October 26, 2025 • 44 mins
Cops, What s the Creepiest Thing You've Found During a House Search | Police Paranormal Stories
Police officers see the darkest corners of humanity — but sometimes, what they find can’t be explained by logic. In this chilling episode, real cops share their most **terrifying paranormal encounters** during house searches and investigations.
From ghostly figures in basements to strange noises and cold spots in sealed rooms, these true police horror stories will leave you questioning what’s really out there.
🎧 Subscribe for more **true paranormal stories**, **police encounters**, and **real-life horror tales** told by those who lived them.
👻 Related topics: Creepiest police discoveries, true crime meets paranormal, unexplained 911 calls, real ghost encounters, haunted house searches.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
(00:00):
Story number one. I've been a cop for a while now.
Seen stabbings, overdoses, car wrecks, even a couple of
homicides. But there's one call that still
keeps me up at night. It happened on a quiet Tuesday
evening on Ashmere Drive, a small cul-de-sac where nothing
much ever happens. I got dispatched to a domestic
(00:20):
assault, possible severe injury,female, bleeding heavily.
The dispatcher's voice was steady, but I could hear
something strained underneath it, something like confusion.
When I got there, the front doorwas open just enough for me to
see a smear of red on the handle.
I stepped in, and the smell hit me first.
(00:40):
Metallic, sharp, unmistakable blood.
There was a woman lying on the floor just inside the living
room, her throat cut almost ear to ear.
She was still conscious, gaspingwetly, eyes rolling.
I pressed my jacket against her neck, radioed for medics, and
told her to hold on, even thoughdeep down I knew she probably
(01:01):
wouldn't. Her blood was warm and slick,
soaking through my sleeves. That's when I heard it.
The faint sound of a baby cryingupstairs.
At first, I thought maybe the victim had a child.
It made sense. Domestic cases often involve
kids. I drew my gun and started up the
stairs. The wooden steps creaked under
(01:21):
my boots and that crying got louder, sharper, like the kid
was choking or gasping for air between sobs.
The walls were streaked with bloody handprints leading up,
smeared and uneven, like someonehad been dragged or was trying
to hold themselves up. The bedroom door at the top was
slightly open, a dull light flickering from inside.
(01:42):
The smell of blood was stronger there, thick and nauseating.
I pushed the door open, ready for anything.
The crying stopped immediately. The room was empty.
No crib, no baby, just a bed neatly made and a dresser mirror
crack down the middle. The air felt wrong, dense and
heavy, like a storm about to break.
(02:04):
I looked around again, Flashlight sweeping corners,
closet under the bed, nothing. But then I noticed something
weird. The mirror surface seemed to
pulse faintly, almost like breathing.
I backed away, trying to rationalize it.
Maybe my flashlight beam was moving.
Maybe the blood smell was getting to me.
(02:25):
I told myself that. I started heading back down, my
radio crackling faintly in my earpiece, but the signal was
cutting out, Static filled. When I reached the bottom, the
living room was empty, the womangone.
No blood on the floor, no jacket, no medics, nothing.
The room looked clean, too clean, like it had never
(02:46):
happened. The coppery smell had vanished,
replaced with this cold, musty odor, like a house that hadn't
been lived in for years, and every light that had been on
when I entered was now off. The place was pitch black except
for my flashlight beam shaking slightly in my hand.
I radio dispatch, but the line was dead.
No static, no sound, just silence.
(03:09):
My own breathing was the only thing I could hear, ragged and
shallow. I thought maybe I'd gone to the
wrong address, that I'd somehow hallucinated everything, but
when I turned toward the front door to leave, it wasn't there.
Just an empty wall. I swept the light around.
No door, no windows, just the living room walls stretching out
farther than they should have. It didn't make sense.
(03:31):
The layout of the house had changed.
That's when I noticed the handprints again.
They were back, but this time higher up, like someone had
dragged bloody hands across the ceiling.
I followed them slowly, every step echoing too loudly.
My boots made the sticky sound on the floor, but when I looked
down the hardwood was spotless. The sound kept happening though,
(03:54):
like someone else was walking right beside me, just out of my
flashlights range. Then came a faint Creek from
upstairs, followed by soft thuds, like small feet running.
I wanted to leave, but there wasnowhere to go.
I aim my flashlight up the staircase, and for a split
second I saw a figure standing at the top, Small, about the
(04:17):
height of a toddler, head tiltedto the side, motionless.
I blinked, and it was gone. The crying started again, this
time from behind me. I spun around, nothing, but the
sound was closer, clearer. I could almost feel breath on my
neck, like something was crying right into my ear.
(04:38):
The sound shifted, then deepened, turning into a wet
gurgle, the kind someone makes when their throat is full of
blood. That broke me.
I ran to where the door should have been and slammed my
shoulder against the wall. The plaster cracked and suddenly
there it was again, the front door half open, night air
spilling in. I stumbled outside, gasping,
(05:00):
flashlight trembling in my hand.The street was quiet.
The medics van and backup cars were parked out front.
My partner, Daniels, was standing near the cruiser,
talking into his radio like nothing was wrong.
He looked at me and frowned. Said he'd been calling me for 10
minutes. Said.
When they arrived, the house wasdark and empty.
No sign of struggle, no sign of a victim.
(05:22):
I tried explaining, but he just stared, eyes narrowing.
I looked down at my sleeves, expecting blood, but they were
clean. The floor behind me was
spotless. They searched the whole house.
Nothing. No woman, no baby, no signs of
anyone living there at all. The utilities had been shut off
months earlier, records said. The owners moved out after a
(05:45):
domestic homicide 3 years ago. The woman's name matched the one
I thought I'd seen on the victim's ID, but she'd been dead
for years. Her husband had cut her throat
before hanging himself in the attic.
No baby had ever been found. After the investigation was
closed, I went back once. A few weeks later.
The place had been condemned, boarded up, but through one of
(06:07):
the gaps I could see faint streaks of red on the inside of
the wall, like handprints reaching down.
Sometimes I still hear that crying.
It doesn't happen often, just now and then, usually when I'm
alone in my car late at night after a call.
The baby sobbing starts faintly somewhere in the back seat,
rising until it sounds like it'sright next to my ear.
(06:29):
Then it stops as suddenly as it starts.
I've told myself it's stress, lack of sleep, leftover
adrenaline. Cops see things that mess with
their heads all the time. That's what I keep telling
myself. But sometimes when I wash my
hands after a shift, I swear I smell that same metallic scent
again, faint but sharp, and I can't shake the feeling that no
(06:51):
matter how much I scrub, it's still there under the skin.
I've stopped taking calls on Ashmere Drive.
I don't know what's in that house, or if it's something my
brain just made-up to cope with what I saw, but I know one thing
for sure. There are nights when I dream
I'm back inside, walking past those bloody handprints again,
(07:11):
and somewhere upstairs, something small is still crying,
waiting for someone to find it. I always wake up before I get to
the room, and every single time the air around me smells like
blood. Story #2 This one isn't my
story, but it was told to me by an EMT friend I trust
completely. He's the kind of guy who laughs
(07:32):
at horror movies and doesn't flinch at accident scenes.
But when he told me about the lady in 4B, he couldn't look me
in the eyes. He said it changed the way he
thinks about the living dead. It started with a smell.
Residents of an old apartment complex in a nearby city began
complaining that the hallway near the lower units reeked of
something foul, like meat left in the sun or a dead raccoon in
(07:55):
the vents. The apartment manager checked
around, thinking it was probablya busted trash bag or something
stuck in the garbage chute, but when he reached unit 4B, the air
grew thick. He said it wasn't just a bad
smell, it felt wet, heavy, like it clung to his skin.
He knocked, no answer. He tried again.
(08:17):
The smell seemed to pulse from inside the door, so he called
the cops and 1st responders. That's where my friend came in.
He said when they opened the door the smell almost knocked
them backward. The air inside was a humid,
sweet sour rot. The curtains were drawn.
The apartment was dim, clutteredwith half eaten food containers,
(08:37):
used tissues, and a weird numberof candles melted into puddles.
The kind of mess that made it clear no one had cleaned for
weeks. In the middle of the living room
sat a woman. She was alive, just sitting
there, stiff as stone, eyes halfopen and staring at nothing.
Her skin had that waxy look thatreminded him of funeral homes,
(08:58):
pale, stretch too tight. Her hair was matted to her head.
She didn't react when they entered, just blink slowly, like
she hadn't slept in days. He said something felt wrong
before they even touched her. There were flies not just
buzzing around the trash. They were swarming near her,
landing on her legs, crawling inand out of her clothes.
(09:20):
When one of them lifted her blanket, something squirmed
underneath. They called for the medic kit,
thinking maybe bed sores or infection, but when they pulled
down her undergarments, it all went to hell.
Maggots, hundreds of them. They fell to the floor in a
pale, writhing mass, dropping from her thighs, her waist, and
somewhere deeper. My friend said the sound of them
(09:42):
hitting the floor was like rice pouring from a sack.
The smell was indescribable, like raw meat and something
chemical. She wasn't dead, she was
conscious, breathing, her eyes fluttering in pain or confusion.
Her body, from the waist down, was in a state of decay,
literally rotting while she was still alive.
(10:03):
Later, the hospital found she'd been injecting herself with some
kind of homemade cleansing solution and poking acupuncture
needles down there to release toxins.
Some of the wounds got infected,tissue started dying, and flies
must have laid eggs in the necrotic flesh.
That's the medical part. That's what could be explained.
But it didn't end there. When they lifted her to move her
(10:25):
onto the stretcher, my friend said he heard something.
It wasn't her voice. It came from beneath her, a
faint wet whisper, like someone breathing through mud.
It sounded like words, not clearones, but syllables trying to
form something. He said it came from the open
wound areas, like her body was exhaling its own voice.
They thought it was the air escaping or muscle spasms, but
(10:48):
then it repeated. Same rhythm, same murmur, like
chanting. He didn't say anything, just
tried to focus on his job. But on the drive to the
hospital, things got worse. She started humming.
Not loudly, just a soft, tuneless hum that vibrated
through the ambulance. The monitor showed her pulse,
(11:10):
weak but steady. Then the heart rate spiked, and
all at once the interior lights flickered.
The hum turned into a gurgle, then the voice again, that
muffled, breathy whisper. He thought maybe she was trying
to speak. He leaned close to her face.
Her breath reeked of infection in metal, but her lips weren't
moving. The sound wasn't coming from her
(11:32):
throat, it was coming from lower.
He swore the maggots under her skin shifted in patterns, not
random crawling, but like they were forming shapes.
The smell intensified, and for asplit second he thought he saw
something move under the blanket.
Not her legs, but something elsepushing up from inside her
flesh, like hands pressing from beneath thin ice.
(11:54):
When they got her into the ER, she flat lined before they could
even transfer. Her Nurses rushed to
resuscitate, but no one wanted to touch her without gloves up
to their elbows. And then the power flickered
again. It wasn't a blackout, just a
single blink of darkness. When the lights came back, she
was gone. Not figuratively gone.
(12:16):
The sheet they'd covered her with was still there, soaked and
heavy, but her body wasn't. Security footage later showed no
one entered or left that room for those few seconds.
There was just static across thecameras.
During that exact window of time, they searched the
hospital, every hallway, every stairwell, thinking maybe she'd
somehow stumbled away in confusion.
(12:38):
But there was no trace. Not even footprints.
The next day, the EMT van started smelling again.
Same rotten sweetness. They checked everywhere.
Under the seats, the Gurney compartment, the Med drawers.
Nothing. Still, the smell lingered for
weeks. Then the driver found maggots in
the glove box. No entry point, no food source.
(13:00):
Just a handful of squirming larvae in the corner, like
they'd appeared there. After that, my friend refused to
drive that van. He said even when it was cleaned
and disinfected, he could still smell her.
That same damp rod, faint but always there.
Sometimes when he parked alone at night, he swore he could hear
faint humming coming from the back compartment.
(13:22):
A few months later, he transferred stations, said he
couldn't handle another call in that building.
The apartment where it happened still vacant.
The property manager tried to clean and rent it out, but every
time someone moved in, they complained of strange issues.
Flies in the vents, the sound ofwater dripping even when the
taps were off, the faint smell of perfume mixed with decay.
(13:44):
One tenant claimed to have wokenup with bite marks along her
inner thighs, like something small had been feeding there.
Eventually they sealed the unit.When I heard all this, I tried
to reason it out. The power outages could have
been coincidence. The maggots contamination, the
body going missing, maybe some hospital screw up or stolen
cadaver. There's always an explanation,
(14:07):
right? But then a few weeks after he
told me, I noticed something. The night he shared the story,
I've been sitting in my car while we talked.
When I got in the next morning, there was this faint rotten
sweet smell in the air. I assumed it was from the nearby
dumpster. But it's been 3 days.
I've cleaned the car twice, sprayed air freshener, vacuumed
(14:27):
every corner, and every now and then when I'm driving alone in
the AC kicks in. I swear I can hear a faint
humming coming from the vents just like he said.
And now I can't tell if the smells fading or if I'm just
getting used to it. Story #3 I was working security
dispatch at a tribal casino during the early pandemic
(14:48):
shutdown in 2020. The casino had been closed for
months, but security still had to be on duty.
Normally the place was alive, slot machines clinking, muffled
laughter, music from the overhead speakers.
Now it was silent, just the low hum of the HVAC and the
occasional buzz from the old monitors in front of me.
(15:09):
My shift was the graveyard, 1:10PM to 6:00 AM.
It was just me in the dispatch office, surrounded by screens
showing empty gaming floors, dimly lit hallways, and the
darkened hotel lobby. There were maybe five of us on
the entire property, 2 Rovers, asupervisor, an engineer, and me
(15:30):
in the chair with the radio. I knew exactly where everyone
was at any moment. That's why what started
happening never made sense. It began one night when I
noticed a flicker on one of the monitors.
Camera 14, fourth floor hotel hallway.
The lights were fluttering, almost rhythmic.
A quick pulse, then stillness. As I watched, something seemed
(15:52):
to distort the image, like heat waves off asphalt.
A shape. It was subtle at first, a
suggestion of movement more thananything.
Then it became clear that the distortion had form, a humanoid
outline bending the air around it.
It moved slowly toward the camera from the far end of the
hallway. The lights dimmed more the
(16:13):
closer it got. Then, right as it reached under
the camera, the feed glitched, static, then black.
When it came back, the hallway was normal again, empty still,
the lights steady. I radioed the Rover to check the
area, just in case. He found nothing.
Said it was quiet. No flickering lights, no one
(16:34):
around. Maybe a glitch, I told myself.
The cameras were old. A few nights later, it happened
again. Not the shape, but something
else. One of the hotel room lights
turned on. It was room 312.
I had a perfect angle from camera 16, and I knew for a fact
that the entire hotel had been locked down for weeks.
(16:55):
No one was supposed to be inside.
I watched the light glow, warm against the otherwise dark
floor. I called it in.
Everyone accounted for. So I grabbed the master key and
went to check it myself. The room was freezing.
My breath fogged in the air as Istepped in.
One of the bedside lamps was on.The bed was unmade, pillows
(17:15):
tossed across the floor. The toilet paper had been
completely unravelled into a heap in the bathroom.
The curtains had been pulled halfway down.
It looked like someone had been thrashing around in there.
I logged it, turned off the light and left.
Told myself maybe the maintenance crew had left
something half done before the shutdown, but I couldn't shake
the feeling that someone had just been there, like I'd walked
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in a few seconds too late. It kept happening after that.
Different rooms, lights flickering on, Furniture moved.
Once a chair was found, turned toward the window facing out,
though we never left them that way.
Another time, the tub in room 2O7 was full of water.
No one had a key but security. There were sounds, too.
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At first it was faint music, notfrom the overhead system that
had been turned off since March,but something low and far away,
like an old radio playing insidethe walls.
One night, around 2, AMI heard what I swear was a slot machine
payout Jingle echoing faintly through the empty casino floor.
I switched the feeds, trying to locate it, but all the screens
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showed still silent darkness. Then came the motion alerts.
Cameras that had never once tripped since the closure
started began lighting up the board.
Motion detected in the pool area, motion detected in the
buffet. Motion detected in the hotel
hallway. Again and again.
But each time I checked, there was nothing.
(18:42):
Just the faint distortion, like something half there walking
past. The strangest night came in May.
The place had been closed almosttwo months by then.
I was alone in the office, sipping stale coffee, when the
screen for the east hallway flickered again.
This time, the shape wasn't justdistortion.
(19:02):
It had density, a faint shimmer,like someone invisible moving
under a thin layer of water. It drifted toward the camera,
slowed beneath it, and for a second I thought I saw something
darker in the shimmer, a hollow spot where a face might be.
Every screen in front of me blinked once.
All the feeds went black for about 3 seconds.
(19:23):
When they came back on, half thecamera showed static.
The other showed angles they weren't even set to, like
someone had manually moved them.One was pointing straight down
at the floor, another directly into a wall.
Then I realized something was wrong.
In the room with me. The dispatch phone, an old beige
Rotary style thing, started clicking.
(19:44):
Not ringing, clicking as if the line was being tapped
rhythmically. 1-2 pause, three, pause one.
The lights in the office dimmed.I could hear the ventilation
system stop. The air went still heavy.
For about half a minute. I didn't move, just sat there
(20:06):
staring at the monitors. The clicking stopped.
The phone gave a single sharp ring.
I didn't answer it. The second I stood up the ring
cut off mid tone like someone had pulled the line.
When the air system kicked back on, all the monitors returned to
normal. I radioed the supervisor to see
if anyone was having electrical issues.
He said no. Everything was fine.
(20:28):
I didn't tell him what I'd seen.Later that week, I found wet
footprints in the hallway outside the surveillance office.
They were bare feet, small, leading from the elevator toward
the stairwell, and there was no one on the floor with me.
That night. The Prince ended halfway down
the stairs. No smudges, no drips, nothing
past the third step. By June, I'd stop looking too
(20:51):
closely at the screens. I did my job.
Log the lights, check the reports, kept the radioactive,
but I never stared long. The more you watched, the more
it seemed to notice you back. The casino reopened later that
year, and things went mostly back to normal.
The light stopped flickering, the camera stayed steady, guests
(21:12):
returned, and the noise filled every corner again.
I moved shifts not long after. Nights were too quiet for me.
Sometimes, though, when I pass by the old dispatch office, I
glance at the monitors through the window.
Every once in a while, one of them still shows that same 4th
floor hallway. And sometimes, only when no one
else is looking, I catch that same shimmer again.
(21:36):
It moves slow, like it's underwater, always from the far
end toward the camera, always stopping right before it reaches
the lens. The screen will flicker once,
just once, and then it's gone. Maybe it's a glitch.
Maybe the old system just has bad wiring.
That's what I tell myself anyway.
(21:56):
But there's a part of me, the part that remembers that dead,
frozen air in room 312 and thosesmall wet footprints on the
stairs, that isn't so sure. I still dream sometimes about
the static from that night. In the dream, all the monitors
are black except one, the 4th floor hallway, and the invisible
shape is standing right under the camera, facing straight up.
(22:19):
I can't see its face, but I can feel that it knows I'm there,
and when I wake up for a few seconds I always think I hear
that faint clicking sound comingfrom the phone again. 1-2 pause,
three pause. One story #4 I've been a police
officer for over 10 years beforeI finally decided to take a
(22:39):
proper vacation. No calls, no night shifts, no
emergencies, just quiet. I booked a week at a ski resort
tuck somewhere in a small town. The pictures online showed
bright slopes, bonfires and laughing families and colorful
jackets. When I arrived, it was nothing
like that. The resort was big but oddly
silent. Even the wind sounded muffled,
(23:01):
like the snow swallowed all sound.
There were maybe three other guests, all of them quiet and
distant, eating their meals separately.
I thought maybe I'd caught it inbetween bookings, but the
receptionist mentioned it was peak season.
That didn't make sense. The first two days were
uneventful. I mostly sat by the window,
watch the heavy snow pile up, and tried to forget about work.
(23:25):
My room smelled faintly of Pinewood and something metallic,
maybe old heating pipes. On the third night, boredom hit
hard. I remembered the receptionist
mentioning a hot spring about a 20 minute walk from the resort.
The road was dirt cutting through a forest that looked
endless. No lights, no other travelers,
just dark trees on both sides leaning inward as if whispering
(23:48):
secrets. I almost turned back, but the
thought of warm water in this freezing cold pushed me forward.
After maybe 10 minutes I startednoticing things that didn't add
up. My footprints in the snow behind
me. There were too many.
I could clearly see the pattern of my boots, but next to them
faint and smaller prints followed in perfect sync.
(24:09):
Not animal tracks, not another person's.
Just wrong. I turned around, scanned the
empty path and told myself it was some snowdrift pattern.
Then I smelled something. Faint Smoke.
Not wood smoke, though it was sharper, chemical, almost like
burning plastic. That's when I saw the end of the
(24:30):
road. No hot spring.
Instead, there stood a small cottage, crumpled like it had
been buried in snow years ago and only recently dug up.
The roof was bent inward and smoke trickled lazily from a
crooked chimney. The windows were frosted, but
faint light flickered inside. I hesitated, then pushed the
(24:50):
door open. It creaked like it hadn't moved
in years. The air inside was warmer than
outside and thick with the scentof burnt sugar.
The place was small, just one main room with a rusted stove, a
narrow bed, and walls lined withcracked wooden shelves.
There was no one I should have left, but something about the
(25:11):
warmth felt unnatural, like the heat wasn't coming from the
stove, but the air itself. Then the chimney started to hum.
A low vibration rolled through the floorboards.
Before I could react, thick red smoke began seeping from the
chimney hole, curling down into the room instead of rising up.
It filled the air like mist underwater, slow, heavy, and
(25:34):
glowing faintly. My throat burned when I breathed
it in. I stumbled back, clutching my
face. The air crackled.
For a split second, it looked like someone was sitting on the
bed. I blinked, and it was empty
again. The humming stopped abruptly.
The red smoke was gone, like it had never been there.
Everything smelled like damp earth.
(25:56):
I forced myself to step outside.The snow had changed.
It wasn't white anymore. It looked dusted with Gray ash.
On the way back, I noticed something else.
My footprints this time were only one set.
The others were gone. I remember thinking maybe I'd
imagine them earlier, but as I passed a tree near the path, I
(26:16):
saw something hanging from one of its branches.
A piece of fabric, old, faded and stiff from the cold.
It was the same color as my jacket.
I reached up to touch it and realized it wasn't cloth.
It was skin. That's when the lights of the
resort appeared in the distance,and I ran the rest of the way
inside my room. I couldn't get warm again.
(26:37):
My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked off.
My skin had a reddish hue under the eyes and my breath fogged
unnaturally thick, like the red smoke had settled in my lungs.
I didn't sleep. I sat by the window, watching
the snowstorm intensify. At around 3:00 AM, the power
flickered and went out completely.
I thought I saw a movement outside, something standing
(27:00):
where the forest met the resort boundary.
It looked like someone in winterclothes, head tilted slightly
upward. I tried to focus, but every time
I blinked, it seemed closer. I closed the curtains and stayed
still until dawn. In the morning, I went to the
reception. The woman there didn't seem
surprised. When I asked about the hot
spring, she said the road had been closed for years after a
(27:21):
landslide took out the area. I told her I'd seen a cottage
there. Still standing.
She looked confused. She said no one had lived beyond
that path for decades. There had been a caretakers Hut
once, but it burned down in 1997.
Gas explosion. Apparently.
The description she gave of the caretaker made my stomach twist.
(27:42):
Small framed, always wore a red scarf.
Lived alone. Nobody was ever found after the
fire, only the chimney still standing.
That evening I packed early. I didn't want another night
there. But before I left, I look back
at the forest. The sky had cleared, revealing
pale sunlight, but there was smoke, thin and red, rising
(28:04):
faintly from somewhere behind the trees.
I could have dismissed it as reflection, or maybe dust
catching light. I didn't go to check.
On the way home I kept trying torationalize everything.
The extra footprints, probably uneven snow compression, the
skin like thing, maybe animal hide hardened by frost.
(28:24):
The red smoke could have been some weird chemical reaction
from buried gas lines or old embers, but the strange thing
is, my clothes still carry that faint burnt sugar smell.
It doesn't wash off my throat, sometimes feels raw, and on cold
nights when I exhale, the fog that leaves my mouth looks
darker than it should, almost red tinted under the light.
(28:47):
I haven't told anyone at the station about it.
I don't want the jokes. But sometimes when I lie awake
at night, I think I hear that same low hum again.
The one from the chimney. It starts faint, like air
pressure shifting, then builds until the room feels like it's
vibrating. It stops the moment I move.
I tell myself it's tinnitus, or maybe just the memory playing
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tricks. But last week I noticed
something new. My bathroom mirror has started
fogging up in a strange way. It doesn't mist evenly anymore.
Every time I shower, it fogs from the bottom up like smoke
rising backward. And two nights ago, when I wiped
it clear for just a second, I saw the faint outline of a small
cottage reflected behind me. Snow, a crooked chimney, and the
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faintest hint of red drifting from it.
I blinked, and it was gone. Still, the smell lingers, and
sometimes, when the night is completely silent, I think I can
taste that burnt sweetness again.
Like the air in that room hadn'treally let me go.
I keep wondering if I ever really left that forest story #5
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I used to work as a night dispatch officer in a mid sized
town just off the state highway.Most nights were routine,
vehicle breakdowns, domestic disputes, sometimes wildlife
complaints. But one night around 12:17 AMI
got a call from an unknown number.
It was faint, filled with static, but the voice on the
other end sounded like a small child.
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Not crying, not panicked, just whispering.
I could only make out a few words.
Help, please. He's gone.
Then the line went dead. Normally we don't trace calls
from unregistered numbers, but something about that voice, it
felt real. I did a reverse look up through
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our internal system. It pinged an address on the edge
of an old, long abandoned neighborhood that had been
mostly demolished after a mass burglary gone wrong 10 years
ago. Only a few skeletal houses
remained, mostly boarded up. I shouldn't have gone alone, but
I did. The road leading there was
cracked grass growing through the tar.
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No St. lights, no houses with power, no sound except for my
boots crunching over gravel. At the end of the street stood
the last house, A2 story wooden structure.
The windows were broken, the roof cave slightly inward.
No light, no sign of habitation,just that uneasy silence that
makes your ears ring. I radioed in my location,
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stepped out of the car, and started toward the porch.
The boards creaked under me, thekind of sound that feels
deliberate, like the house is warning you not to come closer.
I checked the door. It wasn't locked.
The hinges groaned when I pushedit open.
Inside, the air was stale and cold.
My flashlight beam caught floating dust hanging like
(31:40):
smoke. I called out, asked if anyone
was there. Nothing.
Just the faint hum of insects outside.
The living room was empty exceptfor a broken chair and an old TV
with its screen shattered. There were signs that someone
had been there, A half burned candle on the floor, a child's
sneaker near the stairs. I remember feeling my pulse
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quicken when I noticed somethingodd near the far wall.
The wallpaper was peeled in a pattern, like someone had clawed
at it in long vertical streaks. The wood underneath had faint
indentations, evenly spaced likesmall fingernail marks.
I moved upstairs, but every stepmade the whole house shift
slightly under my weight. The 2nd floor was worse, more
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dust, debris, and a faint rhythmic tapping sound coming
from one of the rooms. It was slow, irregular, like
something light hitting wood. When I entered, it stopped.
The room was bare except for a small wooden desk and a window
facing the backyard. The tapping had come from the
window latch. It was slightly loose, swinging
back and forth even though the air was completely still.
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I walked to the window and looked out.
The backyard was overgrown, wildgrass reaching knee high, and
there at the center was a rustedswing set. 2 swings, 1 was
still, but the other was moving,not violently, but steady,
rhythmic back and forth. And then I heard it.
Laughter, faint, childlike. It didn't echo, didn't fade.
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It was as if it was right there beside my ear, but not in the
air, like a sound that came frominside your head.
I froze. There was no wind, the grass
wasn't moving, nothing else around that swing was disturbed.
I watched it for maybe 20 seconds before I forced myself
to head downstairs. My mind kept trying to
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rationalize it. Maybe an animal brush past, or
the wind was funneled through some gap, but I knew the air was
dead still. When I stepped outside, the
laughter stopped. The swing had slowed, but hadn't
stopped completely. The chains made faint groans as
they rubbed against the rusted hooks.
I walked closer, flashlight cutting through the tall grass.
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There were footprints beneath the swing.
Small ones, barefoot, fresh, pressed into the dirt.
They led behind the swing set and stopped at a circular patch
of ground where the grass didn'tgrow at all.
It was perfectly even, like someone had placed something
heavy there for a long time. And then I heard a soft thump
behind me. I turned but nothing was there.
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The swing was still again. I decided to check the house one
last time before calling it in. When I re entered, the
temperature felt different, warmer somehow, even though the
air outside was cool. The candle I'd seen earlier was
no longer half burned. It was melted into a small
puddle of wax. I remember staring at it,
confused, because I hadn't seen any flame.
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I hadn't smelled anything burning.
The wall where the wallpaper hadbeen peeled was different now.
The claw marks were gone. In their place were faint chalk
lines, stick figures drawn in messy circles.
Each had a pair of wings, and one had no head.
That was when I noticed the ticking sound again.
Not the latch this time. It was faster, sharper, like a
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small metronome. It was coming from the walls
every few seconds, a faint metallic click moving along the
panels, as if something tiny wascrawling just inside the wood,
tapping as it went. I pressed my ear against it.
The sound stopped. Then something tapped back. 3
short knocks, perfectly spaced. I stumbled back and turned
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toward the stairs, but my boot hit something.
The child's sneaker. Only now it was paired, both
shoes neatly side by side. I left then didn't even shut the
door. As I reached my car, I took one
last look at the house. The swing was still now
completely motionless. But just as I opened my car
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door, I noticed movement on the 2nd floor window.
Something very slight. Not a figure or a shadow, just
distortion. Like the glass itself had
rippled for a moment, as if something behind it had exhaled.
I drove straight back to the station and filed an incident
report. I even logged the coordinates
and call record. The next morning, I checked the
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system for the number. It didn't exist.
The record of that incoming callwas gone.
Like it was never made. I went back a few days later
with another officer. The house was still there, but
the swing set had collapsed. The backyard was just empty
ground. No footprints, no patch,
nothing. But every now and then during
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late night dispatch duty, I still get calls that never show
up on record. Static filled, faint voices.
Sometimes I think I hear that same whisper again, the one from
that night, soft and patient, always saying the same thing.
Help, please. He's gone.
And every time I trace the signal, it always leads back to
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that same spot, the last house. And every time I go there, even
now, years later, there's alwayssomething new in the dirt behind
the swing. A mark, a small shoe print.
And once, I swear, the ground there was moving like something
underneath it was breathing. Story number six, My
brother-in-law, Daniel, has beenin the police force for nearly
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15 years. He's not the kind of man who
gets spooked easily. He's seen accident scenes,
violent crimes and the aftermathof things most people can't even
imagine. So when he once told me about a
Wellness check that still gives him nightmares, I paid
attention. It was about 3 years ago.
He was sent to a small, single story house on the outskirts of
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Michigan. The call came from a neighbor
who hadn't seen the resident, a man in his 60s suffering from
terminal cancer. For several days the place was
quiet, isolated and surrounded by tall hedges that block the
view from the road. Daniel said it was a standard
check. Most of the time, these end the
same way, A natural death, maybedays old.
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But this one, he said, didn't follow any pattern he'd ever
known. He parked his patrol car in the
narrow driveway, walked up to the front door and knocked.
No response. He called out, waited, and then
tried the handle. It turned.
Inside. Everything was unnervingly
clean. Not just tidy, but sterile.
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There was no clutter, no personal items, not even a photo
frame or newspaper. Just white walls, pale curtains
and furniture that looked barelyused.
He checked the living room. First nothing.
Then the kitchen, spotless with a single cup turned upside down
on the counter. He said the air felt still, like
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a vacuum. No hum of a refrigerator, no
faint sound from outside, not even the ticking of a clock.
It was like the house was holding its breath.
He moved down the hallway, checking the bedroom and
bathroom. The bed was made with crisp
hospital corners, the night stand empty.
No signs of illness, no medication bottles, no oxygen
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tank, nothing to suggest anyone had lived there recently.
He thought maybe the man had been taken to the hospital
without notifying anyone. Then he saw a door at the end of
the hall. It was slightly a jar, and
behind it a flight of stairs LEDdownward.
The light switch didn't work, sohe used his flashlight and began
descending. The basement was unexpectedly
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large, unfinished, with bare concrete walls and a smooth,
polished floor. It was cold down there, colder
than it should have been. The beam from his flashlight cut
through the dark, revealing something strange.
Faint lines on the floor etched into the cement.
Not random scratches, but geometric patterns, circles
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within circles, overlapping squares precise enough to look
deliberate. There was a folding chair placed
exactly in the center. He approached it, noticing that
the concrete beneath the chair was darker, like it had been
recently scrubbed. On the wall facing the chair, he
found a calendar. Every date was marked with a
small red dot, except for the current week, which was blank.
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He said he couldn't explain it, but something about that missing
row of dots made his stomach turn.
Then as he scanned the rest of the room, he realized there were
multiple small holes in the walls, not large enough for
ventilation. But evenly spaced, like someone
had drilled into the concrete with precision.
He leaned close to 1 and saw that the inside wasn't hollow.
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It was filled with what looked like packed white salt.
Every single hole, hundreds of them, was filled that way.
He took a few photos on his phone to document the scene and
was about to leave when he heardsomething subtle.
Not a noise, exactly, but a faint vibration in the floor,
like a pulse, too low to be sound, but strong enough to be
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felt. It wasn't coming from any
machine or power source. The entire house had no
electricity. He stood still for a minute,
trying to trace the rhythm. It was irregular. 2 faint thuds,
than a pause, then one longer, deeper tremor.
He described it as feeling like the floor had a heartbeat.
He told himself it was probably underground plumbing, or maybe a
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generator buried nearby. But when?
He crouched down and pressed hishand to the ground.
The pulse stopped instantly, andthat silence, that sudden
absence, was worse than the vibration itself.
He decided to get out and call it in, but before leaving, he
turned once more toward the wallwith the holes.
One of them was now empty. The salt that had filled it was
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scattered in a thin line along the floor, as if something had
pushed its way out from inside. He stood there, staring at it,
trying to rationalize. Maybe the salt settled and
spilled due to moisture, maybe he'd accidentally brushed
against it, but the line was tooneat, too deliberate.
He backed up the stairs slowly. Halfway up, his flashlight
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flickered once. Not out, just dim, like
something was draining it. He kept climbing, the air
growing warmer as he reached theground floor.
When he stepped into the hallwayagain, he noticed something that
hadn't been there before. The cup on the kitchen counter
was no longer upside down. It was upright, filled with
Clearwater, and condensation hadformed on its sides as if it had
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just been poured. He left immediately, reported
the house, logged the visit, andsent the file to be checked.
The official record says the resident had passed away at a
Hospice 2 weeks before. That night, the house had been
empty since the neighborhood called in.
The Wellness check had apparently seen lights in the
windows on three consecutive nights and assumed the man had
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come back home. Daniel went back the next day.
The basement was empty. The chair, the calendar, the
patterns, all gone. The floor had been freshly
painted over in a thick coat of Gray, and there were no holes
left in the walls. He asked the neighbor if anyone
had come by that morning. The man said no one had entered
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or exited. He was sure of it.
That night, Daniel couldn't sleep.
He said every time he closed hiseyes, he kept thinking about the
missing salt hole, the way it looked like something had been
contained in that basement. He wondered if the dying man had
been trying to trap something, or maybe himself.
The weirdest part came a few days later when he tried to look
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through the photos he'd taken. Half of them wouldn't open.
The ones that did were distorted.
It's been three years now, and that house was sold to new
owners. They renovated everything,
filled the yard with flower beds, painted it cheerful
colors. But every now and then, Daniel
gets a new call to that same address.
Not for emergencies, just noise complaints or reports of faint
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knocking sounds. He always transfers the call to
someone else. When I asked him why, he said
it's not fear, exactly. It's more like respect.
Because whatever was down there,if it really was nothing, then
it's the kind of nothing that doesn't stay gone.
And sometimes, when I think about it too much, I can almost
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feel that same subtle tremor under my feet, like something
far below remembering it was once disturbed.
Story number one. I've been a cop for a while now.
Seen stabbings, overdoses, car wrecks, even a couple of
homicides. But there's one call that still
keeps me up at night. It happened on a quiet Tuesday
evening on Ashmere Drive, a small cul-de-sac where nothing
much ever happens. I got dispatched to a domestic
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assault, possible severe injury,female, bleeding heavily.
The dispatcher's voice was steady, but I could hear
something strained underneath it, something like confusion.
When I got there, the front doorwas open just enough for me to
see a smear of red on the handle.
I stepped in, and the smell hit me first.
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Metallic, sharp, unmistakable blood.
There was a woman lying on the floor just inside the living
room, her throat cut almost ear to ear.
She was still conscious, gaspingwetly, eyes rolling.
I pressed my jacket against her neck, radioed for medics, and
told her to hold on, even thoughdeep down I knew she probably
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wouldn't. Her blood was warm and slick,
soaking through my sleeves. That's when I heard it.
The faint sound of a baby cryingupstairs.
At first, I thought maybe the victim had a child.
It made sense. Domestic cases often involve
kids. I drew my gun and started up the
stairs. The wooden steps creaked under
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my boots and that crying got louder, sharper, like the kid
was choking or gasping for air between sobs.
The walls were streaked with bloody handprints leading up,
smeared and uneven, like someonehad been dragged or was trying
to hold themselves up. The bedroom door at the top was
slightly open, a dull light flickering from inside.
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The smell of blood was stronger there, thick and nauseating.
I pushed the door open, ready for anything.
The crying stopped immediately. The room was empty.
No crib, no baby, just a bed neatly made and a dresser mirror
crack down the middle. The air felt wrong, dense and
heavy, like a storm about to break.
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I looked around again, Flashlight sweeping corners,
closet under the bed, nothing. But then I noticed something
weird. The mirror surface seemed to
pulse faintly, almost like breathing.
I backed away, trying to rationalize it.
Maybe my flashlight beam was moving.
Maybe the blood smell was getting to me.
(02:25):
I told myself that. I started heading back down, my
radio crackling faintly in my earpiece, but the signal was
cutting out, Static filled. When I reached the bottom, the
living room was empty, the womangone.
No blood on the floor, no jacket, no medics, nothing.
The room looked clean, too clean, like it had never
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happened. The coppery smell had vanished,
replaced with this cold, musty odor, like a house that hadn't
been lived in for years, and every light that had been on
when I entered was now off. The place was pitch black except
for my flashlight beam shaking slightly in my hand.
I radio dispatch, but the line was dead.
No static, no sound, just silence.
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My own breathing was the only thing I could hear, ragged and
shallow. I thought maybe I'd gone to the
wrong address, that I'd somehow hallucinated everything, but
when I turned toward the front door to leave, it wasn't there.
Just an empty wall. I swept the light around.
No door, no windows, just the living room walls stretching out
farther than they should have. It didn't make sense.
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The layout of the house had changed.
That's when I noticed the handprints again.
They were back, but this time higher up, like someone had
dragged bloody hands across the ceiling.
I followed them slowly, every step echoing too loudly.
My boots made the sticky sound on the floor, but when I looked
down the hardwood was spotless. The sound kept happening though,
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like someone else was walking right beside me, just out of my
flashlights range. Then came a faint Creek from
upstairs, followed by soft thuds, like small feet running.
I wanted to leave, but there wasnowhere to go.
I aim my flashlight up the staircase, and for a split
second I saw a figure standing at the top, Small, about the
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height of a toddler, head tiltedto the side, motionless.
I blinked, and it was gone. The crying started again, this
time from behind me. I spun around, nothing, but the
sound was closer, clearer. I could almost feel breath on my
neck, like something was crying right into my ear.
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The sound shifted, then deepened, turning into a wet
gurgle, the kind someone makes when their throat is full of
blood. That broke me.
I ran to where the door should have been and slammed my
shoulder against the wall. The plaster cracked and suddenly
there it was again, the front door half open, night air
spilling in. I stumbled outside, gasping,
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flashlight trembling in my hand.The street was quiet.
The medics van and backup cars were parked out front.
My partner, Daniels, was standing near the cruiser,
talking into his radio like nothing was wrong.
He looked at me and frowned. Said he'd been calling me for 10
minutes. Said.
When they arrived, the house wasdark and empty.
No sign of struggle, no sign of a victim.
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I tried explaining, but he just stared, eyes narrowing.
I looked down at my sleeves, expecting blood, but they were
clean. The floor behind me was
spotless. They searched the whole house.
Nothing. No woman, no baby, no signs of
anyone living there at all. The utilities had been shut off
months earlier, records said. The owners moved out after a
(05:45):
domestic homicide 3 years ago. The woman's name matched the one
I thought I'd seen on the victim's ID, but she'd been dead
for years. Her husband had cut her throat
before hanging himself in the attic.
No baby had ever been found. After the investigation was
closed, I went back once. A few weeks later.
The place had been condemned, boarded up, but through one of
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the gaps I could see faint streaks of red on the inside of
the wall, like handprints reaching down.
Sometimes I still hear that crying.
It doesn't happen often, just now and then, usually when I'm
alone in my car late at night after a call.
The baby sobbing starts faintly somewhere in the back seat,
rising until it sounds like it'sright next to my ear.
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Then it stops as suddenly as it starts.
I've told myself it's stress, lack of sleep, leftover
adrenaline. Cops see things that mess with
their heads all the time. That's what I keep telling
myself. But sometimes when I wash my
hands after a shift, I swear I smell that same metallic scent
again, faint but sharp, and I can't shake the feeling that no
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matter how much I scrub, it's still there under the skin.
I've stopped taking calls on Ashmere Drive.
I don't know what's in that house, or if it's something my
brain just made-up to cope with what I saw, but I know one thing
for sure. There are nights when I dream
I'm back inside, walking past those bloody handprints again,
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and somewhere upstairs, something small is still crying,
waiting for someone to find it. I always wake up before I get to
the room, and every single time the air around me smells like
blood. Story #2 This one isn't my
story, but it was told to me by an EMT friend I trust
completely. He's the kind of guy who laughs
(07:32):
at horror movies and doesn't flinch at accident scenes.
But when he told me about the lady in 4B, he couldn't look me
in the eyes. He said it changed the way he
thinks about the living dead. It started with a smell.
Residents of an old apartment complex in a nearby city began
complaining that the hallway near the lower units reeked of
something foul, like meat left in the sun or a dead raccoon in
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the vents. The apartment manager checked
around, thinking it was probablya busted trash bag or something
stuck in the garbage chute, but when he reached unit 4B, the air
grew thick. He said it wasn't just a bad
smell, it felt wet, heavy, like it clung to his skin.
He knocked, no answer. He tried again.
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The smell seemed to pulse from inside the door, so he called
the cops and 1st responders. That's where my friend came in.
He said when they opened the door the smell almost knocked
them backward. The air inside was a humid,
sweet sour rot. The curtains were drawn.
The apartment was dim, clutteredwith half eaten food containers,
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used tissues, and a weird numberof candles melted into puddles.
The kind of mess that made it clear no one had cleaned for
weeks. In the middle of the living room
sat a woman. She was alive, just sitting
there, stiff as stone, eyes halfopen and staring at nothing.
Her skin had that waxy look thatreminded him of funeral homes,
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pale, stretch too tight. Her hair was matted to her head.
She didn't react when they entered, just blink slowly, like
she hadn't slept in days. He said something felt wrong
before they even touched her. There were flies not just
buzzing around the trash. They were swarming near her,
landing on her legs, crawling inand out of her clothes.
(09:20):
When one of them lifted her blanket, something squirmed
underneath. They called for the medic kit,
thinking maybe bed sores or infection, but when they pulled
down her undergarments, it all went to hell.
Maggots, hundreds of them. They fell to the floor in a
pale, writhing mass, dropping from her thighs, her waist, and
somewhere deeper. My friend said the sound of them
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hitting the floor was like rice pouring from a sack.
The smell was indescribable, like raw meat and something
chemical. She wasn't dead, she was
conscious, breathing, her eyes fluttering in pain or confusion.
Her body, from the waist down, was in a state of decay,
literally rotting while she was still alive.
(10:03):
Later, the hospital found she'd been injecting herself with some
kind of homemade cleansing solution and poking acupuncture
needles down there to release toxins.
Some of the wounds got infected,tissue started dying, and flies
must have laid eggs in the necrotic flesh.
That's the medical part. That's what could be explained.
But it didn't end there. When they lifted her to move her
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onto the stretcher, my friend said he heard something.
It wasn't her voice. It came from beneath her, a
faint wet whisper, like someone breathing through mud.
It sounded like words, not clearones, but syllables trying to
form something. He said it came from the open
wound areas, like her body was exhaling its own voice.
They thought it was the air escaping or muscle spasms, but
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then it repeated. Same rhythm, same murmur, like
chanting. He didn't say anything, just
tried to focus on his job. But on the drive to the
hospital, things got worse. She started humming.
Not loudly, just a soft, tuneless hum that vibrated
through the ambulance. The monitor showed her pulse,
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weak but steady. Then the heart rate spiked, and
all at once the interior lights flickered.
The hum turned into a gurgle, then the voice again, that
muffled, breathy whisper. He thought maybe she was trying
to speak. He leaned close to her face.
Her breath reeked of infection in metal, but her lips weren't
moving. The sound wasn't coming from her
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throat, it was coming from lower.
He swore the maggots under her skin shifted in patterns, not
random crawling, but like they were forming shapes.
The smell intensified, and for asplit second he thought he saw
something move under the blanket.
Not her legs, but something elsepushing up from inside her
flesh, like hands pressing from beneath thin ice.
(11:54):
When they got her into the ER, she flat lined before they could
even transfer. Her Nurses rushed to
resuscitate, but no one wanted to touch her without gloves up
to their elbows. And then the power flickered
again. It wasn't a blackout, just a
single blink of darkness. When the lights came back, she
was gone. Not figuratively gone.
(12:16):
The sheet they'd covered her with was still there, soaked and
heavy, but her body wasn't. Security footage later showed no
one entered or left that room for those few seconds.
There was just static across thecameras.
During that exact window of time, they searched the
hospital, every hallway, every stairwell, thinking maybe she'd
somehow stumbled away in confusion.
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But there was no trace. Not even footprints.
The next day, the EMT van started smelling again.
Same rotten sweetness. They checked everywhere.
Under the seats, the Gurney compartment, the Med drawers.
Nothing. Still, the smell lingered for
weeks. Then the driver found maggots in
the glove box. No entry point, no food source.
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Just a handful of squirming larvae in the corner, like
they'd appeared there. After that, my friend refused to
drive that van. He said even when it was cleaned
and disinfected, he could still smell her.
That same damp rod, faint but always there.
Sometimes when he parked alone at night, he swore he could hear
faint humming coming from the back compartment.
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A few months later, he transferred stations, said he
couldn't handle another call in that building.
The apartment where it happened still vacant.
The property manager tried to clean and rent it out, but every
time someone moved in, they complained of strange issues.
Flies in the vents, the sound ofwater dripping even when the
taps were off, the faint smell of perfume mixed with decay.
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One tenant claimed to have wokenup with bite marks along her
inner thighs, like something small had been feeding there.
Eventually they sealed the unit.When I heard all this, I tried
to reason it out. The power outages could have
been coincidence. The maggots contamination, the
body going missing, maybe some hospital screw up or stolen
cadaver. There's always an explanation,
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right? But then a few weeks after he
told me, I noticed something. The night he shared the story,
I've been sitting in my car while we talked.
When I got in the next morning, there was this faint rotten
sweet smell in the air. I assumed it was from the nearby
dumpster. But it's been 3 days.
I've cleaned the car twice, sprayed air freshener, vacuumed
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every corner, and every now and then when I'm driving alone in
the AC kicks in. I swear I can hear a faint
humming coming from the vents just like he said.
And now I can't tell if the smells fading or if I'm just
getting used to it. Story #3 I was working security
dispatch at a tribal casino during the early pandemic
(14:48):
shutdown in 2020. The casino had been closed for
months, but security still had to be on duty.
Normally the place was alive, slot machines clinking, muffled
laughter, music from the overhead speakers.
Now it was silent, just the low hum of the HVAC and the
occasional buzz from the old monitors in front of me.
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My shift was the graveyard, 1:10PM to 6:00 AM.
It was just me in the dispatch office, surrounded by screens
showing empty gaming floors, dimly lit hallways, and the
darkened hotel lobby. There were maybe five of us on
the entire property, 2 Rovers, asupervisor, an engineer, and me
(15:30):
in the chair with the radio. I knew exactly where everyone
was at any moment. That's why what started
happening never made sense. It began one night when I
noticed a flicker on one of the monitors.
Camera 14, fourth floor hotel hallway.
The lights were fluttering, almost rhythmic.
A quick pulse, then stillness. As I watched, something seemed
(15:52):
to distort the image, like heat waves off asphalt.
A shape. It was subtle at first, a
suggestion of movement more thananything.
Then it became clear that the distortion had form, a humanoid
outline bending the air around it.
It moved slowly toward the camera from the far end of the
hallway. The lights dimmed more the
(16:13):
closer it got. Then, right as it reached under
the camera, the feed glitched, static, then black.
When it came back, the hallway was normal again, empty still,
the lights steady. I radioed the Rover to check the
area, just in case. He found nothing.
Said it was quiet. No flickering lights, no one
(16:34):
around. Maybe a glitch, I told myself.
The cameras were old. A few nights later, it happened
again. Not the shape, but something
else. One of the hotel room lights
turned on. It was room 312.
I had a perfect angle from camera 16, and I knew for a fact
that the entire hotel had been locked down for weeks.
(16:55):
No one was supposed to be inside.
I watched the light glow, warm against the otherwise dark
floor. I called it in.
Everyone accounted for. So I grabbed the master key and
went to check it myself. The room was freezing.
My breath fogged in the air as Istepped in.
One of the bedside lamps was on.The bed was unmade, pillows
(17:15):
tossed across the floor. The toilet paper had been
completely unravelled into a heap in the bathroom.
The curtains had been pulled halfway down.
It looked like someone had been thrashing around in there.
I logged it, turned off the light and left.
Told myself maybe the maintenance crew had left
something half done before the shutdown, but I couldn't shake
the feeling that someone had just been there, like I'd walked
(17:38):
in a few seconds too late. It kept happening after that.
Different rooms, lights flickering on, Furniture moved.
Once a chair was found, turned toward the window facing out,
though we never left them that way.
Another time, the tub in room 2O7 was full of water.
No one had a key but security. There were sounds, too.
(17:58):
At first it was faint music, notfrom the overhead system that
had been turned off since March,but something low and far away,
like an old radio playing insidethe walls.
One night, around 2, AMI heard what I swear was a slot machine
payout Jingle echoing faintly through the empty casino floor.
I switched the feeds, trying to locate it, but all the screens
(18:21):
showed still silent darkness. Then came the motion alerts.
Cameras that had never once tripped since the closure
started began lighting up the board.
Motion detected in the pool area, motion detected in the
buffet. Motion detected in the hotel
hallway. Again and again.
But each time I checked, there was nothing.
(18:42):
Just the faint distortion, like something half there walking
past. The strangest night came in May.
The place had been closed almosttwo months by then.
I was alone in the office, sipping stale coffee, when the
screen for the east hallway flickered again.
This time, the shape wasn't justdistortion.
(19:02):
It had density, a faint shimmer,like someone invisible moving
under a thin layer of water. It drifted toward the camera,
slowed beneath it, and for a second I thought I saw something
darker in the shimmer, a hollow spot where a face might be.
Every screen in front of me blinked once.
All the feeds went black for about 3 seconds.
(19:23):
When they came back on, half thecamera showed static.
The other showed angles they weren't even set to, like
someone had manually moved them.One was pointing straight down
at the floor, another directly into a wall.
Then I realized something was wrong.
In the room with me. The dispatch phone, an old beige
Rotary style thing, started clicking.
(19:44):
Not ringing, clicking as if the line was being tapped
rhythmically. 1-2 pause, three, pause one.
The lights in the office dimmed.I could hear the ventilation
system stop. The air went still heavy.
For about half a minute. I didn't move, just sat there
(20:06):
staring at the monitors. The clicking stopped.
The phone gave a single sharp ring.
I didn't answer it. The second I stood up the ring
cut off mid tone like someone had pulled the line.
When the air system kicked back on, all the monitors returned to
normal. I radioed the supervisor to see
if anyone was having electrical issues.
He said no. Everything was fine.
(20:28):
I didn't tell him what I'd seen.Later that week, I found wet
footprints in the hallway outside the surveillance office.
They were bare feet, small, leading from the elevator toward
the stairwell, and there was no one on the floor with me.
That night. The Prince ended halfway down
the stairs. No smudges, no drips, nothing
past the third step. By June, I'd stop looking too
(20:51):
closely at the screens. I did my job.
Log the lights, check the reports, kept the radioactive,
but I never stared long. The more you watched, the more
it seemed to notice you back. The casino reopened later that
year, and things went mostly back to normal.
The light stopped flickering, the camera stayed steady, guests
(21:12):
returned, and the noise filled every corner again.
I moved shifts not long after. Nights were too quiet for me.
Sometimes, though, when I pass by the old dispatch office, I
glance at the monitors through the window.
Every once in a while, one of them still shows that same 4th
floor hallway. And sometimes, only when no one
else is looking, I catch that same shimmer again.
(21:36):
It moves slow, like it's underwater, always from the far
end toward the camera, always stopping right before it reaches
the lens. The screen will flicker once,
just once, and then it's gone. Maybe it's a glitch.
Maybe the old system just has bad wiring.
That's what I tell myself anyway.
(21:56):
But there's a part of me, the part that remembers that dead,
frozen air in room 312 and thosesmall wet footprints on the
stairs, that isn't so sure. I still dream sometimes about
the static from that night. In the dream, all the monitors
are black except one, the 4th floor hallway, and the invisible
shape is standing right under the camera, facing straight up.
(22:19):
I can't see its face, but I can feel that it knows I'm there,
and when I wake up for a few seconds I always think I hear
that faint clicking sound comingfrom the phone again. 1-2 pause,
three pause. One story #4 I've been a police
officer for over 10 years beforeI finally decided to take a
(22:39):
proper vacation. No calls, no night shifts, no
emergencies, just quiet. I booked a week at a ski resort
tuck somewhere in a small town. The pictures online showed
bright slopes, bonfires and laughing families and colorful
jackets. When I arrived, it was nothing
like that. The resort was big but oddly
silent. Even the wind sounded muffled,
(23:01):
like the snow swallowed all sound.
There were maybe three other guests, all of them quiet and
distant, eating their meals separately.
I thought maybe I'd caught it inbetween bookings, but the
receptionist mentioned it was peak season.
That didn't make sense. The first two days were
uneventful. I mostly sat by the window,
watch the heavy snow pile up, and tried to forget about work.
(23:25):
My room smelled faintly of Pinewood and something metallic,
maybe old heating pipes. On the third night, boredom hit
hard. I remembered the receptionist
mentioning a hot spring about a 20 minute walk from the resort.
The road was dirt cutting through a forest that looked
endless. No lights, no other travelers,
just dark trees on both sides leaning inward as if whispering
(23:48):
secrets. I almost turned back, but the
thought of warm water in this freezing cold pushed me forward.
After maybe 10 minutes I startednoticing things that didn't add
up. My footprints in the snow behind
me. There were too many.
I could clearly see the pattern of my boots, but next to them
faint and smaller prints followed in perfect sync.
(24:09):
Not animal tracks, not another person's.
Just wrong. I turned around, scanned the
empty path and told myself it was some snowdrift pattern.
Then I smelled something. Faint Smoke.
Not wood smoke, though it was sharper, chemical, almost like
burning plastic. That's when I saw the end of the
(24:30):
road. No hot spring.
Instead, there stood a small cottage, crumpled like it had
been buried in snow years ago and only recently dug up.
The roof was bent inward and smoke trickled lazily from a
crooked chimney. The windows were frosted, but
faint light flickered inside. I hesitated, then pushed the
(24:50):
door open. It creaked like it hadn't moved
in years. The air inside was warmer than
outside and thick with the scentof burnt sugar.
The place was small, just one main room with a rusted stove, a
narrow bed, and walls lined withcracked wooden shelves.
There was no one I should have left, but something about the
(25:11):
warmth felt unnatural, like the heat wasn't coming from the
stove, but the air itself. Then the chimney started to hum.
A low vibration rolled through the floorboards.
Before I could react, thick red smoke began seeping from the
chimney hole, curling down into the room instead of rising up.
It filled the air like mist underwater, slow, heavy, and
(25:34):
glowing faintly. My throat burned when I breathed
it in. I stumbled back, clutching my
face. The air crackled.
For a split second, it looked like someone was sitting on the
bed. I blinked, and it was empty
again. The humming stopped abruptly.
The red smoke was gone, like it had never been there.
Everything smelled like damp earth.
(25:56):
I forced myself to step outside.The snow had changed.
It wasn't white anymore. It looked dusted with Gray ash.
On the way back, I noticed something else.
My footprints this time were only one set.
The others were gone. I remember thinking maybe I'd
imagine them earlier, but as I passed a tree near the path, I
(26:16):
saw something hanging from one of its branches.
A piece of fabric, old, faded and stiff from the cold.
It was the same color as my jacket.
I reached up to touch it and realized it wasn't cloth.
It was skin. That's when the lights of the
resort appeared in the distance,and I ran the rest of the way
inside my room. I couldn't get warm again.
(26:37):
My reflection in the bathroom mirror looked off.
My skin had a reddish hue under the eyes and my breath fogged
unnaturally thick, like the red smoke had settled in my lungs.
I didn't sleep. I sat by the window, watching
the snowstorm intensify. At around 3:00 AM, the power
flickered and went out completely.
I thought I saw a movement outside, something standing
(27:00):
where the forest met the resort boundary.
It looked like someone in winterclothes, head tilted slightly
upward. I tried to focus, but every time
I blinked, it seemed closer. I closed the curtains and stayed
still until dawn. In the morning, I went to the
reception. The woman there didn't seem
surprised. When I asked about the hot
spring, she said the road had been closed for years after a
(27:21):
landslide took out the area. I told her I'd seen a cottage
there. Still standing.
She looked confused. She said no one had lived beyond
that path for decades. There had been a caretakers Hut
once, but it burned down in 1997.
Gas explosion. Apparently.
The description she gave of the caretaker made my stomach twist.
(27:42):
Small framed, always wore a red scarf.
Lived alone. Nobody was ever found after the
fire, only the chimney still standing.
That evening I packed early. I didn't want another night
there. But before I left, I look back
at the forest. The sky had cleared, revealing
pale sunlight, but there was smoke, thin and red, rising
(28:04):
faintly from somewhere behind the trees.
I could have dismissed it as reflection, or maybe dust
catching light. I didn't go to check.
On the way home I kept trying torationalize everything.
The extra footprints, probably uneven snow compression, the
skin like thing, maybe animal hide hardened by frost.
(28:24):
The red smoke could have been some weird chemical reaction
from buried gas lines or old embers, but the strange thing
is, my clothes still carry that faint burnt sugar smell.
It doesn't wash off my throat, sometimes feels raw, and on cold
nights when I exhale, the fog that leaves my mouth looks
darker than it should, almost red tinted under the light.
(28:47):
I haven't told anyone at the station about it.
I don't want the jokes. But sometimes when I lie awake
at night, I think I hear that same low hum again.
The one from the chimney. It starts faint, like air
pressure shifting, then builds until the room feels like it's
vibrating. It stops the moment I move.
I tell myself it's tinnitus, or maybe just the memory playing
(29:09):
tricks. But last week I noticed
something new. My bathroom mirror has started
fogging up in a strange way. It doesn't mist evenly anymore.
Every time I shower, it fogs from the bottom up like smoke
rising backward. And two nights ago, when I wiped
it clear for just a second, I saw the faint outline of a small
cottage reflected behind me. Snow, a crooked chimney, and the
(29:34):
faintest hint of red drifting from it.
I blinked, and it was gone. Still, the smell lingers, and
sometimes, when the night is completely silent, I think I can
taste that burnt sweetness again.
Like the air in that room hadn'treally let me go.
I keep wondering if I ever really left that forest story #5
(29:54):
I used to work as a night dispatch officer in a mid sized
town just off the state highway.Most nights were routine,
vehicle breakdowns, domestic disputes, sometimes wildlife
complaints. But one night around 12:17 AMI
got a call from an unknown number.
It was faint, filled with static, but the voice on the
other end sounded like a small child.
(30:16):
Not crying, not panicked, just whispering.
I could only make out a few words.
Help, please. He's gone.
Then the line went dead. Normally we don't trace calls
from unregistered numbers, but something about that voice, it
felt real. I did a reverse look up through
(30:36):
our internal system. It pinged an address on the edge
of an old, long abandoned neighborhood that had been
mostly demolished after a mass burglary gone wrong 10 years
ago. Only a few skeletal houses
remained, mostly boarded up. I shouldn't have gone alone, but
I did. The road leading there was
cracked grass growing through the tar.
(30:56):
No St. lights, no houses with power, no sound except for my
boots crunching over gravel. At the end of the street stood
the last house, A2 story wooden structure.
The windows were broken, the roof cave slightly inward.
No light, no sign of habitation,just that uneasy silence that
makes your ears ring. I radioed in my location,
(31:19):
stepped out of the car, and started toward the porch.
The boards creaked under me, thekind of sound that feels
deliberate, like the house is warning you not to come closer.
I checked the door. It wasn't locked.
The hinges groaned when I pushedit open.
Inside, the air was stale and cold.
My flashlight beam caught floating dust hanging like
(31:40):
smoke. I called out, asked if anyone
was there. Nothing.
Just the faint hum of insects outside.
The living room was empty exceptfor a broken chair and an old TV
with its screen shattered. There were signs that someone
had been there, A half burned candle on the floor, a child's
sneaker near the stairs. I remember feeling my pulse
(32:02):
quicken when I noticed somethingodd near the far wall.
The wallpaper was peeled in a pattern, like someone had clawed
at it in long vertical streaks. The wood underneath had faint
indentations, evenly spaced likesmall fingernail marks.
I moved upstairs, but every stepmade the whole house shift
slightly under my weight. The 2nd floor was worse, more
(32:24):
dust, debris, and a faint rhythmic tapping sound coming
from one of the rooms. It was slow, irregular, like
something light hitting wood. When I entered, it stopped.
The room was bare except for a small wooden desk and a window
facing the backyard. The tapping had come from the
window latch. It was slightly loose, swinging
back and forth even though the air was completely still.
(32:47):
I walked to the window and looked out.
The backyard was overgrown, wildgrass reaching knee high, and
there at the center was a rustedswing set. 2 swings, 1 was
still, but the other was moving,not violently, but steady,
rhythmic back and forth. And then I heard it.
Laughter, faint, childlike. It didn't echo, didn't fade.
(33:12):
It was as if it was right there beside my ear, but not in the
air, like a sound that came frominside your head.
I froze. There was no wind, the grass
wasn't moving, nothing else around that swing was disturbed.
I watched it for maybe 20 seconds before I forced myself
to head downstairs. My mind kept trying to
(33:33):
rationalize it. Maybe an animal brush past, or
the wind was funneled through some gap, but I knew the air was
dead still. When I stepped outside, the
laughter stopped. The swing had slowed, but hadn't
stopped completely. The chains made faint groans as
they rubbed against the rusted hooks.
I walked closer, flashlight cutting through the tall grass.
(33:54):
There were footprints beneath the swing.
Small ones, barefoot, fresh, pressed into the dirt.
They led behind the swing set and stopped at a circular patch
of ground where the grass didn'tgrow at all.
It was perfectly even, like someone had placed something
heavy there for a long time. And then I heard a soft thump
behind me. I turned but nothing was there.
(34:16):
The swing was still again. I decided to check the house one
last time before calling it in. When I re entered, the
temperature felt different, warmer somehow, even though the
air outside was cool. The candle I'd seen earlier was
no longer half burned. It was melted into a small
puddle of wax. I remember staring at it,
confused, because I hadn't seen any flame.
(34:39):
I hadn't smelled anything burning.
The wall where the wallpaper hadbeen peeled was different now.
The claw marks were gone. In their place were faint chalk
lines, stick figures drawn in messy circles.
Each had a pair of wings, and one had no head.
That was when I noticed the ticking sound again.
Not the latch this time. It was faster, sharper, like a
(35:01):
small metronome. It was coming from the walls
every few seconds, a faint metallic click moving along the
panels, as if something tiny wascrawling just inside the wood,
tapping as it went. I pressed my ear against it.
The sound stopped. Then something tapped back. 3
short knocks, perfectly spaced. I stumbled back and turned
(35:25):
toward the stairs, but my boot hit something.
The child's sneaker. Only now it was paired, both
shoes neatly side by side. I left then didn't even shut the
door. As I reached my car, I took one
last look at the house. The swing was still now
completely motionless. But just as I opened my car
(35:46):
door, I noticed movement on the 2nd floor window.
Something very slight. Not a figure or a shadow, just
distortion. Like the glass itself had
rippled for a moment, as if something behind it had exhaled.
I drove straight back to the station and filed an incident
report. I even logged the coordinates
and call record. The next morning, I checked the
(36:07):
system for the number. It didn't exist.
The record of that incoming callwas gone.
Like it was never made. I went back a few days later
with another officer. The house was still there, but
the swing set had collapsed. The backyard was just empty
ground. No footprints, no patch,
nothing. But every now and then during
(36:29):
late night dispatch duty, I still get calls that never show
up on record. Static filled, faint voices.
Sometimes I think I hear that same whisper again, the one from
that night, soft and patient, always saying the same thing.
Help, please. He's gone.
And every time I trace the signal, it always leads back to
(36:51):
that same spot, the last house. And every time I go there, even
now, years later, there's alwayssomething new in the dirt behind
the swing. A mark, a small shoe print.
And once, I swear, the ground there was moving like something
underneath it was breathing. Story number six, My
brother-in-law, Daniel, has beenin the police force for nearly
(37:13):
15 years. He's not the kind of man who
gets spooked easily. He's seen accident scenes,
violent crimes and the aftermathof things most people can't even
imagine. So when he once told me about a
Wellness check that still gives him nightmares, I paid
attention. It was about 3 years ago.
He was sent to a small, single story house on the outskirts of
(37:34):
Michigan. The call came from a neighbor
who hadn't seen the resident, a man in his 60s suffering from
terminal cancer. For several days the place was
quiet, isolated and surrounded by tall hedges that block the
view from the road. Daniel said it was a standard
check. Most of the time, these end the
same way, A natural death, maybedays old.
(37:57):
But this one, he said, didn't follow any pattern he'd ever
known. He parked his patrol car in the
narrow driveway, walked up to the front door and knocked.
No response. He called out, waited, and then
tried the handle. It turned.
Inside. Everything was unnervingly
clean. Not just tidy, but sterile.
(38:18):
There was no clutter, no personal items, not even a photo
frame or newspaper. Just white walls, pale curtains
and furniture that looked barelyused.
He checked the living room. First nothing.
Then the kitchen, spotless with a single cup turned upside down
on the counter. He said the air felt still, like
(38:38):
a vacuum. No hum of a refrigerator, no
faint sound from outside, not even the ticking of a clock.
It was like the house was holding its breath.
He moved down the hallway, checking the bedroom and
bathroom. The bed was made with crisp
hospital corners, the night stand empty.
No signs of illness, no medication bottles, no oxygen
(38:59):
tank, nothing to suggest anyone had lived there recently.
He thought maybe the man had been taken to the hospital
without notifying anyone. Then he saw a door at the end of
the hall. It was slightly a jar, and
behind it a flight of stairs LEDdownward.
The light switch didn't work, sohe used his flashlight and began
descending. The basement was unexpectedly
(39:20):
large, unfinished, with bare concrete walls and a smooth,
polished floor. It was cold down there, colder
than it should have been. The beam from his flashlight cut
through the dark, revealing something strange.
Faint lines on the floor etched into the cement.
Not random scratches, but geometric patterns, circles
(39:40):
within circles, overlapping squares precise enough to look
deliberate. There was a folding chair placed
exactly in the center. He approached it, noticing that
the concrete beneath the chair was darker, like it had been
recently scrubbed. On the wall facing the chair, he
found a calendar. Every date was marked with a
small red dot, except for the current week, which was blank.
(40:04):
He said he couldn't explain it, but something about that missing
row of dots made his stomach turn.
Then as he scanned the rest of the room, he realized there were
multiple small holes in the walls, not large enough for
ventilation. But evenly spaced, like someone
had drilled into the concrete with precision.
He leaned close to 1 and saw that the inside wasn't hollow.
(40:26):
It was filled with what looked like packed white salt.
Every single hole, hundreds of them, was filled that way.
He took a few photos on his phone to document the scene and
was about to leave when he heardsomething subtle.
Not a noise, exactly, but a faint vibration in the floor,
like a pulse, too low to be sound, but strong enough to be
(40:48):
felt. It wasn't coming from any
machine or power source. The entire house had no
electricity. He stood still for a minute,
trying to trace the rhythm. It was irregular. 2 faint thuds,
than a pause, then one longer, deeper tremor.
He described it as feeling like the floor had a heartbeat.
He told himself it was probably underground plumbing, or maybe a
(41:10):
generator buried nearby. But when?
He crouched down and pressed hishand to the ground.
The pulse stopped instantly, andthat silence, that sudden
absence, was worse than the vibration itself.
He decided to get out and call it in, but before leaving, he
turned once more toward the wallwith the holes.
One of them was now empty. The salt that had filled it was
(41:32):
scattered in a thin line along the floor, as if something had
pushed its way out from inside. He stood there, staring at it,
trying to rationalize. Maybe the salt settled and
spilled due to moisture, maybe he'd accidentally brushed
against it, but the line was tooneat, too deliberate.
He backed up the stairs slowly. Halfway up, his flashlight
(41:52):
flickered once. Not out, just dim, like
something was draining it. He kept climbing, the air
growing warmer as he reached theground floor.
When he stepped into the hallwayagain, he noticed something that
hadn't been there before. The cup on the kitchen counter
was no longer upside down. It was upright, filled with
Clearwater, and condensation hadformed on its sides as if it had
(42:15):
just been poured. He left immediately, reported
the house, logged the visit, andsent the file to be checked.
The official record says the resident had passed away at a
Hospice 2 weeks before. That night, the house had been
empty since the neighborhood called in.
The Wellness check had apparently seen lights in the
windows on three consecutive nights and assumed the man had
(42:36):
come back home. Daniel went back the next day.
The basement was empty. The chair, the calendar, the
patterns, all gone. The floor had been freshly
painted over in a thick coat of Gray, and there were no holes
left in the walls. He asked the neighbor if anyone
had come by that morning. The man said no one had entered
(42:56):
or exited. He was sure of it.
That night, Daniel couldn't sleep.
He said every time he closed hiseyes, he kept thinking about the
missing salt hole, the way it looked like something had been
contained in that basement. He wondered if the dying man had
been trying to trap something, or maybe himself.
The weirdest part came a few days later when he tried to look
(43:17):
through the photos he'd taken. Half of them wouldn't open.
The ones that did were distorted.
It's been three years now, and that house was sold to new
owners. They renovated everything,
filled the yard with flower beds, painted it cheerful
colors. But every now and then, Daniel
gets a new call to that same address.
Not for emergencies, just noise complaints or reports of faint
(43:40):
knocking sounds. He always transfers the call to
someone else. When I asked him why, he said
it's not fear, exactly. It's more like respect.
Because whatever was down there,if it really was nothing, then
it's the kind of nothing that doesn't stay gone.
And sometimes, when I think about it too much, I can almost
(44:00):
feel that same subtle tremor under my feet, like something
far below remembering it was once disturbed.
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