Marred by harrowing events – from nuclear catastrophes and devastating natural disasters to one of the most horrifying wartime atrocities ever perpetrated – a myriad of once-thriving communities around the world lie eerily empty, left to languish following the calamity that befell them. Join us as we take a sombre journey to these forsaken towns and discover the sorrowful sagas that led to their demise.

A chilling relic of the USSR, the coal-mining town of Pyramiden in the icy wastes of Svalbard (now part of Norway) was abandoned, seemingly overnight, over two decades ago. What became a Soviet model community was ceded to the communist country in 1927, but large-scale extraction of the fossil fuel didn't begin until the mid-1950s when miners and their families began arriving in their droves. 

The population peaked in the 1980s, when it stood at over a thousand. Contracts to work in Pyramiden were much sought-after since the town had garnered a reputation as an idyllic place to live, thanks to the camaraderie of its inhabitants and the wealth of amenities on offer, which put other Soviet towns in the shade.

Pyramiden was kitted out with a kindergarten and school, a hospital and a swish canteen, which was supplied by a farm complete with heated barns, greenhouses and a dairy that provided fresh meat, veg and milk all year-round. The Palace of Culture included a cinema/theatre, library, weight-lifting room and sports court and there was a separate recreational complex containing the world's most northernmost swimming pool.

By the time the USSR collapsed in the early 1990s, Pyramiden's coal resources had almost run out, heralding its downfall, but the nail in the coffin came in August 1996 when a plane carrying scores of miners heading to the town crashed into a nearby mountain, killing everyone on board and devastating the community. The decision was made to abandon the settlement, and by the end of 1998 all remaining inhabitants were gone and Pyramiden had become a bleak ghost town. Today, however, the site has become a popular tourist destination and museum, drawing curious visitors from around the globe. 

Staying in the former Soviet Union, Pripyat in modern-day Ukraine was founded in 1970 to accommodate workers of the nearby Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant along with their families. Like Pyramiden, the settlement was packed with amenities, including schools, a hospital, cinema. fairground and shopping malls, but was much bigger, boasting a population of 49,400 by spring 1986.

You no doubt know what happened next, especially if you've watched the gripping 2019 Sky Atlantic/HBO drama Chernobyl. On 26 April 1986, a safety test on the power plant's Reactor No. 4 went catastrophically wrong, triggering a meltdown and several huge explosions that released massive amounts of harmful radiation. Pripyat's entire population was evacuated, but not immediately, and many residents were exposed to dangerous levels of fallout.

Following what remains the world's worst nuclear disaster, an exclusion zone was set up in the vicinity and later expanded to 1,000 square miles. Given that most of the denizens' personal belongings were contaminated, they had to be left behind, meaning the city is eerily frozen in time. According to Greenpeace, it won't be fit for human habitation for at least 3,000 years.

Research suggests as many as five million citizens of the former USSR have suffered health problems due to the disaster and thousands of deaths have been directly attributed to it. These days, Pripyat is a 'dark tourism' destination, though it's only safe to visit for short periods of time. Having been reclaimed by nature, the erstwhile city is now a haven for wildlife, with bears, bison, wolves, lynxes and Przewalski's horses often spotted roaming its once-busy streets.

“A magical place” back in the day according to one former resident, the company town of Wittenoom in Pilbara, Western Australia was constructed in 1947 and had a population of 20,000 in the early 1960s, when it boasted everything from two schools and a cinema to a fancy hotel. But unbeknownst to the inhabitants, they were living in a toxic timebomb.

You see, the town owed its existence to the nearby blue asbestos mine, which employed most of the adult residents. The dire health consequences of asbestos weren't fully realised until the mid-1960s; before this time, nobody in the town was aware the toxin was killing them. Kids even played in asbestos 'sand' pits. Sadly, the boys pictured here in the early 1950s went on to die in their 30s.

The mine was shut in 1966 but the town wasn't phased down until the late 1970s. To date, more than 2,000 out of the former population of 20,000 have died from asbestos-related diseases and health authorities have estimated that 25% of the mine's ex-workers will die prematurely from asbestosis, lung cancer or mesothelioma.

The bulk of the town's structures were demolished in the 1980s and 1990s, but a handful of residents remain in what has been described as the most contaminated site in the southern hemisphere, or 'Australia's Chernobyl'. However, a State Government bill was passed in March of 2022 to allow for the compulsory purchase of the last few standing properties and the forcible eviction of the holdouts, with all surviving structures set to be razed to the ground.

Namie in Fukushima Prefecture was a bustling community with a population of 20,000 until the fateful day in March 2011 when the most powerful earthquake ever recorded in Japan struck off the coast, precipitating a tsunami that swept the town and nearby Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant. Three meltdowns and the subsequent widespread fallout prompted the evacuation of all residents.

A 12-mile exclusion zone was set up and the entire town was declared a no-go area. Namie remained completely out of bounds and frighteningly quiet until April 2012, when the authorities divided the town into three zones based on their levels of radioactive contamination.

Former residents were allowed to visit zone one but weren't permitted to stay overnight. They could visit zone two, but only for very brief periods. However, zone three, the most contaminated of the lot, remained closed off with any visits by former inhabitants strictly forbidden. With clean-up operations progressing, zones one and two were declared safe in April 2017 and former residents were allowed to return.

Zone three remains totally off-limits, however. Efforts to attract former residents back to the other two zones have included incentives like reduced rents, grants for moving and renovation, and even the construction of the world's first Pokémon-themed park. But many have chosen to stay away and it's unlikely Namie will ever go back to how it was before the disaster.

Kantubek was a town on Vozrozhdeniya Island in the now dried-up Aral Sea that was part of the former USSR. It was built to house 1,500 people, many of whom were scientists working at the notorious Aralsk-7 lab located two miles south of the settlement. The world's largest biological warfare testing facility, the top-secret complex was operational during much of the Cold War.

Biosecurity at the lab left a lot to be desired. In 1971, it was the scene of a field test of the smallpox pathogen that went horribly wrong, infecting 10 people and killing two. Thankfully, the outbreak was contained and a pandemic that could have killed millions was narrowly averted. A year later, two fishermen were found dead. It is thought they'd been infected with bubonic plague that escaped from the complex.

Shortly after, locals began hauling in whole nets full of dead fish. Then, in 1988, 50,000 antelope grazing on a steppe near the town suddenly keeled over and died. During the 1980s, Vozrozhdeniya Island became a dumping ground for anthrax. After the fall of the Soviet Union, the lab was shut down and Kantubek was abandoned. Needless to say, it had become a toxic nightmare.

Concerned that terrorists or hostile regimes could get hold of the anthrax, the US government funded a clean-up project in 2002, but questions remain over the former town's safety. Locals stay well clear and tourists go there at their peril. In fact, scientists who visited following the clean-up wore hazmat suits and breathing apparatus and made sure they were dosed up to the max with antibiotics for the trip.

Deep in a forested valley in Transylvania's Carpathian Mountains lies a hellish lake in what was formerly the charming rural idyll of Geamăna. The picture-postcard village was home to 400 families, around 1,000 people. Their lives were turned upside down in 1977 when the communist regime led by dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu decided to exploit the reserves of copper in the nearby Rosia Poieni mine.

The valley was earmarked as a run-off basin where toxic waste from the copper mine, the biggest in Europe, could collect. Geamăna's inhabitants were promised big payouts from the government but only received a modest patch of land per family miles away from their hometown and very little cash to live on. In the end, a tiny fraction of them decided to stay, moving to higher ground.

Inundating Geamăna completely, a toxic cocktail of heavy metal pollutants has seeped into the valley since the late 1970s. These include vast quantities of fool's gold, which generates highly corrosive sulphuric acid and trivalent iron when exposed to water and air. Soil and groundwater for miles around has been poisoned in what is considered one of Europe's worst ecological disasters.

Though the clean-up of the valley was one of the pre-conditions for Romania joining the EU, the company that owns the Rosia Poieni mine has done little to sort it out, and the poisonous lake (which runs blood red, orange and, at times, turquoise) is actually growing, putting the health of the holdouts, who now number around 20, in serious danger.

None of the poor souls who lived in the sleepy farming village of Oradour-sur-Glane in southwest France could have foreseen (let alone imagined) the act of unspeakable evil perpetrated upon them by the Nazi 2nd Waffen-SS Panzer Division troops on 10 June 1944. The previous day, the division's commander SS-Major General Heinz Bernhard Lammerding ordered his troops to 'cleanse' the area of Clermont-Ferrand in retaliation for French Resistance attacks on German forces.

Then on 10 June, SS Major Adolf Diekmann received news that a fellow officer had been captured by the Resistance around the village of Oradour-sur-Vayres. For reasons unknown, the major ordered his battalion to advance on Oradour-sur-Glane around 19 miles away, where they rounded up the entire population, which had almost doubled to around 665 people during the war, as refugees had sought sanctuary in the village.

The men were forced into six barns and shot with machine guns. Then the Nazi troops torched the buildings. The women and children, who made up the majority of Oradour-sur-Glane's population, were locked in the village church. The soldiers threw grenades through the windows, setting the place of worship alight and shooting anyone who tried to escape the flames. They then razed the village's other structures.

In total, 643 people were massacred in the barbaric atrocity. Only six men and one woman managed to escape the barns and church, while around 15 further inhabitants were lucky enough to avoid the round-up. Following the war, the ruined village was declared a national monument. Preserved for posterity, it serves as a painful reminder of Nazi brutality and the horrors wars can inflict on humanity.

Since way back in the eighth century BC, the ancient town of Craco – which is located in the instep of Italy's 'boot' – has been the setting of untold tragedies over the course of its long and troubled history. Many of these disasters came about as a result of the cursed locale's desperately precarious geology.

For centuries, Craco battled everything from plague and famine to bands of thieves. But it was its location, teetering on an unstable cliff, that ultimately led to the town's abandonment. The ground Craco was built on is infamously shaky. It's made up of several types of clay, each with differing drainage levels, which made the settlement prone to landslides triggered by heavy rains and earthquakes.

Craco has experienced a litany of major landslides throughout its history, notably in 1600, 1805, 1857, and 1933. By the 1950s, the condition of the soil had deteriorated to such an extent that landslides were becoming a far more regular occurrence, with the problem exacerbated by botched infrastructure work which set out to improve the drainage issues but only ended up making them a whole lot worse.

The situation had become so dangerous that in 1963 the decision was made to abandon Craco. Though a large swathe of the population had migrated to America, there were still around 1,800 residents left, and every single one of them was relocated to a new town in the valley below to ensure their safety. Now a curious tourist attraction, Craco is also an in-demand filming location, having featured in movies including The Passion of the Christ and the Bond films Quantum of Solace and No Time to Die.

Another town that boasted a long, illustrious and ultimately troubled history, Levissi on the coast of southwestern Turkey was home to 10,000 Greek Orthodox Christians and Anatolian Muslims, who lived peacefully together, not only coming to each other's aid in times of need but socialising with one another during festivals and on a day-to-day basis in the town's cafés.

However, the town's harmony was irrevocably shattered in 1923 at the end of the Greco-Turkish War, which saw Greeks, Armenians and other Christian minorities massacred en-masse by the Muslim troops of the dying Ottoman Empire. As part of a population exchange, Levissi's 6,500 Christians were thrown out of their homes and forced to migrate to Greece.

After the Christian population was expelled, the town's Greek name was jettisoned and it was renamed Kayaköy, which is Turkish for 'Rock Village'. The Muslim farmers from Greece who replaced the town's Greek Christians struggled to cultivate the land and soon left. The final blow came in 1957, when a 7.1-magnitude earthquake ravaged Kayaköy, prompting the departure of the last remaining inhabitants.

In 1988, the ghost town was declared an archaeological site by the Turkish government, but the authorities have since opened it up to developers in return for its restoration. Mirroring Craco somewhat, the remains of the community, which include two crumbling Greek Orthodox churches and several hundred roofless homes, attract a fair number of tourists and were used as a film location for the Russell Crowe movie The Water Diviner.

Another former magnet for tourists, the quaint town of Greenville in northern California was founded in 1860, during the state's legendary gold rush. Packed with characterful historic buildings dating from the time of its founding through to the 1940s, it was home to around 1,000 people. That is, until one terrible day in August 2021.

Much of the town had been destroyed by a wildfire in 1881, and tragedy struck once again 140 years later, on 4 August, when Greenville was all but levelled by a raging inferno, the so-called Dixie Fire, which has gone down in history as the largest single blaze California has ever endured. Thankfully, no deaths were reported in the storied town as a result of the disaster.

The disaster left Greenville's inhabitants traumatised. The fire had incinerated 75% of the buildings, including schools, businesses and 100 homes, along with many of the historic structures including the Cy Hall Memorial Museum and the Sierra Lodge hotel.

Just four structures dating from before 1880 escaped total destruction. In contrast to the aftermath of the 1881 fire, when the town was swiftly reconstructed, it's unlikely Greenville will ever be rebuilt to any great extent, as many of the homes and businesses were denied fire insurance. And even if it is, the process will no doubt take years, rendering the community a ghost town in the meantime.

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