…’July 2020’…
It was a hot day, and Fearnville House is unfortunate enough to be smack bang in the middle of a dodgy council estate.
During the last 40 years, the estate has built itself around the house, and getting to the grounds means bypassing lots of Karens, many with loud mouths and fat arses.
“Ooooooyyyy.. you can’t go in there”, screamed an obese middle-aged female chav knocking beer cans from the table and soaking her mates with the contents.
At least six of them were getting pissed in this particular garden that happened to be next to the access point of Fearnville House.
The rest immediately shot off their chairs in unison oblivious to the alcohol soaking and started shouting off their mouths.
“Fuck off… that’s private property”
"I'm calling the police, but first I'm going to kick your arses... just let me sup my beer first"
“You fuckers, we’ve had enough of you paranormal freaks... fuck off”
...’They are like a mob possessed’...
I looked at 
Fearnville House has been left derelict by Leeds City Council since 1970, with plans to develop on the land falling through.
Before then, it had a wild history since being built in 1820, even being at the centre of a major city scandal in 1919 when its owners were using the mansion as an illegal whisky still.
Source
…’October 2021’…
“We’re getting in this time and I don’t give a shit what those aggressive pisshead Karens say"
I had pre-warned 
Poking my head around the corner I was relieved to see the garden was empty. Even better access was now a walk-in.
Someone had removed the makeshift barrier stuck in the way to prevent us ‘paranormal freaks’ from entering with ease.
Fearnville House has a reputation for being 'wrecked' and 'dangerous'. It's all normal to me, the more dangerous the bigger the challenge.
The arches to Fearnville House. Once you could have driven a car through there, there’s little chance of that now.
We managed to gain access quite easily, as the building is severely dilapidated.
Upstairs I could see was going to be a slight problem. The second floor was completely gone.
I suspect that could be part of said roof. Treading on this area would not be wise.
There’s something down there… somewhere. Don't tell me that's a shopping trolley.
A light fitting, circa 1970; if the intelligence I have is correct it’s probably older.
Getting over there could well be a problem. Jump and hope for the best?
A small section of Fearnville Houses’ former glory; a red ceiling and another light fitting.
Walking about was quite the problem, but I did manage to navigate over this bad-looking flooring and enter the far room.
Like many derps, it was filled with Pigeon Shit. One gets accustomed to it, and how to avoid it.
…'
Exiting the main house we noticed part of it was blocked by a door that refused to budge.
Circling around the far side, another hole emerged…, one that needed to be crawled through.
One get’s used to scrambling through holes but it’s no longer so easy when you are not twenty anymore.
The red carpet reveals signs of habitation, but the stairs were a little much to scale.
Getting close to the edge meant walking on planks embedded in sharp nails and would that landing take my weight?
More steps led downwards into a murky-looking cellar.
Wayward pipes dangled from every angle, intent on removing your eye if carless.
They kept the wine here or maybe the illegal whisky in the year 1919. The history was oozing from Fearnville House.
Through the broken door, we could see the daylight emanating from the main part of the house.
These stairs were blocked. Could Fearnville House be holding more dark secrets, up there?
Through this crack in the plasterboard were more stairs. The sharp nails were telling me to keep back.
I poked my head through and took a shot. What was up there?… probably fuck all!
Fearnville House is mostly a shell and a place to drink your woes away in today’s world.
We left and didn't see a single Karen.
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