A Place to Stay

Last updated on March 17, 2026

After moving back to Kentucky from Cincinnati, I set out to revisit the long-abandoned Frenchburg Presbyterian College and found an unexpected caretaker still living inside the remote campus.

Six years in another state changed me. After living in Cincinnati and getting used to urban life, I moved back to Kentucky to reestablish my roots. I packed my belongings, sold my house, and settled into an old factory in the middle of Lexington.

By then, I had grown too accustomed to the land of Buckeyes and cornfields. Ohio was a large state to explore, but it never truly felt like home, even though I had lived only across the river from Kentucky. Still, it was a remarkable place to wander. Its Rust Belt cities and abandoned buildings offered what felt like an endless stream of places to explore.

Returning to Kentucky brought a different landscape in every sense. The terrain was hillier, rougher, and more remote. The abandoned places were smaller, more scattered, and harder to reach. Exploring them required more legwork, more persistence, and more patience.

For nearly a decade, I had tried to photograph the interior of Frenchburg Presbyterian College. The college had been a mission-based educational and healthcare institution operated by the United Presbyterian Church, serving at various times as both a high school and a hospital. Frenchburg was not far from the University of Kentucky when I attended years earlier, but it still felt remote. Making follow-up trips just to check on the property was difficult, and the campus seemed to have multiple, vaguely defined owners. Finding contact information had proven fruitless.

On the first good Saturday I had after moving back to Kentucky, I drove out to Frenchburg to see what had become of the college. I loaded my camera gear and tripod into the car and followed the twisting two-lane roads east from Lexington into the hills. By then, I had assumed the campus had been demolished or stripped. It had been closed for decades, after all, and there was only so much abuse a building could take before it disappeared.

When I pulled up behind the college, I noticed a truck parked in a freshly mowed lot beside one of the dormitories. A gaunt man stepped out of a side entrance and looked in my direction. Unsure what to make of it, I waved.

To my surprise, he waved back and motioned for me to park beside his truck. I did, assuming I might have a chance to plead for access. He walked up to my window and asked simply, “You here to look at the old school?”

I nodded and pointed to my camera equipment.

“Well, come on in,” he said. “I haven’t had a visitor all day.”

I slung my camera bag over my shoulder, grabbed the tripod, and followed him into the dormitory. It quickly became clear that he was living there in an improvised way. A flick of the light switch confirmed there was no electricity.

“Yes sir, I live here,” he said. “It’s better than being on the streets, and I’ve got a roof over my head. No electric, no water, but that’s fine. I’ve got daylight to do work.”

He had taken it upon himself to secure the building from trespassers and had started minor stabilization work. As he led me upstairs, he pointed out what he had done: floor tiles removed to expose hardwood beneath, broken windows patched, openings in the roof covered to keep out the weather.

“It’s watertight now,” he said. “Nothing gets in.”

A noise downstairs interrupted us. He led me back down and introduced me to several friends who were helping with repairs. After that, I was free to wander.

I spent about an hour inside the building, which proved less remarkable than I had imagined after so many years of anticipation. From there, I walked over to the old cafeteria. It was in far worse condition—waterlogged, open to the weather, and thick with mosquitoes.

After ten minutes of scratching at my legs and dodging rain dripping through the broken roof, I headed back toward my car and said my goodbyes.

“You take care,” he said. “And let me know if you need a place to stay.”