I’ve been field researching and exploring allegedly haunted and derelict buildings all my life. It’s who I am and what I do. However, it’s not something that everyone should do. It can be very risky and very unsafe, and a lot needs to be considered before stepping in. I’ve never been scared of encountering a ghost or experiencing paranormal activity, but I am a bit anxious about who I might meet in those buildings. Ghosts I can handle; humans not so much. I’ve never met a bad or nasty ghost, yet I’ve met many humans I couldn’t trust, or that could’ve caused me great harm.
The following is one such time, back before I had my team and when I was investigating locations independently.
In 2007, long before Grey Lynn’s steady march toward polished villas and modern apartment blocks was complete, there stood a crumbling, four-unit block of flats that locals preferred not to talk about. Tucked away and half-forgotten, the building had gained a reputation that went beyond simple urban decay.
Stories circulated of gang-related trouble, whispers of a violent past, and one rumour in particular that refused to fade. A murder, never confirmed, but repeated often enough to become part of the property’s identity. It was said to be haunted. Haunted by something dark and very dangerous. Of course, on hearing that bit, all the other stories I’d heard of gangs and violence seemed overshadowed.
People in the area knew the place. Not by address, but by warning. It was “that block”. the one associated with late-night parties that bled into the early hours, suspected drug dealing, and the kind of confrontations that echoed across quiet streets after dark. Raised voices, the occasional crash, and the ever-present sense that something volatile simmered just beneath the surface. Whether all of it was true didn’t seem to matter.
The reputation alone was enough to keep most at a distance.
By the time I visited, the building was already well into its decline. Broken windows, graffiti creeping across tired walls, and interiors that bore the scars of years of neglect and misuse. I went twice, once during the day and once at night. It was the second visit that stayed with me.
In daylight, the place felt hollow but manageable. You could see the damage clearly: stripped fittings, scattered debris, the remains of lives that had passed through and left in a hurry. Each unit told its own quiet story, but none felt particularly threatening. It was the kind of exploration where curiosity outweighed caution. Night was different.
The darkness didn’t just obscure the building; it changed it. Every room felt tighter, every sound more deliberate. I moved from unit to unit with a camera and lighting gear, documenting what I could, occasionally stopping to sit in silence and call out, letting the camera run in the hope that something, anything, might respond. In the first flat, I didn’t need to wait long.
A noise broke the stillness. Subtle at first. A shuffle, like someone shifting their weight. Then a distinct knock, as if something had been bumped or knocked over. It wasn’t loud, but in the silence it carried weight. The kind of sound that immediately sharpens your focus.
I was alone. At least, I thought I was.
Standing there in the dark, the rational explanations came quickly. Loose debris, a rat, and the building settling. However, none of them felt entirely convincing in the moment and in places like that, instinct tends to speak louder than logic. I decided not to push further into that unit. Whatever had caused the noise, I wasn’t interested in cornering it in a confined, unlit space. I backed out and moved on. It turned out that was the right call.
About half an hour into the exploration, moving between the remaining units, I discovered I wasn’t alone after all. In one of the flats, a man had been squatting. Something not entirely surprising, given the building’s condition, but unexpected nonetheless.
Our initial interaction was calm, even friendly. A brief exchange, a sense of mutual curiosity. But that tone shifted quickly.
The moment he noticed the camera and lighting equipment, his demeanour changed. What had been casual became calculating.
You could see it in the way he looked at the gear, not as tools, b
ut as an opportunity. The friendliness drained out, replaced with something more confrontational. Not outright aggression, but enough of an edge to make it clear the situation could escalate if handled poorly. In that moment, the earlier noise in the first flat took on a different meaning.
This wasn’t a haunted building, not in the way people like to imagine.
I didn’t stay much longer.
Encounters like that have a way of snapping you back to reality. The risks become clearer, less abstract. It’s one thing to chase shadows and unexplained sounds; it’s another to cross paths with someone who sees your presence as an opportunity or a problem.
Two years later, in 2009, the building was demolished. In its place now stands a set of modern apartments, clean and unremarkable, with no visible trace of what once occupied the space. The rumours, the noise, the tension, they’ve all been buried under concrete and fresh paint.
Sometimes, the real danger in paranormal investigation is far more grounded….and far less forgiving.
Please be safe out there. Weigh the pros and cons and take precautions. Be aware of your surroundings and stay alert at all times.
Stay spooky and stay safe.
– Mark
