveland's early twentieth-century industrial architecture, with substantial brick walls, large factory windows, and utilitarian interiors designed for manufacturing rather than appearance. They stood in a neighborhood once crowded with factories, warehouses, railroad facilities, and machine shops, not far from the enormous Warner & Swasey complex and other industrial landmarks.

Accurate Plating began operating at the property around 1965, with the company formally incorporated in 1967. Founded by Charles J. Foley, the business specialized in electroplating, polishing, and finishing metal components. Electroplating involves applying thin layers of metal to manufactured parts through an electrochemical process, improving their resistance to corrosion, durability, and appearance. Accurate Plating worked with materials and processes involving zinc, nickel, brass, and cadmium, among others. Its operations included grinding, polishing, chemical cleaning, plating baths, and rinsing. It was the sort of specialized industrial business that rarely attracted public attention but helped support the larger manufacturing economy of Northeast Ohio.

Unfortunately, metal plating can also produce substantial quantities of hazardous waste. The chemicals involved, particularly cyanide compounds and certain heavy metals, require careful handling, treatment, and disposal. By the early 2000s, Accurate Plating had developed a troubling record of environmental violations. Beginning in 2004, Ohio's Environmental Protection Agency conducted repeated inspections and discovered numerous problems involving the handling and storage of hazardous materials. The company was accused of storing hazardous waste without the proper permit, failing to maintain properly closed and labeled containers, and neglecting required employee training and environmental reporting.

In December 2005, Accurate Plating reached a settlement with the Ohio EPA requiring the company to remove improperly stored hazardous waste and pay a $25,000 civil penalty. The agreement was intended to bring the operation back into compliance, but the company's environmental problems were far from over.

By the middle of 2010, Accurate Plating had ceased operations. The factory was closed, its employees were gone, and much of the equipment and chemical waste remained behind. According to federal environmental records, the owner attempted to organize and label the abandoned waste for disposal but lacked the money necessary to have it properly removed. What remained was not simply another empty Cleveland factory. It was a potentially dangerous industrial site containing chemical residues, contaminated equipment, and hazardous liquids.

Things deteriorated quickly. Vandals repeatedly broke into the abandoned factory, stealing copper plumbing, electrical wiring, and anything else that could be sold for scrap. On November 5, 2010, Cleveland firefighters responded to a blaze at the property, with investigators suspecting arson. The building's condition and unsecured hazardous materials created an increasingly serious problem for the surrounding neighborhood.

When environmental officials inspected the site later that November, they documented 56 drums containing hazardous waste, a 250-gallon container also identified as hazardous waste, and another 48 drums labeled as nonhazardous. Even more concerning were underground tanks containing cyanide-contaminated rinse water, treatment pits, and plating lines filled with chemical sludge. Some of the factory's wastewater-treatment equipment still contained untreated industrial waste. The possibility of additional fires, leaking chemicals, or exposure to trespassers made the abandoned property especially troublesome.

In 2011, the United States Environmental Protection Agency became directly involved. Following an inspection in April, federal officials authorized an emergency removal action in June to address the hazardous materials abandoned at the property. Accurate Plating was entered into the federal Superfund program as a removal-action site, although it was not placed on the National Priorities List reserved for the country's most serious long-term cleanup projects. Its industrial legacy had become an environmental liability.

Over the following years, the empty factory became another of Cleveland's increasingly familiar industrial ruins. Photographs documented a deteriorating red-brick building with boarded windows, badly damaged interiors, missing equipment, and sections of roof open to the elements. Vegetation began pushing into the abandoned manufacturing spaces, while offices were stripped and ransacked. What had once been a functioning industrial workplace was slowly being reclaimed by weather, neglect, and nature. For urban explorers and industrial photographers, the building offered a striking glimpse of Cleveland's manufacturing decline, although its contamination history made it considerably more hazardous than an ordinary abandoned warehouse.

However, the property's story did not end with abandonment. In 2022, the former Accurate Plating site received a significant opportunity for redevelopment when the state of Ohio awarded approximately $2.18 million in brownfield cleanup funding to Crooked River Equity Partners. The proposed project involved addressing the property's environmental contamination and preparing the former industrial complex for productive reuse. Electric vehicle manufacturer LAND Energy was identified as a prospective occupant, with plans to establish its headquarters at the former factory. The announcement offered hope that a long-neglected piece of Cleveland's industrial landscape might finally become useful again. Though things were looking up, no new businesses entered the old facility. We were able to take these photos in the spring of 2023, and at that point, the roof had been removed, perhaps in an attempt to build a new one to ready it for a new occupant. Sadly, it has been like this a few years past that visit, with no immediate signs that anything is happening there.

As of October 2026, the property is advertised for possible warehouse, manufacturing, laboratory, biomedical, and other innovative industrial uses. The listing describes an existing masonry-and-brick structure with loading facilities and parking, rather than an empty parcel awaiting construction. Though every now and again, trucks have been seen parked on the property, it remains to be seen if any new businesses are preparing to renovate and reuse the building. It has been resealed since our visit in 2023.

The old Accurate Plating factory represents something particularly familiar throughout Cleveland and the greater Rust Belt. These smaller industrial operations seldom received the attention given to massive steel mills or automobile assembly plants, but they were essential parts of the manufacturing network that once defined the region. They employed workers, supported other industries, and occupied buildings that became woven into the physical character of their neighborhoods. Unfortunately, when some of these businesses disappeared, they left behind more than empty factories. They left environmental problems, deteriorating buildings, and expensive cleanup responsibilities for the next generation. Yet the possibility of reusing Accurate Plating also reflects a changing attitude toward Cleveland's industrial heritage. Rather than simply allowing another abandoned factory to collapse or disappear beneath a bulldozer, there is an opportunity to reclaim an existing industrial property and put it back to work. Whether the old Accurate Plating complex eventually becomes home to another manufacturer, a research facility, or something entirely different remains to be seen. For now, it stands as another chapter in Cleveland's complicated industrial history, a place where the achievements of the manufacturing past, the consequences of neglect, and the possibilities of a new future all meet beneath the same old brick walls.

Enjoy the set and have a great day out there, all. -Mr. P.

10/14/2026

For more than half a century, the Northville Psychiatric Hospital stood along Seven Mile Road in Northville Township, northwest of Detroit, Michigan. Once considered one of the most modern mental health facilities in the country, the sprawling institution eventually became one of southeastern Michigan's most infamous abandoned landmarks. Its enormous buildings, darkened corridors, underground tunnels, and reputation for paranormal activity made it a magnet for urban explorers, photographers, ghost hunters, and curiosity seekers. Today, nearly all of it has vanished, leaving behind a complicated legacy of psychiatric treatment, institutional decline, and the changing ways America has dealt with mental illness.

Opened in 1952, the Northville State Psychiatric Hospital was constructed on more than 400 acres of wooded property as part of Michigan's expanding state mental health system. At the time, large psychiatric institutions were considered essential for treating people with serious mental illnesses, particularly before modern psychiatric medications and community-based treatment became widely available. Northville was designed to accommodate more than 1,000 patients and represented an ambitious attempt to create a modern, scientifically oriented psychiatric hospital.

The centerpiece of the complex was an imposing nine-story hospital building, containing approximately 252,000 square feet. Its architecture was decidedly institutional, emphasizing functionality, efficiency, and the medical philosophy of the mid-20th century. Long corridors connected patient wards, treatment rooms, offices, and support facilities. Elsewhere on the property stood additional medical and administrative buildings, maintenance facilities, a powerhouse, laundry buildings, and other structures necessary to operate what was essentially a small, self-contained community. An extensive network of underground utility tunnels connected portions of the complex, allowing maintenance personnel to service the sprawling institution.

Despite the grim reputation that psychiatric hospitals often acquire, Northville was initially regarded as progressive. Patients participated in innovative art and music therapy programs, staged theatrical performances, learned musical instruments, worked in gardens, and studied practical skills such as mechanics. These activities were intended to provide structure, recreation, and opportunities for rehabilitation. The wooded grounds also offered a comparatively peaceful setting away from the surrounding metropolitan area. For many patients and employees, Northville was far more than a collection of hospital wards. It was a community where people lived, worked, formed relationships, and struggled toward recovery.

However, like many state psychiatric institutions, Northville experienced substantial changes as American mental health treatment evolved. Beginning in the 1960s and accelerating in subsequent decades, the movement toward deinstitutionalization gradually reduced reliance on enormous state-operated hospitals. New psychiatric medications, changing treatment philosophies, concerns about patients' rights, and government efforts to reduce institutional costs all contributed to the decline of the old hospital system. Although community-based treatment was intended to replace institutional care, adequate services and funding did not always follow, leaving many vulnerable individuals without sufficient support.

Northville continued operating through these changes, but its future became increasingly uncertain. As Michigan consolidated its psychiatric services and closed older facilities, Northville became one of the last remaining state psychiatric hospitals in the state. After 51 years of operation, the institution finally closed in May 2003, ending an era in southeastern Michigan's mental health history.

What followed was a particularly dramatic example of institutional abandonment. The buildings were left standing, and over the following years, deterioration accelerated. Broken windows, water infiltration, vandalism, graffiti, and metal theft gradually transformed the once-busy hospital into a decaying labyrinth. Paint peeled from walls, ceiling tiles collapsed, vegetation reclaimed portions of the grounds, and debris accumulated throughout the complex. The underground tunnels, enormous empty wards, and abandoned treatment spaces gave the property an atmosphere that was simultaneously fascinating and deeply unsettling.

Northville quickly developed a reputation as one of Michigan's most notorious abandoned locations. Urban explorers traveled from across the region to photograph its deteriorating architecture, while thrill seekers and ghost hunters were attracted by its ominous appearance. As one would expect, stories circulated about strange noises, unexplained footsteps, shadowy figures, and the supposed spirits of former patients wandering the corridors. The hospital's underground tunnels became especially popular subjects of local legends, with tales of mysterious sounds and unsettling encounters in the darkness.

As with many abandoned psychiatric hospitals, however, separating documented history from folklore is important. There is no credible scientific evidence establishing that Northville was haunted, and many of its more sensational stories grew through internet discussions, ghost-hunting accounts, and local rumor. The genuine history of the people treated there is compelling enough without inventing horrors or assuming that mental illness itself makes a place sinister.

The abandoned hospital also became a serious public safety problem. Trespassers routinely entered the property despite fencing and posted warnings, while scrappers removed valuable materials and damaged the structures. Asbestos contamination, broken glass, unstable flooring, exposed shafts, and deteriorating buildings made exploration increasingly dangerous. In 2017 alone, Northville Township police reported catching approximately 300 trespassers, with offenders facing fines of $500. Officials stepped up patrols as the site became an expensive and persistent headache for local authorities.

The township had already begun planning for the property's future. In 2009, Northville Township acquired approximately 350 acres of the former hospital grounds for roughly $23.5 million following voter approval of a property tax millage. The purchase included approximately 20 deteriorating buildings, a water tower, utility tunnels, and the remnants of the hospital's extensive infrastructure. The intention was to preserve much of the land as public open space and eventually transform the abandoned institution into something beneficial for the community.

Demolition began in stages, with the first buildings removed in 2012. The most significant loss came in 2018, when crews demolished the enormous nine-story main hospital building that had dominated the property for decades. Its removal dramatically changed the landscape, erasing the most recognizable symbol of the old institution. Additional demolition followed, including a major project in 2022 to clear the remaining deteriorating structures. Environmental remediation was a substantial part of the work, particularly because of asbestos and other hazardous materials left behind in the abandoned buildings.

Today, the former hospital grounds are being transformed into Legacy Park, a major public recreation and open-space project. Plans emphasize natural areas, hiking and mountain biking trails, accessible recreation, and the preservation of the property's wooded landscape. The township has also planned an Essential Services Complex for public safety and municipal operations. Rather than allowing the property to remain a fenced-off wasteland, the community has chosen to reclaim it for public use.

One structure from the original hospital complex, Building 14, the former laundry facility, has survived the demolition. Officials initially considered converting it into a flexible public programming and meeting space. However, the cost of preparing the deteriorated building for renovation has raised questions about whether preservation is financially practical. As of 2026, its ultimate future remains under evaluation.

For those who explored or photographed Northville during its abandoned years, the hospital was an unforgettable place. Its enormous scale, cavernous hallways, weathered architecture, overgrown paths and eerie silence created an atmosphere that few abandoned buildings could match. But beyond the graffiti, ghost stories, and haunting photographs was a place where thousands of people spent some of the most difficult periods of their lives, and where generations of healthcare workers attempted to help them.

The buildings are almost entirely gone now, and the land is slowly finding a new purpose. Yet Northville remains an important chapter in Michigan's institutional history, representing both the ambitions and shortcomings of America's mid-century psychiatric system. Its transformation from a massive mental hospital to an abandoned ruin and finally into a public park is another example of how places once considered permanent can disappear, leaving their stories behind for future generations to remember.

These photos were taken partially in 2021, and then again, shortly before the 2022 demolition began on the property. While we knew that the demolition was coming, we had no idea at the time that this would be our last time to document the complex before it was gone. Enjoy the set, have a great middle to your week and have a fantastic day out there, all! -Mr. P.

10/13/2026

Tucked away on a lonely rural road outside of Mansfield, Ohio, the remains of the Richland Moulded Brick Company are a fascinating reminder of the region's once-thriving brickmaking industry. Unlike the massive steel mills and automobile factories more commonly associated with the Rust Belt, this industrial complex produced something considerably more ordinary, but equally important: the bricks and paving materials used to construct buildings, sidewalks, streets, and other infrastructure throughout the region.

The company took advantage of the area's natural shale deposits, which provided the raw material necessary for manufacturing durable molded bricks. The sprawling industrial property eventually consisted of two manufacturing plants, associated processing buildings, storage areas, and facilities for handling raw materials and finished products. Its architecture was primarily functional, with heavy masonry construction, large industrial openings, and utilitarian structures designed around the demanding process of brick production. Shale was excavated, crushed, shaped into bricks, dried, and fired at high temperatures before being shipped to customers. It was dirty, physically demanding work, but an important part of the industrial economy that helped build northeastern Ohio.

The complex operated for decades, although its two plants had considerably different lifespans. Plant 1 ceased operations during the 1970s, while Plant 2 continued manufacturing until 2006. By that point, changing economic conditions and the decline of older industrial manufacturing operations had taken their toll. With the shutdown of the second plant, the property entered a period of abandonment and deterioration.

The abandoned property also developed a troublesome environmental history. Inspections by the Ohio Environmental Protection Agency in 2001 and 2002 uncovered hazardous-waste handling and storage violations, resulting in a 2005 settlement and a $20,100 civil penalty. After manufacturing ended, hazardous materials remained on the grounds, prompting additional enforcement actions. The property was sold in July 2012 to the Richland Shale Road Rail Depot, but cleanup disputes continued. Eventually, the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency became involved, issuing a formal cleanup agreement in September 2013.

Over the years, portions of the industrial complex have disappeared through deterioration and partial demolition, leaving behind a fragmented collection of surviving structures and industrial remnants. What had once been a working brick factory became another example of the difficult legacy of abandoned manufacturing properties, where environmental contamination, aging infrastructure, and the expense of redevelopment complicate efforts to find a new purpose for the land. The precise dates and extent of the partial demolition are not well documented in the available public records.

Today, the former Richland Moulded Brick property remains an intriguing piece of Mansfield's industrial heritage. Although it never enjoyed the name recognition of the city's Westinghouse or Ohio Brass operations, its contribution was no less tangible. Its products helped construct the buildings and communities of an expanding industrial region. There is something particularly ironic about a brick factory slowly falling apart: a place that once manufactured the materials intended to make other buildings last for generations has itself become a casualty of time, neglect, and industrial decline.

These photos were taken on a winter day in 2023, in a semi-warm period between snowfalls. I can recall this being a relatively balmy day for the month we arrived to re-explore document this one. Enjoy the set and have a wonderful Tuesday out there all! -Mr. P.

Mr. P. Explores

10/18/2026

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