They say you can still hear the hammers ringing at Sloss Furnaces, echoing through the smoke and iron that built Birmingham’s name. But when Dusty and I first tried to visit, the only sound we heard was Murph laughing in the distance.
Round One: When Murph Closed the Gates
This stop was supposed to be the crown jewel of Alabama Road Trip #2 — Dusty had her heart set on seeing the famous Sloss Furnaces National Monument, the hulking relic of Birmingham’s industrial past and one of the most haunted places in the South.
We fought through bumper-to-bumper traffic, circled endlessly for parking, and finally found a spot several blocks away. With all our camera gear in tow, we trudged through the heat and the noise, ready for ghosts and grandeur.
And then… the gates were closed.
A concert event had taken over the entire park. Sloss was shut to the public.
Murph, 1. Ki and Dusty, 0.
We stood there in disbelief — all that planning, all that driving — and nothing but a “Closed for Event” sign staring back.
But Murph’s chaos has a funny way of rerouting us toward gold. With our plans melted down, we started exploring the nearby ruins and old mills instead — stumbling into some of the most photogenic, history-soaked places of the entire trip. It was a reminder that the best stories usually start with a setback.
Related reads: Tannehill Ironworks: From Fire to Forest, Brierfield Ironworks: The Confederate Forge That Armed a War, West Blocton Coke Ovens Park
Round Two: When the Gates Finally Opened
Fast-forward to Alabama Road Trip #3. This time, the stars aligned (or maybe Murph just got bored). We grabbed lunch at a surprisingly sneaky Krystals — the kind of place that hides in plain sight like it’s part of a scavenger hunt — and rolled into Birmingham once again.
The gates of Sloss were open. The furnaces were waiting.
We should’ve been thrilled… but in true road-trip fashion, exhaustion hit us like a furnace blast. We were sore, sun-baked, and running on caffeine fumes. Somewhere between the towering smokestacks and the maze of rusted catwalks, Dusty and I managed to lose each other again — an unspoken TMP tradition at this point.
Sloss itself was impressive: skeletal metal giants rising over Birmingham, their bones painted in rust and history. But those ghost stories we’d read? The ones about the worker named James “Slag” Wormwood and the phantom screams echoing through the blast furnaces?
We didn’t feel any of it. No chills. No whispers. Just heat, fatigue, and the soft hum of city life creeping back into the ruins.
Still — no regrets. We got our photos, our memories, and (after a small bout of retail justice) a new magnet for the collection. The only disappointment? No passport stamps. Murph probably swiped them.
Echo’s Corner: Whispers in the Iron
Legend says the furnaces still breathe.
Between 1882 and 1906, more than forty-seven workers lost their lives at Sloss. The heat was merciless, the hours unending, and accidents were all too common.
But one name echoes louder than the rest: James “Slag” Wormwood, a foreman said to have pushed his crew past human limits — until one day, he fell from the highest furnace platform and into the molten iron below.
Some say he slipped. Others say his workers helped him along.
Either way, locals still whisper that Slag’s spirit prowls the catwalks, angry and restless, still barking orders through the smoke. Visitors claim to feel sudden bursts of heat, to see shadowed figures darting between the pipes, to hear footsteps where no one walks.
Maybe that’s why Sloss never really sleeps.
Maybe the ghosts just prefer quieter nights.
If You Go
📍 Location: Sloss Furnaces National Historic Landmark, Birmingham, Alabama
🕰 Hours: Vary by season — check for special events (trust us, you’ll thank us later)
🎟 Admission: Free
🅿 Parking: Limited near the main gate — street parking several blocks away
📸 Pro Tip: Bring water, patience, and an eye for angles — the rusted machinery photographs beautifully in late-day light.
In the End
We didn’t find the ghosts we were looking for — but maybe we found something better: perspective.
Sometimes the haunted thing isn’t the place.
Sometimes it’s the journey that won’t let go.
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