Centralia: A Ghost Town Still Breathing

I started the day parked behind a quiet Cracker Barrel in Frackville, PA—one of those rare overnight spots that actually goes still after 10pm. I had a gift card burning a hole in my pocket, so I went inside for a slow breakfast and a bit of online work while the usual mix of travelers and locals filtered in and out. Cracker Barrel people-watching should be a recognized hobby.

Frackville Geyser

My first stop was what’s marked on the map as the Frackville Geyser. No signage, no crowd—just a raw surge of water shooting up like a ruptured fire hose, fed from deep underground. The area reeked of sulfur, and the reddish-orange mud coated everything around. The water tumbled down into a streambed far below. It felt like the earth itself was venting frustration. I stood there for a while, the only visitor, watching the relentless flow.

Venting Gases

From there, I drove a mile or so uphill toward a spot labeled “Active Centralia Smoking Vent” on Google Maps. The pin was surprisingly accurate. I pulled off onto a small gravel shoulder and bushwhacked a short, sketchy trail up through the woods. At the top, thin plumes of smoke curled up from a crack in the ground. I hovered my hand over the opening and could feel the warmth of the earth—one of the last visible remnants of the fire still smoldering deep below.

Entering Centralia

Centralia, Pennsylvania was the site of the infamous 1962 underground mine fire—the result of a garbage burn gone wrong (there many other theroies on how / why it started). A fire crew lit the town landfill to reduce odor, and the flames reached the anthracite coal seams below. The fire caught, spread, and never stopped. Over the decades, it hollowed out the town—both literally and figuratively—until only a few residents and the bones of a community remained.

Saint Ignatius Cemetery

The cemeteries are surprisingly well cared for. Flags fluttered, gravestones stood straight, and someone was out mowing. "No Trespassing" signs stood at the entrances, though one oddly read, “Open from 7am till ???.” I kept my distance but appreciated the care still given to those who once lived here.

Ukrainian Orthodox Church

I made my way up to the Ukrainian Orthodox church overlooking the town. It, too, is well-maintained and clearly still used—though it's surrounded by cameras and warning signs. I took a few respectful photos from afar, still unsure who keeps it running or who attends.

Driving through what remains of Centralia’s streets is a surreal experience. Center Street still has the shape of a town center, with a boulevard feel and hints of what once was—old sewer grates, sidewalk curbs, a fragment of a stone wall here, a piece of chain-link fence there. Street names like Trautwine and Park remain, but the homes are gone. Trees push through cracked sidewalks. Grass devours wide cement paths that once welcomed front porch conversations.

Wandering the streets is like walking through a memory half-erased. A bit of fence here, a crumbling foundation there. Center Street still forks like a town common, and the remains of the old sewer system are visible beneath the weeds and runoff.

Nature is reclaiming everything. Washouts spill across roads that no longer lead to homes. Trees are filling in lots once cleared. On Trautwine Street, I passed a “No Parking” sign warning that unauthorized vehicles would be towed—though it’s hard to imagine by whom. The power lines and streetlights remain standing, relics of a town that no longer needs them.

A stone wall crumbles at the edge of what was once a property. The building it framed is long gone.

I took some shots of telephone poles (with the old foot step pieces), their wires snipped or hanging loose. Some look surprisingly new, but none seem to connect to anything. Just ghosts of connection.

Last Remaining Homes

I’ve read that there are only 5 remaining homes in Centralia. This one remains but seemed unoccupied. This was once a thriving neighborhood with sidewalks, playgrounds, and families going about their daily business.

Park Street

Oddly, some of the roads are still patched and maintained. I’m not sure why—there are no homes here anymore. Maybe it’s for all the visitors who still make the pilgrimage, drawn in by curiosity or memory. I wondered if people that grew up here still come back to visit the place they called home.

Despite all the online warnings about hazardous air, I only caught the smell of smoke a couple of times. The rest of the day felt normal enough—at least from a respiratory standpoint.

I parked the van for a while near a cemetery (I believe there are three) and relaxed. People kept walking up to me thinking I was some kind of Centralia guide. One man, clearly obsessed with the place, spent months researching its history and shared stories about how the fire might have started. I wondered who those people were that stayed, who left, and what was left behind.

As the light faded, I headed west toward Harrisburg and stopped at a Weis Market for a simple dinner. Thunderclouds rolled in, and by the time I pulled into another Cracker Barrel for the night, the skies had opened up with lightning and heavy rain. A fitting end to a day spent in a place where the ground still burns beneath the surface.