This small two-story obstetrics and gynecology clinic, active through the 1970s and early 1980s, now feels completely frozen in time. Built in a modest Showa-era style with an older wooden wing and a newer extension, it still contains beds, instruments, and handwritten records scattered as if the staff simply walked away. Deep in the old ward, I found the unusual rounded incubator that earned the site its nickname, the “Droid Clinic,” a name that spread across urbex and horror circles and came to define the place. The building is now dangerously weakened, with collapsing floors and vines swallowing the exterior, sitting in an uncanny pocket between fields and quiet residential houses.

The atmosphere inside is heavy and unnerving. Visitors often speak of female apparitions, strange sounds echoing at night, and an unsettling presence that lingers in certain rooms. Walking through the dim corridors, I understood why these stories persist—the mix of abandonment, medical relics, and slow decay creates a tension that’s hard to ignore. Yet beneath the ghost tales, I remain aware that this was once a small community clinic, and I try to explore it with respect for the lives that once passed through its doors.