Creepy Airport Or Planes That Went Missing Stories

Creepy Airport Or Planes That Went Missing Stories

Episode Transcript

(00:00):
Story 1 Airports always feel like they're holding their
breath, thousands of people moving at once.
Yet somehow it's the silence between announcements that gets
under your skin. I used to work night maintenance
at Kuala Lumpur International, the kind of job where you mostly
walk empty terminals while the rest of the world sleeps.
The first few months were peaceful, just the hum of

(00:21):
distant conveyor belts and the soft wine of lights that never
quite stop buzzing. But there was one gate, tucked
at the far end of the old international terminal that made
me uneasy every time I passed it.
Gate 17. It wasn't special in any way,
just another boarding area with rows of faded seats in a big
window overlooking the dark tarmac.

(00:42):
But everyone knew that was whereMalaysia Airlines Flight 370 had
departed from before it vanished.
The gate had been closed off after the disappearance, but
maintenance still had to check it occasionally for power issues
and leaks. The higher ups said it was
cheaper than sealing it entirely.
The first time I went there alone was about six months after
I started. The corridor to Gate 17 was

(01:04):
darker than the others, the motion lights half dead from
years of neglect. My flashlight beam caught the
dust hanging thick in the air. There was still a faint outline
of the old flight schedule abovethe doorway.
MH370, Beijing. It hadn't been removed.
Maybe someone thought it would be disrespectful.
The room itself felt wrong. Not haunted in the movie sense,

(01:29):
just empty in a way that made you hyper aware of every sound
your body made. I could hear my own breathing
bouncing back at me. I did a quick sweep, noted the
broken vent, replaced a light cover, and started heading back.
That's when I heard it. One soft chime from the boarding
system, the kind that plays whena gate agent checks a boarding
pass. At first I thought it was an

(01:51):
echo from the main terminal, butthe sound came again, sharper
this time, from the desk near the window.
The monitor was still dark. There was no power feed
connected to it anymore, but thespeaker must have held a charge.
That was what I told myself, anyway.
I finished my inspection and gotout of there faster than I'd
like to admit. A few weeks later, I had to go

(02:12):
back. The power readings showed
activity in the circuit that fedthat section of the terminal.
It made no sense because Gate 17had been disconnected from the
main grid years ago. My supervisor laughed it off,
saying maybe the system was misreading due to humidity, but
he told me to go check it out anyway.
Alone, of course. That night, the airport was dead

(02:33):
quiet. Even the distant engines on the
runway seem muted by the fog rolling in from the fields.
I walked the same corridor again, the same dull hum in my
ears. When I reached the gate,
something was different. The air was warmer, heavier,
like being inside a running engine.
I clicked my flashlight on and it flickered weekly for a moment

(02:53):
before stabilizing. The power indicator on the
boarding desk was glowing faint green.
That shouldn't have been possible.
The monitor came to life in front of me, lines of code
flashing for a few seconds, thenfreezing on a black screen with
a white prompt. Flight 370 boarding.
Now I just stood there. It had to be a glitch, maybe an

(03:15):
old startup message from before the system was shut down.
But the speakers crackled and a soft voice came through.
Not a full announcement, just a fragment, like a recording
skipping Final Call Kuala Lumpurto Beijing.
The audio was muffled, warped, like it was underwater.
I stepped back, my heart pounding.

(03:36):
Every logical part of my brain screamed that it was some
leftover system file. But then came another sound.
A suitcase rolling. Not loud, just the wheels
tapping gently on the tile floorbehind me.
I turned my flashlight around, but the corridor was empty.
The sound continued slow and steady, until it stopped a few
feet away. I couldn't see anything.

(03:58):
Then the automatic boarding gatelight flickered on the panel,
flashed scanning like it used towhen passengers boarded.
The air felt colder around me now, almost freezing.
I heard what sounded like footsteps shuffling near the
line markers soft, but many likepeople moving in slow motion.
I told myself it was wind. Maybe the air system had kicked

(04:20):
on somehow, but the gate hadn't had ventilation for years.
The speakers hissed again, followed by a faint chorus of
overlapping whispers. None of it made sense, too fast,
too distorted, but I could make out bits of phrases.
Flight on time, boarding complete.
Thank you for flying. And then silence.

(04:41):
Total, absolute silence. I didn't realize I was backing
up until my heel hit one of the seats.
The flashlight flickered again, dimming just enough for me to
see something at the end of the jet bridge door.
A shape, just an outline againstthe frosted glass.
It looked human, but not right, too.
Still, shoulders slumped, head tilted to one side.

(05:03):
I called out, asking if someone was there.
No answer. The shape didn't move.
The air felt charged, static crawling across my skin.
When I took a step closer, the emergency lights above the jet
bridge flickered once and the shape was gone.
I rushed to the glass, shine theflashlight through, but there
was nothing. Just the empty tunnel leading

(05:25):
out to where the plane would have been years ago.
The gate indicator on the desk blinked once more before going
dark completely. I logged the incident as Power
Surge. It was the easiest way to
explain what I couldn't understand.
My supervisor didn't question it, though He raised an eyebrow
when he saw how pale I looked. I didn't mention the voice or

(05:46):
the footsteps or that figure. Weeks passed, and I avoided that
corridor as much as I could. But once you've seen something
like that, the airport doesn't sound the same.
Every echo, every rolling suitcase in the distance felt
like it came from somewhere it shouldn't.
The strangest part came later, during a system update. the IT

(06:06):
team was cleaning old data logs,and one of the technicians
called me over, joking that the terminal server still thought
flight 370 was active. He said it had been pinging the
system every few months, always from the same local network
node, gate 17. I laughed it off, but something
inside me went cold. They wiped the files, reset the

(06:27):
system, and the reading stopped.Still, I can't shake what I saw
that night. I've gone over every
possibility. Maybe a short circuit
reconnected the monitor. Maybe I imagine the footsteps
because I expected to hear them.Maybe.
But sometimes, when the fog rolls over the tarmac just right
and the motion sensors glitch, Iswear I can see the faint green

(06:49):
light of that gate come alive again.
And if I stand still enough, I can almost hear the soft echo of
a boarding announcement driftingdown the corridor, like the
airport itself never accepted that the plane was gone.
Story 2. Airports always remind me of
arteries. Bright endless tunnels pulsing
with people instead of blood. I've been a flight engineer for

(07:11):
most of my adult life, and I've seen just about everything a
cockpit can throw at you. Mechanical failures, lightning
strikes, birds and engines. You name it.
But the one thing I still can't explain happened about 12 years
ago, during my time with an airline that had once operated a
fleet of old L1011 Tristars. The company had a few of those

(07:34):
planes left in service. They were aging birds, sturdy
but worn down from decades of patchwork repairs.
One of them, tail number N31 8EA, always made me uneasy and I
never knew exactly why. It wasn't the plane's looks.
On the surface it was fine, but every time I boarded it for
maintenance checks, something about the cabin felt off, too

(07:58):
quiet, even when the hangar was filled with noise like sound
itself avoided that fuselage. Back then, I didn't know much
about the plane's history. All I knew was that it had some
recycled components, salvage from another L1011 that had gone
down in Florida back in the 70's.
The parts had been inspected andcertified long before my time,

(08:20):
but there was always gossip among the mechanics, old timers
saying the original aircraft hadbeen cursed.
They used to whisper about Eastern Flight 4 O1, about how
its pilots got distracted over aburned out bulb and never
realized the autopilot had disconnected.
The plane went down in the Everglades, killing more than
half the people on board. The rumors said pieces of that

(08:41):
wreck were used in other jets, and strange things started
happening afterward. I never paid much attention.
Pilots are a superstitious bunch.
They tell ghost stories the sameway sailors do to fill silence
during long shifts. It was a night flight to Dallas
when things started. The captain had called in sick
last minute, so I was paired with a newer pilot, quiet but

(09:03):
competent. I remember we took off just
after midnight, and within an hour we were cruising smooth.
The autopilot held steady, instruments were perfect, and
the sky was clear enough to see stars blinking over the wing.
Sometime after the meal service,I went to the galley for coffee.
The flight attendants were chatting softly at the back,

(09:23):
their voices carrying through the narrow space.
That's when one of them asked meif the captain had gone to rest
early. I told her no, the captain was
still in the cockpit. She frowned.
She said she'd just seen a man in uniform walking down the
aisle toward the rear lavatory. I brushed it off, said she
probably saw a passenger wearingsomething similar, but she

(09:43):
looked certain. Said she saw the captain's
stripes on the shoulders. When I went back to the flight
deck, the pilot was still there,focused on the instruments.
We were the only two up front. I told him what she said, and he
gave a small laugh, said maybe she'd been awake too long.
Neither of us thought much of itafter that.

(10:04):
About 40 minutes later, the cockpit temperature dropped.
At first I thought it was the ventilation.
Sometimes those old air systems pushed out cold bursts when the
recirculation valves acted up. I reached up to check the
overhead panel, but everything was normal.
Then came the faint sound of breathing.
Not loud, just the soft rhythm of someone exhaling slowly

(10:25):
behind us, the kind of sound youhear when a person leans over
your shoulder. I turned around instinctively,
but there was no one there, onlythe empty jump seat against the
rear bulkhead. I stared at it for a few
seconds, feeling ridiculous. The light from the overhead
instruments made the seat look faintly metallic, catching
reflections from the altimeter. I was about to turn back when I

(10:47):
noticed something, an impressionon the cushion, like someone had
just been sitting there. I blinked, leaned closer, but
the mark faded almost as soon asI looked at it.
The rest of the flight went smoothly, but the feeling never
left. Even the hum of the engines felt
different, slower, heavier, likethe plane was carrying more

(11:08):
weight than what the manifest said.
When we landed in Dallas, I stayed behind to help run a
systems check before disembarking.
The pilot had already left for the hotel shuttle, so I was
alone. The cabin lights flickered
slightly as I walked back through the aisle.
Every seat was empty, tray tables up, curtains drawn
between sections. As I reached the rear galley, A

(11:29):
faint metallic click echoed through the fuselage.
I stopped listening. It came again from somewhere
near the forward section, like alatch being flipped.
I started walking back, more outof habit than bravery, and
that's when I saw it. Just past the middle exit row,
one of the jump seats was down. That wasn't unusual by itself.

(11:50):
Flight attendants sometimes leftthem like that.
But what made me stop was the reflection in the small mirror
beside it. A figure was seated there.
The shape was too solid to be a trick of the light.
A man in a dark uniform, head bowed slightly as if reviewing A
checklist. My first thought was that
someone had snuck on board, maybe a maintenance worker?

(12:11):
I didn't see, but as I turned toward the seat itself, it was
empty. No one there.
The air felt heavier then, and the faint scent of burned wiring
hung in the cabin, the same smell you get when a circuit
short circuits. I ran a full sweep after that.
Opened every lavatory door, checked every compartment.

(12:31):
Nothing. I told no one about it that
night. I didn't even tell the
maintenance crew. I just logged the system's check
as complete and left. A week later, I mentioned it
casually to one of the senior engineers over lunch.
He gave me a strange look and asked which plane it was.
When I told him, his face went pale.
He said that particular aircrafthad once carried components from

(12:53):
Flight 4 O1, the very one that went down in the Everglades.
He even joked that I'd probably met Captain Loft himself, one of
the original pilots who died in that crash.
I laughed it off, of course, butthat night, curiosity got the
better of me. I looked up old records, photos,
anything about Flight 4 O1. When I found the cockpit cruise

(13:16):
pictures, my stomach dropped. The man I'd seen in that
reflection, the slumped posture,the uniform, it was almost
identical to the captain's photo.
I've tried to explain it logically.
Maybe exhaustion played tricks on my eyes.
Maybe the reflection was my own,distorted by low cabin lighting.
I even thought about light refraction through the curved

(13:38):
windows, but none of those explanations sit right when I
remember how the seat cushion looked depressed before fading
back to normal. That aircraft was decommissioned
a few years later, and I heard it was stripped for parts again.
Sometimes I wonder if those pieces ended up in other planes
scattered across different fleets.
And if they did, if the captain's ghost really lingered

(14:01):
with his machine, then maybe someone else right now is seeing
what I saw. Every time I fly at night and
hear the soft hum of the engines, I still half expect to
catch that faint scent of burnedwiring or hear slow breathing
behind me. I tell myself it's just the
cabin pressure or the system's recalibrating.
But deep down, there's a part ofme that thinks maybe, just

(14:24):
maybe, some flights never reallyend.
Story 3 There's something unnerving about the sky when
it's too quiet. It's like standing in a church
after everyone's gone, surrounded by the echo of
something that isn't there anymore.
I've been an air traffic controller for almost 8 years by
the summer of 2005, stationed atAthens International.

(14:47):
You get used to the rhythm of things in that job, the rise and
fall of voices, the constant beeps, the soft hum of radar
screens. Planes move like clockwork, each
one following its invisible path.
But that morning, something wentwrong, and I've never been able
to shake it off since. The Helios flight from Larnaca
to Athens. Flight 522 checked in as usual.

(15:10):
Routine weather was clear. Sky visibility perfect.
I remember sipping lukewarm coffee as the transponder
blinked on my screen. It climbed steadily, reporting
altitude changes like every other day.
Then, not long after, one of thetechnicians radioed that the
crew had reported air conditioning issues before
departure. Nothing major, he'd said, just a

(15:33):
note in the long book. Still, it's stuck in the back of
my mind. When the aircraft crossed into
Greek airspace, I tried to reachthem for the standard handover.
No response. That wasn't uncommon.
Sometimes pilots were busy, sometimes frequency interference
kicked in. But after multiple tries, still
nothing. I remember feeling my chest

(15:54):
tighten a bit, the way it does when your instincts start
whispering that something isn't right.
The plane continued its path perfectly, altitude steady,
speed unchanged. It looked normal in every
measurable way, except for the silence about 20 minutes in.
Another controller beside me mentioned that the plane hadn't
acknowledged its altitude clearance either.

(16:16):
That was the first real red flag.
I tried again, more firmly this time, identifying the flight by
number and requesting confirmation.
Again, nothing. I could see its path clear as
day, holding altitude at 34,000 feet.
It wasn't descending, wasn't deviating, wasn't showing any

(16:37):
signs of trouble, except that itmight as well have been flying
itself. Protocol kicked in.
We scrambled to contact the Hellenic Air Force to intercept,
thinking it might be a comms failure or hijack situation.
Even then, the room didn't feel panicked, just focused, everyone
doing what they were trained to do.
But beneath that calm, there wasthis strange tension in the air,

(17:00):
like the pressure before a storm.
While we waited for the fighter jets to reach visual range, I
stared at the radar return. I couldn't help imagining the
inside of that cabin. Rows of passengers probably
unaware anything was wrong, the flight attendants moving calmly
down the aisle, maybe even the smell of reheated coffee
drifting through recycled air. I told myself that's what was

(17:23):
happening. It had to be.
When the Air Force finally reached visual contact, we
leaned into the live radio feed from their pilots.
Their tone shifted. Halfway through the 1st report.
They said they could see the aircraft clearly.
No damage, no smoke trails, nothing to indicate distress.
But when they approach the cockpit, they describe seeing

(17:44):
the captain slumped forward, face against the controls,
unmoving. The copilot too, just there,
motionless. That was the moment something in
the room changed. You could feel it ripple through
every person. We've all dealt with
emergencies, but this was different because everything
about that plane set a live instrument, steady altitude,

(18:06):
perfect engine power constant. It was like watching a heartbeat
on a monitor when you already know the patient is gone.
The fighter pilot circled back, trying to make eye contact
through the cockpit window. He said at one point he thought
he saw a movement behind the pilot's seat, a figure stepping
into view. He couldn't identify who it was.

(18:26):
The figure leaned toward the controls but didn't respond to
his signals, just stood there, then turned away.
After that, the plane continued to fly, silent and obedient, for
over an hour. Every once in a while, a warning
tone from the autopilot system echoed faintly through the radio
feed. It sounded eerie, like a distant

(18:47):
alarm in a dream. Then, without warning, the
engines began to fade. The plane started to drift,
losing altitude gradually. The autopilot held on as long as
it could. Then the nose tilted slightly
and the radar return began to drop.
I sat frozen, watching the line sink lower.
It vanished from the screen nearGrammatico.

(19:08):
The impact registered seconds later.
No survivors. The official report later said
it was human error, a pressurization switch left in
the wrong setting. After maintenance, the cabin
depressurized as they climbed and everyone on board lost
consciousness. The aircraft continued on
autopilot until it ran out of fuel.
Perfectly explainable, perfectlytragic.

(19:31):
That's what the documents say. But there's something no report
mentions, something I've never told anyone outside of work.
About 10 minutes before the plane's engines finally died,
the radio on our end crackled just once.
Not the usual static, not interference.
It was a faint sound, a low breath, like someone exhaling

(19:52):
close to the mic. I thought maybe it was feedback
from the fighter jets, but they reported nothing.
Then, right before the connection cut completely, a
voice, soft, distant, came through.
Just two words. I couldn't make them out
clearly, but they sounded like still here.
I've tried for years to explain it away.

(20:13):
The rational side of me says it was radio bleed through, maybe a
stray transmission bouncing off the mountains.
That happens sometimes. But every time I replay it in my
head, I remember how deliberate it sounded.
Not static, not random. Like someone realizing too late
that they weren't supposed to bethere anymore.
Story 4. Airports have their own kind of

(20:35):
silence at night. It's not peaceful silence, more
like the quiet that follows a warning.
The hum of distant turbines, thefaint echo of luggage carts, the
occasional burst of radio chatter.
All of it blends into a low, uneasy heartbeat that never
really stops. That's what I remember most from
my time at Quattro de Febrero International Airport in Angola.

(20:57):
The silence between those soundslike the place was holding its
breath. I worked at Ground Control there
for a few years in the early 2000's.
The job wasn't glamorous. Most of my shifts were long
nights spent in a small concretetower that smelled like old
coffee and machine grease. I handled maintenance movements,
fuel logs, and cargo checks. It wasn't the busiest airport,

(21:19):
but there were enough private charters and cargo flights that
things stayed unpredictable. One night I was logging the last
few scheduled take offs when something unusual caught my eye.
On the outer runway, Runway 25. A Boeing 727 sat parked there,
one of those older Tri engine models that had been sitting for
months. It belonged to an old American

(21:40):
leasing company that went bankrupt, and the plane had been
stranded after a payment dispute.
People called it the Ghost Bird because it never moved, never
left, and yet somehow never seemed abandoned either.
Someone had been maintaining it just enough to keep it from
decaying completely. Fuel checks, wheel rotations,

(22:00):
things like that. That night though, something was
different. Around sunset I noticed faint
movement near it. From that distance, it looked
like 2 figures climbing up through the service stairs.
That wasn't normal. The plane wasn't scheduled for
anything and access required clearance.
I radioed the field crew, but nobody responded.

(22:20):
Maintenance shifts ended early that day due to a power outage
in one of the hangers, so the tarmac should have been empty.
I told myself it was just contractors finishing late work.
Still, I kept watching. The figures moved around the
cockpit area, their flashlights flickering inside the cabin.
The sun dropped below the horizon, and soon the only light
came from their torches in the faint glow from the control

(22:42):
tower. About half an hour later, I
noticed the navigation lights onthe 727 blink once, just once.
They shouldn't have come on. The aircraft had no clearance,
no active maintenance ticket, and the transponder wasn't
registered on the radar grid. I called into the frequency used
for ground to ground communication, expecting someone

(23:03):
to answer. Silence.
Then the engine started. You don't forget that sound.
The old 727's Pratt and Whitney engines roared alive, 1 by 1,
each one coughing and whining asthey built up to a steady growl.
The entire airfield seemed to shake.
I remember standing up from my chair and staring through the
glass in disbelief. There wasn't supposed to be

(23:25):
enough fuel on board for startup, let alone flight.
I grabbed the secondary line to contact the operation center,
but before anyone answered, the planes landing lights snapped
on, flooding the tarmac in harshwhite light.
It began to roll forward, slow at 1st and faster.
I called for emergency response shouting coordinates, but the

(23:47):
tower chief cut me off midway and asked what I was talking
about. The radar showed nothing.
I repeated that the Boeing 727 on 25 was taxing.
He said there was no aircraft movement on any active runway.
I swear to this day I could see it clear as anything.
The engines roared. The wings shuddered as it gained
speed. It wasn't a hallucination.

(24:09):
The ground crew nearest the hangers later admitted they
heard it too, but saw nothing. The lights, the vibration, the
air pressure, They all felt it. The plane picked up speed,
heading straight for take off. I stood frozen, my headset
slipping off my ear as I watchedthe nose lift slightly.
Then the runway lights flickered.
Every one of them blinked out for less than a second, just

(24:32):
long enough for the whole field to go dark.
And when they came back on, the plane was gone.
No sound, no light, no silhouette against the night
sky. Just empty runway.
I scanned the horizon, expectingto see tail lights climbing
upward, but there was nothing. The radar still showed a blank
screen. The tower logs recorded no

(24:54):
transponder signal, no take off clearance, no trace of
departure. It was as if the plane had never
been there. Security swept the area
immediately. The maintenance stairs were
gone. The wheel marks on the tarmac
were fresh, but ended abruptly halfway down the strip, like the
aircraft had simply lifted off mid run.
No fuel leaks, no debris, no scorch marks.

(25:17):
Just the faint smell of burnt kerosene in the air.
By morning, the entire airport was in chaos.
The Angolan aviation authoritiescontacted the US Embassy, then
the FAA, and later the FBI. The story hit international
intelligence circuits like wildfire.
A stolen Boeing 727 vanished into thin air.

(25:38):
No radar, no flight plan, no wreckage.
Over the next few weeks, I was interviewed multiple times.
They asked the same questions again and again.
Did I know the two men? Did I see where they went?
Did I have any personal connection to the aircraft?
My answers never changed. I didn't know them.
I didn't even know for sure who they were.

(25:59):
The only thing I was certain of was that the plane existed and
that I saw it move with my own eyes.
The investigation dragged on foryears.
Reports came in from remote islands, desert regions, even
parts of the Indian Ocean. None were confirmed, no one
found a single piece of debris, no emergency beacons, no flight

(26:19):
path, nothing. Sometimes at night I think back
to that sound, the engine starting up, echoing through the
airfield. The tower chief later joked that
maybe I heard a different plane from another airport.
Some strange echo. I almost believed him until I
remembered something that still makes my skin crawl 2 days after
the incident. I was walking past the

(26:40):
maintenance yard when I saw a fuel truck driver washing down
his rig. He called me over and said
something odd. He mentioned finding wet
footprints on the back step of his truck that morning.
Bare feet, not boots. He thought maybe someone was
playing a prank, but when he tried to rinse them off, they
didn't fade. They just stayed there, faint
outlines pressed into the metal until the next rainfall 2 days

(27:04):
later. There was no mud on the tarmac
that night. Years have passed, but I still
sometimes catch myself checking radar feeds online, looking for
reports of unregistered 727 sightings.
Every now and then someone postssomething.
A blurry photograph, a grainy video clip, a claim that A3
engine jet flew low over the Atlantic without a transponder.

(27:27):
I don't know what to believe anymore.
Part of me still wonders if it was ever really stolen.
Maybe it was something else, something that was never
supposed to be seen. Because no matter how many
official documents say otherwise, I can't shake the
memory of that plane accelerating Into Darkness and
vanishing between 1 heartbeat and the next, leaving only

(27:48):
silence behind. And sometimes when I close my
eyes, I can still hear it, the deep rhythmic rumble of three
engines, distant and fading likeThunder from a storm that never
existed. Story 5.
Airports always have their own rhythm.
Even when nothing's moving. You can feel the place
breathing, engines cooling, lights humming, winds sweeping

(28:10):
across the asphalt like a pulse.I've been working ground
operations at Savannah Hilton Head International for about 6
years when something happened that I still can't quite put
into words. People always talk about the
haunted stories tied to this place, but I never paid them any
attention. To me, it was just another night
shift under the sodium glow, making sure the runways were

(28:31):
clear and the light stayed on. It was early March, the kind of
night where fog rolls in so thick it feels like you could
scoop it up in your hands. The late flights had all cleared
and I was assigned to inspect the far end of runway 10.
That section doesn't get much love.
It's quieter, older, closer to the tree line.
The air smells different out there too, damp and earthy, like

(28:55):
the swamps trying to reclaim theland.
The only light came from the edge lamps along the tarmac and
the red beacons in the distance.I drove the small utility cart
down the service lane, radio crackling in and out from
interference, static, then silence, then static again.
It's normal around the perimeterfence, but still, it sets your

(29:16):
teeth on edge when you're out there alone.
I remember thinking it felt unusually quiet that night, even
for an airport at midnight. About halfway down the runway,
the fog got worse. My headlights turned it into a
solid wall, so I slowed to a crawl.
That's when I noticed 2 dark shapes ahead, low square and
side by side right near the center line.

(29:38):
For a second I thought it might have been debris or equipment
left behind after maintenance, but when I pulled up closer and
the light hit it just right, I realized what it was. 2 flat
gravestones built directly into the tarmac.
I'd heard people talk about thembefore.
Richard and Catherine Dodson. Locals said their family farm
used to be here before the land was bought for the airport.

(30:00):
Supposedly when the new runway was built, their descendants
refused to move the graves. The compromise was this.
They built the runway over the family plot and embedded the
markers in the pavement. I'd seen photos before, but
never up close. I parked the car and stepped
out, the sound of my boots sharpagainst the asphalt.

(30:22):
The fog swallowed everything just beyond a few feet.
Standing over the stones, I brushed away a layer of
moisture. The names were faint but still
legible, carved in worn marble that looked out of place,
surrounded by all that concrete and paint.
For a moment, I felt uneasy. Not afraid, exactly, just a
weird kind of guilt, like I'd walked into someone's living

(30:44):
room without knocking. That's when I noticed the
temperature had dropped. The night was already cool, but
this was different. The air felt heavy and still,
like the moment before a storm. My breath started fogging in
front of me and the tiny hairs on my arms rose under my jacket.
I told myself it was just the wind funneling through the trees

(31:04):
nearby, or maybe the fog settling colder on the ground.
Still, I couldn't shake the sense that I wasn't alone
anymore. I tried to focus on the
inspection, check the edge lights, log the markers and
Crouch to inspect one of the in ground reflectors.
That's when I heard it. A faint tapping sound behind me.
Slow, measured. Not metal, not stone, more like

(31:29):
the soft scrape of shoes againstpavement.
I turned, but the fog was so thick that the world ended about
10 feet in front of me. I called out, though my voice
sounded small, swallowed by the mist.
No answer. I figured it might be another
crew member doing a perimeter check, but no lights, no engine
hum, nothing to suggest a vehicle was nearby.

(31:51):
The airport radio stayed dead silent.
I told myself to stop overthinking it and got back to
work, but the tapping started again, this time closer.
I stood up fast, flashlight cutting through the haze.
And that's when I saw them. Two figures, faint but clear
enough to make out, standing near the center of the runway,

(32:11):
both facing away from me, side by side.
The first thing I noticed was how still they were.
Not even the fog seemed to move around them.
The second thing was that they didn't cast shadows.
I took a few slow steps forward,thinking maybe it was just the
beam playing tricks through the fog, but the closer I got, the
clearer they became. One tall, 1 slightly shorter,

(32:34):
like a man and woman. The air around me felt charged,
like static before lightning. I could hear the low hum of the
runway lights, but nothing else,not even the sound of my own
footsteps anymore. Then, as I raised my light
higher, they turned. Not fast, not dramatic, just
slowly, as if curious about the sound behind them.

(32:55):
For a split second I saw their faces.
Pale, almost transparent, with the faintest shimmer, like heat
off asphalt. Their eyes didn't look at me,
exactly. They looked through me, past me.
Maybe it's something that wasn'tthere anymore.
And just as suddenly, they were gone.
The fog folded in, and I was alone again.

(33:17):
I stood there for a long moment,breathing hard.
My flashlight flickered once, then steadied.
My heart was hammering so hard it felt like it echoed in my
ears. I don't even remember walking
back to the cart. I just remember suddenly being
in it, engine revving, heading back toward the terminal.
Lights like a lifeline. When I got to the operations

(33:38):
office, I tried to play it off. I told myself it was just
fatigue, light refraction, the kind of tricks fog and nerves
can play on a tired brain. But when I logged the inspection
report, I noticed something thatmade me stop under remarks I'd
written. 2 pedestrians near 10 CUnclear identification.

(33:58):
I didn't remember writing it. I don't even remember pulling
the pen from my pocket. The handwriting was mine,
though. Shaky, uneven.
I thought about erasing it, but something told me not to, so I
left it. The next morning I went out with
the day crew to double check thesection.
The fog had cleared and the sunlight made everything look
normal again. The tarmac stretched out smooth

(34:20):
and clean, and the gravestones were just there, ordinary, flat
and quiet. I mentioned the figures
casually, pretending it was a joke, and one of the older guys
just nodded. He didn't make a big deal out of
it, just said some things at that airport never really left
when the land changed hands. I've been back to that runway

(34:44):
plenty of time since then, always during daylight, always
with company. And every now and then,
especially when the sun drops low and the fog starts rolling
in, I catch myself looking down the tarmac, half expecting to
see them again. Maybe it's just a trick of the
light. Maybe it's the human brain
trying to find meaning in the mist, but every time I drive

(35:04):
past those stones, I can't help thinking if I'd stayed a few
seconds longer that night, maybethey would have had something to
say. Story 6 Airports have their own
kind of heartbeat. You can feel it if you stand
still long enough. The low hum of engines, the
constant shuffle of people coming and going, the buzz of

(35:25):
announcements that blend into white noise.
I'd work security at Honolulu International for almost 9
years, and after a while the rhythm of the place became
second nature. But there was one part of the
airport where that pulse felt wrong, like a skipped beat in a
song you knew by heart. Gate 14 in the older terminal.
I didn't think much of it when Istarted.

(35:46):
Every airport has its odd corners, but Gate 14 had this
quiet that didn't match the restof the building.
Even when flights were scheduledthere, people seemed uneasy,
like they were subconsciously trying to sit closer to the
windows or near other travelers.Some of the old timers used to
joke that the gate had bad luck.Flights out of there were

(36:06):
delayed more often than others. Power glitches, random equipment
failures, lost luggage, stuff that could all be explained
until it started happening too consistently.
My first real shift alone covering that gate was on a
Wednesday night about 3 years ago.
I remember it because it was oneof those heavy nights, humid
air, the kind that made the fluorescent lights flicker

(36:28):
faintly. The last flight for the night
had already departed and I was stationed there until the
cleaning crew finished. The terminal was practically
empty except for the faint soundof mops on tile and the
occasional rolling suitcase echoing down the corridor.
I did a few slow laps, check theexits, then settled near the
window overlooking the runway. The city light shimmered in the

(36:51):
distance, and for a while it waspeaceful in that eerie kind of
way only airports can be after midnight.
Then I noticed her. At first I thought it was just
another late passenger. A woman stood by the large glass
panel facing the tarmac, her reflection caught in the faint
light. She wore a white dress that
looked dated, like something outof the 70s, long hair down her

(37:13):
back. She wasn't doing anything, just
standing there, looking out toward the dark runway.
I called out to her standard procedure, asking if she needed
help or missed her flight. No response.
She didn't even flinch. I figured maybe she was wearing
earbuds, so I stepped closer. Still nothing.

(37:34):
When I got within a few feet, I caught a better glimpse of her
face reflected in the glass, andsomething about it was off.
The reflection was clearer than it should have been, like the
lighting was hitting her from the wrong direction.
Her skin looked pale, almost Gray under the fluorescent
lights, and her expression was empty, completely blank except

(37:55):
for her eyes, which looked sad in a way that makes you feel it
in your chest. Before I could say anything
else, a loud crack came from behind me, the sound of a chair
tipping over near the gate desk.I turned instinctively,
flashlight out, scanning the area.
Nothing. When I turned back, the woman
was gone. Just gone.

(38:16):
The weird part? There was only one hallway
leading away from that window, and I've been blocking it.
She couldn't have gone anywhere without passing me.
I walked to the glass and lookedoutside.
No one. The tarmac was empty except for
one parked maintenance truck about 100 yards away.
I radioed it in, told the shift supervisor that someone might

(38:36):
have wandered past security somehow.
They told me to recheck the surrounding gates.
I spent the next half hour combing through the area,
checking restrooms, service doors, even the locked lounge
space. Nothing.
No sign of her. I laughed it off at the time.
I mean, every airport has ghost stories.
But that night when I clocked out and started walking back

(38:58):
through the terminal toward the parking lot, I passed one of the
big glass doors that looked out toward the runways again.
And there she was. Same dress, same stillness, same
spot, except I was at least 2 gates away from where I'd seen
her before. This time she wasn't facing the
runway. She was turned toward the
terminal, facing me. I stopped walking.

(39:19):
My brain went through the usual rational checklist, reflection,
glare, fatigue, optical illusion.
But she was standing outside on the tarmac.
There's no way that could have been real.
No one can get out there withoutclearance.
I blinked once, twice, and she was gone again.
After that, I didn't mention it to anyone.

(39:40):
What was I supposed to say, thatI saw a ghost staring back at me
through airport glass? Maintenance guys said their
tools would go missing and show up later at the window and
always at gate 14. A few weeks later, I checked the
security feed. Out of curiosity, I pulled the
footage from that night. The time stamp matched exactly
when I'd seen her. I watched the video, my stomach

(40:03):
tightening as the camera panned across the empty gate area.
There was no one there, But right before I turned toward the
noise, the moment before I flinched, you could see
something strange on the glass. A faint smudge shaped almost
like a person's silhouette. When I zoomed in, the image
pixelated, but the outline was unmistakable, a woman's figure,

(40:25):
faint but clear enough that you could see the shape of her head
tilted toward the window, like she was waiting for something
just beyond the glass. I didn't report it.
I deleted the clip. Part of me didn't want to fuel
the rumors. Part of me didn't want to know
more. Since then, I've worked dozens
of night shifts at the airport. I've gotten used to the weird
sounds, the flickering lights, even the cold drafts that sweep

(40:49):
through when the air conditioning supposedly off.
But now and then, when I'm walking past the old terminal, I
catch a glimpse of movement nearGate 14.
Story 7. Airports are like veins.
You can feel the life pulsing through them, even at 2:00 AM
when the world outside is asleep.
I work nights at Denver International for five years as

(41:10):
part of the maintenance crew, and I swear that place has a
heartbeat of its own. You can hear it in the echo of
your boots down the service tunnels, in the low hum of
machinery buried deep under the tarmac.
It's not the kind of noise that ever really stops.
It just breathes. Most people only see the pretty
side, the white peaks that look like snow caps, the art

(41:32):
installations that make no sense, and that Big Blue horse
statue outside that everyone calls Lucifer.
But behind the walls, under the runways, is a whole different
world. There's an entire network of
tunnels and maintenance corridors that stretch for
miles. Some connect to baggage
handling, others go deeper to places that aren't even marked

(41:52):
on the blueprints we were given.I remember the first time I
heard the rumor. One of the older guys, Hank,
told me that during constructionin the 90s, there were tunnels
that had to be sealed off because workers kept getting
lost down there. He said that the GPS signals
wouldn't work underground. Encompasses spun like crazy.
Of course, everyone laughed it off.

(42:13):
Construction workers talk. They like to make things sound
mysterious. Still, I couldn't help but
notice that certain doors in thelowest levels always stayed
locked, even from our side. 1 winter night, I was assigned to
check a faulty ventilation system below Concourse C It was
almost midnight, snow was comingdown hard outside and most

(42:34):
flights had already been grounded.
The tunnels were quiet, just that hum in the background in
the sound of my cartwheels squeaking on the concrete floor.
I had a map of the maintenance routes, but the section I needed
wasn't labeled clearly. There was just a square space
marked Utility Access with no specific number.
When I reached the last intersection, I realized I'd

(42:55):
gone farther than usual. The concrete walls started to
change, old sections, rougher texture, painted over at least a
dozen times. There were signs and faded red
paint, half scratched off with letters I couldn't make out.
For a moment I thought maybe I'dwandered into one of those
sealed off areas Hank talked about.

(43:16):
My flashlight beam caught a trail of footprints in the dust
ahead. Fresh ones.
I wasn't the only one down there.
I called it in over my radio, but all I got was static.
Not even a buzz. I thought maybe I was too deep
underground. The walls in that part of the
airport were thick, and signal interference was normal.
Still, the silence on the line made my stomach twist.

(43:38):
I followed the prints until theystopped at a heavy steel door.
No label, no handle, just a keyhole.
It was painted the same color asthe wall, like someone wanted it
to disappear. I shouldn't have, but curiosity
got the better of me. I tried one of the skeleton keys
we use for general access, and to my surprise, it turned.

(43:58):
Inside was a narrow passage thatsloped downward, colder than the
tunnels above. The air smelled damp, metallic.
My breath came out white. The deeper I went, the quieter
it got, like the sound was beingswallowed whole.
The concrete floor turned to rough stone, uneven under my
boots. My flashlight flickered, and for

(44:21):
a moment I thought I saw movement.
Something like a figure standingat the end of the hall, just
outside the beams reach. I froze.
My heart thudded so loud it drowned everything else out.
The figure didn't move closer, it just stood there.
I blinked, and when the light steadied, it was gone.
I told myself it was just a trick of shadows, tired eyes

(44:43):
playing games. But I wasn't tired, not like
that. I turned to leave, but something
had changed. The tunnel behind me didn't look
the same. The walls seem narrower, darker,
almost like they were pulsing slightly.
My flashlight flickered again, and I felt something brush past
my shoulder, a cold rush of air sharp enough to raise every hair

(45:05):
on my arm. I started walking, faster than
faster still, until I was practically jogging.
The sound of my boots echoed wrong, offbeat, like another set
of footsteps joined in just halfa step behind.
When I finally reached the door,I slammed it shut and locked it.
My chest was heaving and I couldbarely get a signal on my radio.

(45:28):
After a few tries, someone finally responded, a guy from
the security office. He said my ID tracker had
glitched, showing I was outside the airport perimeter for
several minutes, even though I'dnever left the building.
I went straight to the break room and sat there for a good
half hour, trying to calm down. Hank walked in later and joked
that I looked like I'd seen one of the lizard people.

(45:51):
I didn't laugh. I told him about the tunnel, the
door, the cold air. He stared at me for a long time
before saying he'd heard storiesabout the old facility.
According to him, before the current airport was finished,
there'd been another structure planned underneath something
military. They'd scrapped it and build
over it instead, supposedly. I couldn't sleep that night.

(46:15):
Every time I close my eyes, I saw that figure again, just a
shape at the end of a dark hall.I kept telling myself it was an
optical illusion, but then smallthings started happening after
that. Tools would disappear from my
cart and reappear somewhere else.
My flashlight would drain halfway through a shift, no
matter how new the batteries were.

(46:36):
One morning I found a smear of reddish dust on my uniform
sleeve, the kind that came from the older stone walls, but I
hadn't gone near them again. I even got checked for exposure
to mold or gases, thinking maybesomething down there had messed
with my head. Everything came back normal.
The strangest part? A few weeks after my incident,

(46:56):
that section of the tunnel got sealed off completely.
When I asked why nobody had an answer, one of the managers said
there were structural concerns. But when I checked the
maintenance logs, there was no record of inspection, no
request, nothing. It was just closed permanently.
I still work at the airport, butI never go near that wing

(47:17):
anymore. Sometimes when I'm driving the
service vehicle across the tarmac late at night, I glance
toward the area above where thattunnel would have been.
There's a faint hum you can hearfrom the ground, a vibration
under the concrete that doesn't match any of the systems we
know. Maybe it's the generators.
Maybe it's the air pressure frommiles of vents and machinery

(47:38):
buried below, but some nights when everything else is quiet,
it sounds less like a hum and more like breathing.
And I can't help but think aboutthose sealed tunnels, about what
might still be waiting down there underneath all that glass
and steel and noise. Because for a place that's
supposed to move millions of people every year, Denver

(47:59):
International sure has a lot of space no one's supposed to find.
Story 8. Airports have a strange kind of
silence hidden underneath all the noise.
It's not the quiet of emptiness,but the pause between
departures, the breath the worldtakes before people scatter
across time zones. I've been in enough airports to
notice it, but Suva Nabumi felt different, like the silence was

(48:22):
waiting for you to listen to something you shouldn't.
I was flying back to London after a 2 week trip in Thailand.
My flight was delayed overnight so I got stuck with a hotel
voucher and a boarding pass for an early morning departure.
I didn't mind. I've been through Bangkok's
airport before. It's sleek, enormous, full of
glass and steel. But there's a weird undercurrent

(48:44):
you can't quite put your finger on.
People always said it was built on a swamp, and some claimed it
was cursed ground. I never paid attention to those
things. I figured that sort of talk came
from superstition. That night, the airport felt
emptier than I'd ever seen it. The loudspeaker announcements
were gone and the only sound wasthe hum of the moving walkways.

(49:05):
Most of the shops had their shutters half down.
I decided to wander a bit instead of heading straight to
the transit hotel. Maybe stretch my legs, find a
quiet place to read before I crashed around midnight.
I ended up near 1 of the older concourses.
The lighting there was dimmer, almost yellowish, and I remember
thinking it looked unfinished, like part of the airport no one

(49:27):
really used anymore. My gate A6 was supposedly down
that hall. The digital signboard showed it
clearly, so I followed, but as Igot closer, something felt off.
The air was colder than the restof the terminal, like the air
conditioning was turned up too high, and though I could see the
reflections of cleaning staff inthe glass walls behind me, when

(49:48):
I turned around, no one was there, just my own reflection.
Except for a split second, it didn't quite look like me.
I blame the flickering light above the travel later and kept
walking. The corridor seemed to stretch
further than it should have. You know when you walk in One
Direction and the end never seems to get closer?
It was that kind of feeling. I kept expecting to see other

(50:11):
passengers or staff, but there was no one, just rows of empty
chairs and silent gates. Then I noticed the numbering.
A3A4A5 and then A7. No A6.
I stopped, thinking maybe I'd missed it.
I turned around, scanning the signs again.
Same thing. No Gate 6 anywhere.

(50:32):
I pulled out my phone to double check my boarding pass.
Gate A6, clear as day. The airport Wi-Fi wasn't
connecting, though, and my data was dead.
I figured maybe the gate had been reassigned, but something
about the corridor made me uneasy.
That's when I heard footsteps. Slow ones.
Not from behind me, but from up ahead, near where the corridor

(50:53):
curved out of sight. I thought maybe a staff member
was coming, so I called out to ask if a six was down that way.
No answer. The footsteps kept going,
echoing off the tiles. I stepped closer, half expecting
to see someone in uniform, but when I rounded the bend, the
hallway was empty except for oneopen doorway on the right.

(51:14):
The sign above it said a six. The gate shouldn't have been
there. I'd walk the same corridor 10
minutes ago and that door hadn'texisted yet.
There it was, lit from inside, faintly orange instead of the
cold white light the rest of theterminal used.
I tried to convince myself it was some kind of maintenance
area, maybe mislabeled. Still, something about the quiet

(51:36):
hum inside drew me closer. The glass panels on the door
were slightly fogged. I could make out rows of seats
inside, but they look different,older, almost retro.
I hesitated, then pushed the door open.
A gust of warm, stale air hit meimmediately.
The smell was wrong. Not awful, just strange, like

(51:57):
burnt dust mixed with something metallic.
Inside, everything looked off. The chairs were arranged the
same way as in any gate, but theupholstery was faded like it had
been there for decades. The TV monitor above the
boarding desk flickered with static.
I stepped in slowly, telling myself it was probably a closed
off section that hadn't been renovated yet.

(52:20):
Then I noticed something else. My reflection in the glass wall
opposite me wasn't moving right.It lagged, just by a fraction of
a second, but enough to make my stomach turn.
When I raised my hand to rub my eye, my reflection followed a
beat too late. I stepped closer to the glass,
staring at it. The outline looked like me, same

(52:41):
clothes, same face, but the eyesseemed darker, deeper.
I blinked hard and turned around, ready to get out of
there. That's when I heard it again.
Footsteps, this time behind me. I spun around, expecting to see
someone. Nothing.
Just the empty gate. The door I'd come through was
closed now, though I hadn't touched it.

(53:04):
My phone buzzed suddenly, vibrating in my hand.
The screen flickered on, showingno service.
But the clock was wrong. It showed 3:17 AM.
I'd only been there maybe 15 minutes.
I checked my watch. It said 12:42 AM.
The hairs on my arms stood straight up.
Then the static on the monitor above the counter changed.

(53:24):
It wasn't random fuzz anymore. It looked like moving figures,
silhouettes walking across a runway, planes in the
background, people waving. But the image was distorted,
grainy, like old film. The sound from the speakers
crackled faintly, a low murmur Icouldn't make out.
I remember backing up, trying toreach the door.

(53:45):
I grabbed the handle and yanked it open, stumbling into the
hallway again. The air outside was freezing.
When I turned back, the sign above the door didn't say A6
anymore. It said Maintenance Access,
Authorized personnel only. I stood there for a minute,
heart pounding, trying to make sense of it.
I thought maybe I'd wandered into some closed off zone or

(54:07):
accidentally stumbled into a restricted area.
That had to be it. I forced myself to walk back
toward the main concourse, passing the same empty seats in
silent shops. When I finally reached the
information counter, a security guard was there.
I showed him my boarding pass and asked where gate A6 was.
He looked at it for a moment, then said that a six had been
closed off years ago after a section of the terminal was

(54:30):
remodeled. I told him I'd just come from
there and he frowned, said that wasn't possible because the door
had been sealed. I didn't argue, I just asked for
directions to the transit hotel and left.
I barely slept that night, and when I boarded my flight the
next morning, I tried not to think about it.
But as the plane taxied, I glanced out the window at the

(54:51):
terminal buildings for a split second.
Near the far corner of ConcourseAI saw what looked like an old
glass gate with a faint orange glow inside.
And sitting near the window facing the runway was someone
wearing the same clothes I'd hadon the night before.
I blinked, and it was gone. To this day, I don't know what
that section of the airport was,or what I walked into.

(55:15):
Maybe it was a construction zoneI wasn't supposed to find.
Maybe my brain filled in gaps inthe low light, or maybe some
parts of that place still belongto whatever was buried there
before the airport existed. All I know is that my boarding
pass still says gate A6, and that gate doesn't exist anymore.
Story 9. The hum of engines through

(55:36):
glass, the chatter of distant radios, the echo of footsteps on
linoleum. At 3, AMI used to joke that I
could tell how busy a night was just by the rhythm of the noise.
That night though, the rhythm broke.
Everything stopped for a moment,like the building itself forgot
how to breathe. I was working a late shift at
the control tower of a mid sizedInternational Airport.

(55:59):
The weather was clear, the skieswere calm and most of the
overnight flights had already departed.
Usually this time of night was peaceful, just cargo planes and
the occasional red eye. I remember sipping bad coffee,
going through the motion of checking radar logs and comms
when something odd happened. The first sign was a blip on the

(56:20):
radar screen. At first I thought it was a
glitch. The transponder code was
outdated, the kind used decades ago.
It wasn't broadcasting the usualdigital ID, just a four digit
analog squawk that didn't make sense.
I checked the list. No aircraft scheduled in that
corridor. Then it began descending.
I radioed the supposed aircraft to identify itself.

(56:42):
No answer. The blip held steady, then
slowed, aligning perfectly with one of our inactive runways.
That caught my attention. Planes don't just drop out of
nowhere like that, especially not on closed runways.
For a few seconds I assumed it was a training exercise or a
misfiled flight, maybe someone from the military running tests.
But as I cross checked flight logs, nothing matched.

(57:05):
No flight plan, no record, no contact from the FAA or
military. Just an old transponder code
that didn't belong in modern aviation.
Then my radio crackled. It was faint, like a whisper
pushed through static. The voice was calm, formal.
Using air traffic phrasing from the 1950s, they identified

(57:26):
themselves as Pan American Flight 914.
The message was brief, saying they were coming in from New
York bound for Miami, requestingpermission to land due to
navigation issues. I froze.
That flight number didn't exist anymore.
Pan Am hadn't existed in decades.
Still, procedure kicked in. I cleared the runway and guided

(57:46):
them down, my hands shaking slightly on the mic.
I half expected the radar to drop or fade, but it didn't.
The aircraft stayed steady, descending smoothly until the
tower cameras caught something. An old 4 engine propeller plane,
the kind that hadn't flown commercially since the early
60s. It touched down like any other
landing wheels screeching softlyagainst the tarmac, then began

(58:10):
taxing toward the main terminal.But there was a problem.
There were no ground crew waiting, no lights guiding it,
and no one else on the frequencyseemed to notice what was
happening. I switched to the ground
channel, asking if anyone could see the plane.
No response. I could see it clearly on the
camera feed, though. Pan Am colors, blue stripe along
the fuselage, windows glowing faintly yellow.

(58:33):
Then the cameras blinked just once, and when the feed
returned, the plane was gone. The radar still showed it
sitting there, but visually the runway was empty.
Not a single sign of movement. My first thought was that the
feed had glitched, or maybe beenD synced with the radar, but the
time stamps matched. I blinked at the monitor, then

(58:54):
checked the physical runway through the tower.
Binoculars. Nothing.
Just asphalt and silence. I replayed the footage.
The plane rolled to a stop and then simply wasn't there in the
next frame. No fade out, no motion blur.
One second it existed, the next it didn't.
I called security, thinking maybe it had taxied off camera

(59:16):
or something. A few minutes later, the ground
patrol confirmed the runway was empty.
No lights, no sound, no sign of disturbance.
The odd part? The tarmac near the end of the
strip looked disturbed, like fresh skid marks have been made
and right near the edge of the runway lights.
One of the older ground crew later said he smelled something
strange. Burnt oil mixed with a metallic

(59:37):
Tang, like ozone after lightning.
I stayed late writing my report.It took me hours to explain what
I'd seen without sounding insane.
I listed it as a possible radar echo or instrument malfunction,
though I didn't believe it. Before leaving, I double checked
the system for the transponder code again, thinking maybe I
misread it. I didn't.

(59:59):
The code wasn't assigned to any current aircraft.
It matched a registration numberfor a Pan Am DC-4 flight 914
that had vanished en route to Miami in 1955.
The next day I brought it up to a colleague who'd been in the
tower with me that night. He looked confused when I
mentioned it, said he didn't recall any radar anomaly, and
the system logs didn't show an unscheduled landing.

(01:00:21):
I thought he was joking, so I pulled up the playback files.
They were gone, deleted. Even the camera recordings from
that hour were missing. The time stamp jumped from 2:14
AM to 3:00 O 1:00 AM. No footage in between.
When I reported the missing datato IT, they said there hadn't
been any outages or technical issues.

(01:00:42):
Everything else recorded fine. It was just that one time frame
that didn't exist anymore. For days, I couldn't stop
thinking about it. I even went down to the runway
myself one night, standing near where the skid marks had been.
The maintenance crew had alreadycleaned the area, but I could
still make out faint tire impressions if I crouched close
enough. And as I stood there in the

(01:01:03):
dark, listening to the hum of distant generators, I swore I
heard the faintest sound of propellers in the distance.
Slow, rhythmic, fading as if pulling away.
I know how that sounds. I've gone over it in my head 100
times. Every logical explanation I can
think of falls apart somewhere. A weather balloon doesn't land,

(01:01:25):
a glitch doesn't leave tire marks, and no amount of tired
imagination can fabricate radio frequencies that old.
What unsettles me the most, though, isn't the incident
itself. It's what came after.
About a week later, a small envelope appeared in my office
inbox. No return address.
Inside was a single yellowed flight manifest listing

(01:01:45):
passengers aboard Pan Am Flight 91457.
Names at the bottom and faded typewriter ink was a note.
That read arrived safely, Caracas mil noviciantos novente
dos. I showed it to my supervisor,
but when I went back to get it from my desk later, it was gone.
My drawer was empty. I still have a copy of the radar

(01:02:07):
print out though, the one showing the old transponder code
in the path of descent. When I look at it, I can't shake
the feeling that somewhere, somewhere, that plane still
flying Story 10 airports have their own kind of silence.
It's not the peaceful kind. It's the type that hums beneath
the surface like the world's holding its breath between take

(01:02:28):
offs and landings. I used to work ground
maintenance at Anderson Air Force Base in Guam and that hum
was something I got used to. Every engine roar, every
flashing light, every lonely cart moving across the runway at
night, it all became background noise.
Until one night it didn't. Until one night that silence
turned heavy and wrong. It's been years, but I still

(01:02:51):
remember it like it happened yesterday, March 16th, 1962.
I was only 26, working the late shift.
The humid air made everything feel slower, thicker.
We were prepping for the refueling of Flying Tiger Line
Flight 739, a Lockheed Constellation carrying troops
heading toward Vietnam. Nothing about the flight stood

(01:03:13):
out. Charter run, civilian contract.
A bunch of young soldiers jokingaround near the hangar, their
bags slung low, a few smoking even though they weren't
supposed to. Typical.
But as we started loading supplies, one of the crew
mentioned their communications had been spotty on the previous
leg. They said the radios had picked
up faint chatter on unused frequencies, voices that didn't

(01:03:37):
match any known call signs. The pilot brushed it off, saying
it was probably some civilian station bleeding through.
It wasn't the first time that kind of thing happened, so no
one made a big deal out of it. When the plane taxied out, I
stayed near the edge of the tarmac, watching its lights
disappear into the night sky. The Lockheed's 4 engines rumbled
deep enough to shake the ground under my boots.

(01:03:59):
I remember thinking it was a beautiful sound.
Strong, confident. That was the last time anyone
saw or heard that plane. A few hours later, the control
tower started reporting radio silence.
No response from Flight 739. They tried again and again.
Static. They widen the frequency range.
Still nothing. At first, everyone assumed they

(01:04:21):
lost temporary contact. It happened before, especially
over the Pacific. But when the flight failed to
check in at the next waypoint, things got serious fast.
Search and rescue scrambled at first light.
The Coast Guard, the Navy, even some commercial pilots help scan
the ocean. They covered more than 100,000
square miles over several days. Nothing.

(01:04:43):
No debris, no oil slick, no lifevests, nothing.
It was like the plane had been plucked right out of the sky.
That should have been the end ofit.
A tragedy, sure, but one that could be explained.
Mechanical failure, navigationalerror, whatever planes go down
the ocean hides everything. But then, two days after the

(01:05:06):
disappearance, I was back on shift when the weirdest thing
happened. It was close to midnight and I
was alone near Hanger 4, doing inventory on spare parts.
The place was empty except for me, the echo of my clipboard
tapping against a metal crate and the low buzz of fluorescent
lights. I was halfway through counting

(01:05:26):
when I heard something. Radio chatter.
Not from the main communicationschannel, but from one of the old
handheld transceivers sitting ona shelf.
The damn thing wasn't even powered on.
At first I thought it was feedback or a stray frequency
bouncing through the wiring, butthen the voices became clearer.
Faint, distorted. They sounded like they were

(01:05:47):
underwater. I caught fragments, numbers,
maybe coordinates, and what I swear were the words No horizon
and still climbing. I went over, picked up the
radio, and checked the dial. It was off, Completely off.
The moment my hand touched it, the sound cut out.
Dead silence. I checked the batteries, the

(01:06:10):
switch, even the wiring behind the rack.
Everything looked normal. I tried laughing it off, but I
couldn't shake the unease crawling up my spine.
A few nights later, it happened again, this time outside near
the fueling station. I was restocking when the air
base lights flickered, just for a second.
The generators didn't drop, justa quick pulse, like something

(01:06:32):
passed through the grid. A cold gust followed, even
though the air had been still moments before.
Then came the sound, distant, faint but unmistakable.
The droning of four engines, thekind the old constellations had.
I remember looking up instinctively, searching the
night sky. Nothing there.
But the sound grew louder. It circled the base once, twice,

(01:06:56):
before fading off toward the open ocean.
I wasn't the only one who heard it.
One of the tower operators came down later, pale as a sheet,
saying they picked up a radar blip for about 30 seconds.
A slow moving aircraft, low altitude, no identification.
When they tried to hail it, static filled the channel and
the blip vanished. After that, rumors started

(01:07:18):
flying around the base. Some said the plane had been
shot down and covered up. Others whispered about time
distortions or lost flight corridors over the Pacific where
radio signals bent, encompasses spun.
I didn't buy any of that, but I couldn't explain the things I
saw or heard. About A week later, I was doing
another late inspection when thestrangest thing happened.

(01:07:41):
The airstrip lights were dimmed for maintenance, so most of the
base was dark except for the glow from the hangers.
As I walked past the perimeter fence, I noticed something odd.
A faint light out over the water.
Not a ship's light, not blinkinglike aircraft beacons do.
It just hovered there, low on the horizon.
I watched it for a while, assuming it was a fishing vessel

(01:08:03):
or maybe a reflection. But then it started moving fast,
too fast. It streaked upward in total
silence, then vanished behind the clouds.
A moment later I heard that samelow rumble again, the exact
sound of the constellations, engines distant and fading.
The next morning, a few of us went to check the shoreline

(01:08:23):
where the light had been. Nothing.
Just black sand and driftwood. But one of the guys pointed out
something strange. Fresh boot prints leading from
the waterline toward the brush. The pattern matched military
issue boots. We followed them for maybe 50
yards before they stopped dead in the middle of the sand.
No sign of turning around, no drag marks, nothing.

(01:08:47):
Just ended. No one ever mentioned it
officially. The paperwork from the
investigation stayed sealed. Families never got closure.
Some even claimed they'd received static filled calls in
the middle of the night. Just breathing and silence.
I stayed at Anderson for a few years before transferring out.
Now and then, though, I'd be on a late shift and the tower would

(01:09:09):
report strange radar pings far out over the Pacific, moving
slowly like a plane running on fumes.
Each time I think of Flight 739 and those 107 souls that never
made it home. Even now, when I hear a distant
prop plane flying over the ocean, part of me still listens
for that specific tone, the old Lockheed's uneven hum.

(01:09:32):
And sometimes, when the weather's right and the sea fog
rolls in thick, I swear I can almost hear it again, fading in
and out through the static. Maybe it's just the mind playing
tricks. Maybe it's something else, but
if you ever find yourself near Guam on a quiet night, take a
moment to listen. The Ocean's full of ghosts, and

(01:09:52):
some of them still haven't landed.