The Witch’s Castle — Portland, Oregon

Where Irony Outlived the Architect.

Full disclosure: I’ve never been to Portland. But from what I’ve seen, I’d probably hate it. The whole “look how weird we are” branding feels like performance art that ran too long without a director. A city run by people who think self-awareness counts as substance. The kind of place where irony is currency, and everyone’s allergic to sincerity. Oregon itself, though — that’s a different story. The state is beautiful. Real forests. Real silence. Places that don’t feel the need to tweet about it.

And hidden in one of those forests is The Witch’s Castle — a moss-drenched ruin in Forest Park that manages to be creepier than the entire city it hides under. Officially, it’s the remains of an old stone house built in the 1800s, tied to a family murder that metastasized into legend. But unofficially, it’s where Portland’s bored wanderers go to cosplay darkness. The irony is that they’re right — the place is dark. Just not the kind you can hashtag.

Locals report laughter in the trees, footsteps pacing the edge of the clearing, and whispers that follow long after the trail ends. The deeper you go, the colder it gets, as if the ruin is stealing heat just to keep something alive down there. The architecture feels predatory — narrow corridors, vanishing corners, doorways that look too intentional for a ruin. The story everyone repeats — a witch, a curse, a vengeful spirit — is the least interesting part. The real danger is how the forest behaves like it’s tired of accommodating visitors.

I don’t believe in witches. I believe in territory. Some places reject intrusion. The Witch’s Castle doesn’t need to scare you — it just lets you know you’re irrelevant. It’s the opposite of Portland itself: completely devoid of self-importance. Just quiet, ancient resentment covered in moss.

New haunted hometowns every Wednesday.
If your town hides something better, I’ll find it.
Some places fake depth. Others bury you in it. —F.