As I stood before the first stop on my journey, I was met with the sight of a once-elegant house now teetering on the edge of collapse. The house, a two-story structure, bears the marks of time and neglect, with peeling white paint that clings stubbornly to the wooden walls. The architectural details, though weathered, hint at a bygone era of elegance—ornate gables and decorative woodwork that once showcased the home’s grandeur.
The front of the house is dominated by a large, bay window on the right, its glass long gone, leaving empty frames that stare out like hollow eyes. The left side of the house has partially collapsed, the roof caving in under the weight of years, with debris spilling out onto the front yard. The windows, once likely adorned with curtains and filled with the warmth of life, are now empty voids, giving a glimpse into the desolation within.
Surrounding the house, the overgrown yard encroaches on what remains, with tall grass and weeds reclaiming the space. The dense foliage of the trees above casts dappled shadows over the house, creating a stark contrast between light and darkness—a fitting metaphor for the life this house once knew and the decay that has taken its place.
Despite its dilapidated state, the house exudes a certain dignity, as if standing defiantly against the inevitable pull of time. I captured this moment in history with my camera, knowing that soon, perhaps very soon, this house might give way entirely, leaving nothing but memories and photographs to tell its story. https://www.lykinsfilms.com/hooker
The Journey Begins
This was my only stop before heading to camp for the night. After leaving the old house behind, I made my way to the Natchez Trace, but not before picking up some ingredients and a drink to enjoy later. By the time I arrived at the camping area, dusk had settled in, and it was clear I would be the lone camper for the night. I guess not many people enjoy camping in August in Mississippi. I set up my makeshift kitchen and started a fire. After dinner, I relaxed in my folding chair, sipping from a tin cup filled with a bit of golden liquid, staring into the crackling flames.
Eventually, the day’s exhaustion caught up with me, and I slipped into the back of the Jeep for some much-needed rest. Tomorrow was going to be a great day. I woke to a morning cooler than expected, which was a welcome surprise. I quickly whipped up some sausage and eggs on my portable stove, deciding not to bother reigniting the fire for such a small breakfast. Once everything was packed up, I hit the road, heading towards an abandoned school in Maben. What would I find there? What stories from the past would reveal themselves?
Maben
With coffee in hand, I took to the back roads, making my way to the only school I’d be visiting on this trip. Upon arriving, I followed my usual routine—driving around the property to get a full view before deciding on the best approach. During my circuit, I noticed a basketball goal standing alone in an overgrown field, looking as though it had been dropped right in the middle of the woods. I could only imagine that beneath the thick brush lay an old court, now hidden from view. The front door of the school was wide open, so I decided to enter there.
I parked in the driveway, grabbed my gear, and made my way inside. The gym to the left, constructed entirely of aluminum, caught my attention. I couldn’t help but think about how extreme the temperatures must have been inside, sweltering in summer and freezing in winter. I started with the school itself, and as expected, it had become a dumping ground for old furniture. Someone had once again tried—and failed—to turn the abandoned building into a flea market. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen this attempt, and it seemed to be a common fate for these old schools.
After capturing some shots of the decaying classrooms and hallways, I moved on to the gym. I was thrilled to find a few basketballs still scattered around, adding a touch of nostalgia to the scene. Despite the insulation hanging from the ceiling and some rot in the floor, the gym wasn’t in as bad a shape as I’d expected. I wrapped up with a few exterior shots, then climbed back into the Jeep, ready to head to my next stop.
Wisteria
After exploring the abandoned school in Maben, my journey took me to a place that stirred memories of the book Time Bid Farewell and the movie Somewhere In Time. Both the book and the movie are set in the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island, a place steeped in history and nostalgia. As I approached my next stop, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of déjà vu—this location reminded me similar of those settings. The Wisteria Hotel in Winona, Mississippi, built in the early 1900s, shares the same time period and architectural elegance as the Grand Hotel.
The Wisteria Hotel was once the crown jewel of Winona, a bustling town that thrived due to its strategic location as a transportation hub. With the train station just across the street, the hotel was a prime destination for travelers, businessmen, and vacationers. I could almost hear the echoes of the past—the hustle and bustle of guests arriving, the sound of trains pulling into the station, and the clatter of luggage on the cobblestone streets.
The hotel, with its expansive porches, ornate woodwork, and large windows, was a blend of Southern hospitality and Victorian elegance. It was more than just a place to stay; it was the social heart of the town. The dining room, famous for its fine Southern cuisine, and the ballroom, which hosted numerous events, were the epicenter of local life. I could imagine the lively atmosphere, with people gathering for dinners, dances, and community events, all while the trains came and went just a stone’s throw away.
But like many grand hotels of its era, the Wisteria Hotel’s glory days faded as the rise of automobiles and changes in the economy led to a decline in train travel. The hotel saw fewer guests over the years, and its once-splendid interiors began to show signs of age. Despite this, the Wisteria Hotel remains a significant historical landmark, a testament to Winona’s rich past and the golden age of rail travel. Today, though it no longer buzzes with the same energy, it stands as a quiet reminder of a time when the train station across the street was the heartbeat of the town.
As I stood there, taking it all in, I could almost feel the history come alive. The charm and elegance of the Wisteria Hotel, even in its more subdued state, were undeniable. I could imagine what it must have been like during its prime—a place where travelers and locals alike found respite, connection, and a touch of luxury.
With these thoughts in mind, I captured the essence of the Wisteria Hotel with my camera, preserving the moment before heading back to the Jeep and on to the next stop in my journey.
The Carroll County Jail: A Historical Account
The Carroll County Jail, located in Carrollton, Mississippi, is steeped in history, serving as a testament to the evolution of law enforcement in the region. Built in the late 19th century, the jail was constructed to address the growing need for a formal detention facility in Carroll County. Its design is typical of small-town jails of the era, featuring a combination of functional cells and a residence for the warden and his family. This dual-purpose structure was common in the South, where the sheriff or warden often lived on-site to manage the facility closely.
For decades, the Carroll County Jail was central to the community’s law enforcement efforts. The building witnessed the ebb and flow of local history, housing everyone from petty criminals to more serious offenders. The adjacent home, where the warden’s family lived, added a human touch to the otherwise stark environment of the jail. Stories abound of the warden’s children playing in the yard, their laughter mingling with the more somber sounds from within the jail walls. The jail was not just a place of confinement but also a symbol of the local justice system’s close-knit, community-oriented nature.
However, like many historical structures, the jail eventually outlived its original purpose. As modern facilities were built to meet contemporary standards, the old Carroll County Jail was decommissioned and left to the ravages of time. Yet, its history and architecture have sparked interest in preserving it as a museum, a place where the stories of its past could continue to be told.
As I was photographing the old place, a man approached me, clearly intrigued by my interest in the building. He introduced himself as the Deputy Chief and began to share the rich history of the jail, including his personal desire to see it transformed into a museum.
This encounter was a first for me, and I was grateful for the impromptu history lesson. The Deputy Chief offered to give me a tour of the entire facility, an opportunity I eagerly accepted. As we walked through the jail, he shared stories of its former days, detailing how the warden and his family lived in the adjacent home attached to the jail. One story, in particular, stood out—a family that had just welcomed their first child had to spend the night in the jail after leaving the hospital because flooding in the area prevented them from getting home. It was a vivid reminder of how intertwined the jail was with the daily lives of the community.
The Deputy Chief had to leave, and I still had many more stops to make on my journey. Before we parted, I retrieved my latest book from the Jeep as a gift to thank him for the tour. In return, he handed me a Carroll County Sheriff’s Department patch, a token of appreciation that I would treasure. As we said our goodbyes, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for the hospitality I had received and hopeful that future interactions would be as rewarding as this one.
Exploring the Abandoned Hospital: A Glimpse into the Past
After my visit to the Carroll County Jail, I made my way to a nearby hospital that had been abandoned for quite some time. As I approached the site, I could only hope that there would be a way inside. The hospital consisted of two buildings, and to my relief, one of them had a door standing wide open, inviting me to explore what remained within.
Stepping inside, I was rewarded with a fascinating sight—much of the equipment and furnishings were still intact, a ghostly reminder of the building’s former life. This hospital, completed in 1917, was a marvel of its time, constructed with the support of a local charitable organization, the county, and the city. The early 20th century saw this facility rise as a beacon of modern healthcare, featuring fireproof construction, a state-of-the-art operating room, steam heating, and an electric elevator. For years, it served as a critical healthcare institution for the area, a symbol of progress and community cooperation. Its construction marked a pivotal moment in the community’s history, reflecting the dedication of local efforts to improve public welfare.
As I explored the first floor, I marveled at the remnants of this once-thriving hospital. The rooms still held traces of their past—beds, medical equipment, and even paperwork scattered about, telling stories of the countless lives that had passed through these halls. With the first floor thoroughly documented, I proceeded upstairs, carefully picking my steps, as parts of the second floor had deteriorated to the point where the first floor was visible through gaping holes.
My heart raced as I suddenly heard sirens in the distance. Panic set in when the sirens grew louder and then stopped abruptly right in front of the hospital. My mind raced—did they know I was here? Were they coming in after me? Would it really be that big of a deal for someone to be inside this dilapidated structure? And would they actually use sirens for something like this?
Peeking through a small gap in one of the curtains, I saw a police car moving slowly outside, but to my relief, it was leading a funeral procession, not coming for me. In that moment, I felt a pang of guilt for worrying about myself when, outside, family and friends were about to bury a loved one. I stood there in silent respect, sending out my intentions to the mourners below.
Once the procession moved on, I finished taking pictures of the upstairs rooms and made my way to the second building, which seemed to be the main patient area. Unfortunately, there was no way in without breaking in, and I wasn’t willing to go that far. So, I settled for capturing shots of the building’s exterior, which still presented a glorious sight despite its weathered and worn state. https://www.lykinsfilms.com/modern-marvel
A Visit to Robert Johnson’s Grave: A Legend’s Final Resting Place
Ironically, after leaving the abandoned hospital, my next stop was a graveyard. I was there to visit the final resting place of Robert Johnson, the blues legend whose life and death are shrouded in mystery. His headstone, marked with a handwritten note he penned shortly before his death, serves as a poignant reminder of the man whose music continues to influence generations. Johnson’s death remains an enigma—his death certificate lists no official cause of death. However, someone later scribbled “syphilis” on the back of the document. Another rumor suggests he was poisoned by the jealous boyfriend of a woman with whom Robert was involved.
As I approached his grave, I noticed several other people there, paying their respects to the legendary musician. I took a few pictures of the headstone, careful not to intrude on the solemnity of the moment, and then moved away to give others space. While I was there, an older woman, accompanied by her grandchildren—at least, I think they were her grandchildren—was searching for her mother’s grave. She mentioned that the grave was marked by a low, above-ground stone, but the back edge of the cemetery had not been well maintained, and tall grass obscured much of the area. Concerned about snakes, they hesitated to venture into the overgrown section.
Seeing their apprehension, I offered to help and waded into the thick grass to assist in the search. After a few moments of careful scanning, I found the stone they were looking for. I called out to them, reassuring them that it was safe to come over. As they made their way to the grave, I quietly stepped back, leaving them to have their private time in this sacred place.
A Stop at Gladys’ Restaurant
As the day wore on, I found myself getting hungry and craving something unique—something you can only find at an individually owned restaurant. That’s exactly what I found when I stumbled upon Gladys’ Restaurant in Lexington, Mississippi. This spot is known for its authentic Southern cooking, where the food is hearty, and the atmosphere is as welcoming as a friend’s kitchen.
Gladys’ is a family-owned establishment that has become a beloved fixture in the community. The restaurant is simple, with a homey feel that immediately puts you at ease. The menu offers a variety of Southern staples, from fried catfish to cheeseburgers, all prepared with that unmistakable homemade touch. Locals rave about the friendly service and the comforting flavors that remind them of home.
I decided to go with a classic—cheeseburger and fries. The waitress took my order, and as I waited, I soaked in the atmosphere. The restaurant was cozy, with the low hum of conversations filling the air and the smell of cooking wafting from the kitchen. It felt like the kind of place where people know your name after a few visits. (The pic on the left is from Google Maps)
When my food arrived, I thanked the waitress, and being who I am, I couldn’t resist taking a picture of my meal. Just as I snapped the shot, I heard the waitress chuckle as she walked away—she had seen me. I couldn’t help but laugh to myself, appreciating the moment.
After finishing my meal, I paid the bill, left a tip, and was back on the road, satisfied and ready for the next leg of my journey.
Going Back to Jail: A Visit to Lexington’s Abandoned Lockup
After my stop at Robert Johnson’s grave, my journey took a turn back toward incarceration—this time at an old jail in Lexington, Mississippi. Ironically, while the jail part was still securely locked, I found myself on the outside trying to get in. The thought made me chuckle—how often does someone attempt to break into a jail?
Undeterred, I continued my exploration and discovered a lower subsection with an open door. Venturing inside, I was met with a dank and dark space that had clearly seen better days. The air was thick with the smell of mildew, and the floor was littered with books, papers, and documents, all in various stages of decay. It was hard to tell whether this area had once been used for administrative purposes or perhaps even as a 4H office—whatever it was, it had long since been abandoned.
I held out hope that this section might provide a back way into the jail itself, but, as luck would have it, there was no such passage. I had to content myself with the small bit of exploration I could manage.
The old jail in Lexington stands as a poignant reflection of severe neglect and abandonment. Once an essential part of the town’s infrastructure, it has now fallen into disrepair, with its condition deteriorating significantly over the years. What was once a symbol of law and order now stands as a stark reminder of the town’s past, a relic of a bygone era. Broken windows, crumbling walls, and overgrown vegetation have taken over, leaving the building to decay without any apparent effort at preservation or restoration.
Despite the building’s forlorn state, there was something compelling about its desolation, a silent story told through its deteriorating facade. As I left the site, I couldn’t help but think about the history it held within its walls—now, sadly, locked away and slowly being reclaimed by time.
A Secluded Night on the Natchez Trace
As the day began to wane, it was time to head toward camp. The next explore was quite a distance away, so I had a bit of a drive ahead of me. My route took me along the Natchez Trace, a historic scenic highway that stretches from Natchez, Mississippi, to Nashville, Tennessee. The Trace, once a footpath used by Native Americans, early European settlers, and traders, is now a tranquil road that meanders through nearly 450 miles of natural beauty and rich history. Lined with towering trees, rolling hills, and historical markers, the Trace is a peaceful drive, offering glimpses of the past at every turn.
As I cruised along this storied route, I eventually arrived at a secluded camping spot, hidden away from the main road. The setting was perfect for another night under the stars. I set up camp once again, establishing a makeshift kitchen and starting a fire to cook a nice meal. After dinner, I settled into my folding chair, the warmth of the fire and the quiet of the night providing the perfect end to the day.
The quiet night slowly gave way to the first light of morning, and I packed up my gear, ready to hit the road once more. My next destination was particularly exciting—a church nestled deep within the woods. I couldn’t wait to see what awaited me there.
Discovering Bayou Pierre Church: A Glimpse into the Past
As I climbed the hill, the church slowly came into view. Bayou Pierre Church, nestled in the wilderness, is a one-room structure that closely resembles an old frontier cabin, evoking images of a bygone era. The simplicity and rustic charm of this small church are a testament to the early days of settlement in the area.
Bayou Pierre Church, located in Port Gibson, Mississippi, is steeped in history. Built in the mid-1800s, this humble church served as a spiritual haven for the early settlers of the Bayou Pierre community. The church was named after the nearby Bayou Pierre, a waterway that was crucial to the settlement and development of the region. Constructed from hand-hewn logs, the church’s architecture reflects the practical and unpretentious style of frontier life. The church’s congregation was made up of local farmers and their families, who gathered here each Sunday to worship and find solace in their faith amidst the challenges of frontier living.
As I stepped up into the church’s open door, I was immediately enveloped by a sense of history. It wasn’t hard to imagine how people must have gathered in this tiny place for Sunday services, the sound of hymns filling the air, the preacher’s voice echoing off the wooden walls. The church’s simplicity spoke volumes about the lives of those who built it—people who valued faith, community, and resilience.
The back side of the church offered a stunning contrast to its modest interior. Lush grass carpeted the ground, and from its perch on the hill, the views were nothing short of spectacular. The surrounding landscape stretched out in all directions, a reminder of the natural beauty that must have been a constant companion to the early settlers who came to this little church in the woods.
Standing there, I couldn’t help but feel a deep respect for the history and the stories that Bayou Pierre Church holds within its walls. It was a place of simple yet profound significance, a true reflection of the spirit of those who once gathered here.
A Return to Bethel Church: Documenting a Dwindling Legacy
I had visited Bethel Church before, but I decided to stop by again to see how it was holding up. As I pulled up, I noticed something that immediately gave me pause—the power meter was gone. In my experience, that’s never a good sign. It usually signals the beginning of the end for an abandoned structure.
Bethel Church has a rich history intertwined with the very roots of the Bayou Pierre community. Formed in the 19th century, Bethel Church was established by a portion of the congregation from Bayou Pierre Church, as the community grew and spread out. The members of Bayou Pierre, seeking a new place to worship closer to their expanding homesteads, came together to build Bethel Church. It quickly became a cornerstone for the local population, a place of faith and gathering for those living in the surrounding areas.
Aside from the flags being repositioned, everything else seemed much the same as it had been during my previous visit. The church still stood, a silent sentinel amidst the Mississippi landscape, but the absence of power meant that the days of conditioned air protecting it from the relentless heat, humidity, and rain were over. Without that protection, it wouldn’t be long before the elements began to take their toll.
Mississippi’s climate is unforgiving to buildings left to the mercy of nature. The intense heat, oppressive humidity, and frequent downpours have no pity on abandoned structures. They warp the wood, weaken the foundations, and slowly but surely, erode away the history contained within the walls.
I took the time to document Bethel Church once more, capturing its quiet dignity and the sense of inevitability that hung in the air. As I walked around, I couldn’t help but hope that somehow, it might find a way to hold out against the odds. But deep down, I knew it was futile. The elements would win in the end, as they always do with places left to fade away.
The Adventure to A.K. Shaifer House: A Journey Through Time
Getting to the A.K. Shaifer House turned out to be an adventure I hadn’t anticipated. I turned onto a dirt road that quickly turned into a muddy, narrow trail, the kind that tested both my nerves and my Jeep’s four-wheel drive. The path wound through thick patches of mud and along edges that dropped off steeply into kudzu-covered ravines. I don’t know how many miles I traveled or how long I had been driving, but eventually, it all led to a locked gate with “No Trespassing” signs posted. Sighing, I turned around and made my way to an alternate route.
This second road was different—a dirt road carved through the hills, at times feeling like a tunnel. The sides were so steep and high that I couldn’t see the tops, with trees looming overhead, completing the tunnel-like effect. I reached Buck Creek and found a bridge spanning the water. But the bridge looked so unstable that I wouldn’t have dared to cross it on a bicycle, let alone in my Jeep. A trail ran through the creek to the other side, but it wasn’t something I was willing to risk alone.
I packed some water into my camera bag and decided to cross the rickety bridge on foot. The hike to the A.K. Shaifer House would be 1.8 miles through the woods. As I made my way through the scenic, wooded landscape, I couldn’t help but think about the people who lived in this area back in the 1800s. At one point, as I climbed a steep hill, I spotted a herd of deer off to my right. They scattered as soon as they saw me, vanishing into the trees as if I were a hunter.
Then, all of a sudden, the A.K. Shaifer House revealed itself.
The A.K. Shaifer House, located near Port Gibson, Mississippi, is a historical treasure. Built in the early 19th century, this house played a significant role during the Civil War. On May 1, 1863, it was the site of the first shots fired in the Battle of Port Gibson, a key conflict in General Ulysses S. Grant’s Vicksburg Campaign. The house was used as a field hospital during the battle, with its residents and the surrounding community caught up in the chaos of war. Despite the destruction that surrounded it, the house survived and stands today as a reminder of the region’s tumultuous past. The Shaifer family, who built and lived in the house, were prominent figures in the area, and their home became a part of American history on that fateful day.
As I approached the house through the well-maintained front yard, it became clear that the yard was all that was being taken care of these days. Boards from the ceiling of the front porch were hanging down, showing signs of neglect. I stepped inside the old house, and while the interior wasn’t in terrible shape, it was obvious that it had seen better days.
I photographed each room, counting a total of eleven bats throughout the house. The back portion of the house was in the worst shape. The railings were rotten, some having already collapsed, and an old water shed at the back of the property had completely caved in. After thoroughly documenting the exterior, I prepared for the 1.8-mile hike back to the Jeep. At least this time, the hike would be mostly downhill.
As I headed back, I couldn’t help but wonder how the old house would fare in the coming years. It stood as a silent witness to history, but without care and attention, its future seemed uncertain. I vowed to keep tabs on the place, hoping it would continue to stand for years to come.
A Final Stop: The Mysterious Old Farmhouse
As I headed home, my final stop was an old farmhouse, barely visible from the road, hidden by the overgrowth of trees, bushes, and grass. I almost passed it by, but something about the place drew me in. The porch was rotting, with nature slowly reclaiming the edges of the boards, a stark reminder of the passage of time. Three doors stood open, inviting me in, and I chose to enter through the kitchen.
The scene inside was eerily preserved, as if the occupants had left in a hurry and never returned. The kitchen, though not the cleanest, was still fully stocked. The table and chairs were set as if ready for the next meal, with dishes and utensils waiting for someone who would never come. In the utility room, a washer and dryer sat silently, their days of service long over.
Downstairs, there were two bedrooms, and toys were scattered across the floors, adding a poignant touch to the abandonment. The living room was fully furnished, with a sofa, chairs, and a TV with media players positioned across from them, as though the family had simply stepped out for a moment. A radio sat on a table, a relic from another time. The question loomed in my mind—where did these people go?
Curiosity led me up the stairs to the second floor, where I stepped onto the landing and found three more beds and a desk. I continued down the hall and discovered yet another room with three more beds, including a bunk bed. In total, there were nine beds in this house. It was almost surreal—a home that had clearly accommodated a large family, now silent and empty, with only the echoes of the past remaining.
The other rooms upstairs were being used as storage, filled with items that had once been part of the family’s daily life. As I finished documenting the place and prepared to leave, I couldn’t shake the sense of mystery that surrounded the old farmhouse. It was as if time had stopped here, leaving behind a snapshot of a life that once was, now left to be slowly consumed by the encroaching wilderness. https://www.lykinsfilms.com/beds
The Journey Home: Reflections on an Unforgettable Adventure
With a few hours of riding ahead of me, I had plenty of time to reflect on all the places I had documented over the past three days. Each stop had offered its own unique glimpse into the past, from the crumbling elegance of the old homes and churches to the eerie stillness of the abandoned hospital and farmhouse. It had been an amazing journey, filled with moments of discovery and quiet reflection.
The heat had been relentless—what else could you expect in Mississippi in August? But even as the sun bore down, the sweat and exhaustion were worth every moment spent exploring these forgotten places. Each site told its own story, etched in weathered wood and crumbling brick, and I felt privileged to capture those stories through my lens.
As I made my way home, the memories of this trip lingered, and I knew they would stay with me for a long time. There’s something profoundly moving about witnessing the passage of time in such a tangible way, and I couldn’t wait to see where my next adventure would take me.
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