Tucked behind boarded-up shops and flickering streetlamps lies an alley where the city forgot—and something else remembered. Locals call it The Last Mile, a stretch of brick and broken glass where echoes don’t fade and shadows twitch just out of reach. Once a shortcut for factory workers in the early 20th century, the alley was later used to transport the dead during the 1918 pandemic—when morgues were full and time was short.

City records won’t admit it exists. Street maps blur at that block. But urban explorers whisper about a stretch of alley that seems longer coming out than going in. Visitors report the rustling of trash with no wind, the soft sob of someone not quite visible, and the sudden appearance of soot-covered handprints on walls that were clean moments before. Phones die. GPS goes static. And sometimes—just sometimes—your own footsteps stop echoing.

Vacation Tip: Come alone. The alley doesn’t speak to groups.