True Ghost Stories that Made Me Believe in the Paranormal

True Ghost Stories that Made Me Believe in the Paranormal

Episode Transcript

(00:00):
Story number one, I slept on my aunt's couch after her death.
I wish I hadn't. When my aunt committed suicide,
I went back home from universityto stay with my family for a few
weeks. I was in my early 20s then and
everyone was still in shock. The house was crowded with
relatives coming and going, and since I didn't have my own room
anymore, I was given the couch in the living room to sleep on.

(00:22):
The layout of the house might seem like a boring detail, but
it matters. The garage door opens directly
into the living room, the livingroom blends into the kitchen in
an open floor plan, and the couch basically floats in the
middle with its back to the kitchen.
The kitchen ceiling is double height, open to a second floor
mezzanine. If you stood in the upstairs

(00:42):
hallway near the master bedroom,you could lean on the railing
and look straight down into the kitchen or diagonally into the
living room. My first few nights were
uneventful. The house was busy during the
day with people visiting to pay their respects, but at night it
grew uncomfortably silent. There was a heaviness in the air
I couldn't quite explain. I brushed it off as the natural

(01:04):
unease that comes after a death.It was on the fourth night that
things started to feel off. I was lying on the couch,
wrapped in a thin blanket, the television on low volume,
playing Pawn Stars reruns. I was half awake, trying to
distract my mind when I got thatcreeping sensation, the instinct
that makes you want to check over your shoulder for no good

(01:26):
reason. It wasn't a sudden jolt of fear,
more like a steady awareness that I wasn't entirely alone.
I tried to ignore it at first. The house creaked often at
night, and my brain was already wired for fear.
But the sensation intensified until I couldn't focus on the TV
anymore. Finally, with a kind of
reluctant dread, I pushed myselfup from the sunken couch

(01:49):
cushions and peered over the backrest into the kitchen.
I expected to see nothing. Instead, standing under the
under cabinet lights was someoneor something.
It was completely naked, but hadno genitals, no hair, nothing
that made it look human apart from the basic shape.
It's skin was smooth, a sickly grayish blue that the kitchen

(02:12):
lights made almost translucent, especially around the ribs.
I could see the rapid flutter ofits lungs beneath the surface,
like watching a trapped bird trying to escape.
It's eyes and mouth were deep black voids slanted upward, as
if all the skin at the back of its head had been pulled tight.
It's arms were long, unnaturallyso, with fingers that extended

(02:34):
past its knees. It didn't move.
It just stared at me, mouth openas if frozen in a silent scream.
My heart slammed against my ribsand something instinctual
screamed at me to stop looking. And then I woke up.
There was no moment of drifting to sleep, no dream sequence.
One second I was staring at it, the next I was sitting upright

(02:56):
on the couch, sweating, heart pounding.
Every light downstairs went on. The kitchen was empty.
The house was silent except for the refrigerator.
Hum. But when I looked down at my
arms and legs, I found faint blue bruises perfectly shaped
like fingerprints, as if someonehad held me down.
I tried to rationalize it. Maybe I'd had a sleep paralysis

(03:18):
episode. Maybe I'd grip myself too hard
in my sleep. The bruises could have been from
bumping into something earlier. I convinced myself it was a
fluke. Except it happened again.
The second time was almost identical.
Same setup, TV on me on the couch, that creeping sensation.
Same thing standing in the kitchen when I looked over.

(03:40):
Same snap to wakefulness with mypulse racing.
Only this time there were faint blue stains on my blanket.
No one else had touched it. I tried washing it but the
stains wouldn't fully come off. It happened 1/3 time a few
nights later. By then I was terrified of
falling asleep in the living room, but I didn't have another
option. Each episode was perfectly lucid

(04:03):
and what scared me most was thatI never remember drifting off.
It was as if I was fully awake one moment and then violently
pulled into these encounters. The house itself started to feel
wrong. Little things.
Cold drafts near the kitchen even when windows were closed.
The smell of damp, almost metallic.
In the middle of the night. I'd hear soft thuds upstairs,

(04:27):
but when I check nothing had fallen.
One night I heard faint tapping from the mezzanine railing, like
fingers drumming wood. I stared up but saw nothing.
Then came the worst night. I'd finally managed to fall into
a restless sleep on the couch when a sound woke me.
It wasn't footsteps or creaking this time, it was a high pitched
buzzing, so sharp it made my eardrums ache.

(04:50):
It filled the room, not coming from any specific direction, but
vibrating in the air itself. My teeth hurt from it.
Before I could move, I felt something press against the back
of my neck. A cold, firm touch, like a hand.
I couldn't see it, but I felt itguiding me.
Not pushing exactly, but directing.
My body began to move on its own, like I was sleepwalking,

(05:12):
but fully aware of it happening.I turned toward the kitchen.
Step by slow step, I moved toward the exact spot where that
figure had stood on previous nights.
And then everything snapped. Again.
I jolted awake, drenched in sweat, heart hammering.
But this time, something was different.
I didn't have that familiar moment of relief.

(05:34):
When I turned my head toward thekitchen, I saw it standing in
the same spot, the same stretch limbs, the same hollow mouth.
But this time, I was awake. I know I was.
My vision was clear and my mind sharp with adrenaline.
And then, as quickly as I saw it, it was gone.
Not faded, just gone. After that night, I refused to

(05:57):
sleep on the couch again. I dragged a mattress into a
small spare room with no view ofthe kitchen, no mezzanine sight
lines. Nothing happened in that room,
but I could never shake the sensation that the open living
room carried something. My family chalked up my stories
to grief, exhaustion, and stress.
They said I'd experienced sleep paralysis, or that my mind was

(06:20):
playing tricks in a familiar butemotionally heavy space.
I almost believe them. But sometimes, late at night,
even now, years later, I'll catch that same metallic damp
smell out of nowhere, or hear that faint tapping sound that
doesn't match anything mechanical.
And I can still see the shape ofthose black eyes burned into my
mind. Not moving, not attacking, just

(06:44):
waiting. Story #2 Something screamed in
my ear and it never left. I grew up in a pretty normal
suburban neighborhood. Our house wasn't old, barely 20
years when we moved in, and we were only the second family to
live there. It wasn't one of those creaky
Victorian homes people love to tell ghost stories about.
Which is probably why what happened there has stuck with me

(07:07):
so much. It wasn't supposed to happen in
a house like ours. I was around 16 when it started.
One morning I was in the kitchenmaking toast while my mom washed
dishes beside me. We were both facing the wall,
half awake. Out of nowhere, something
screamed directly into my ear. Not just loud ear splitting,
like someone had cut their handsand screamed with every bit of

(07:28):
air in their lungs. I jerked, heart hammering as my
mom started yelling behind me. Assuming it was my younger
brother messing around. I spun around, ready to punch
him, but my fist hit nothing butcold air.
My brother wasn't behind me. He was sitting at the dining
table across the room, pale as asheet, staring at us.
He asked what had just happened,his voice shaky.

(07:51):
My mom's face changed from irritation to confusion.
We searched every corner of the kitchen, but there was no one
else there. No open doors, no explanation.
For a while, I tried to shrug itoff.
Maybe it was some weird acousticthing, maybe my brother had
screamed and run to the table fast enough to fool us, but the
more I tried to rationalize it, the less it made sense.

(08:14):
And that was only the beginning.A few weeks later, I was in the
bathroom, brushing my teeth whenthe light suddenly snapped off
Total darkness. It wasn't a power outage.
Every other room stayed lit. From outside the door, I heard
muffled laughing. It sounded exactly like my
brother. I groaned, assuming he'd flip
the switch to mess with me, but when I stormed out, ready to

(08:35):
yell at him, the hallway was empty.
My mom was in the living room and told me he'd been out with
friends for hours. I checked the switch.
It wasn't faulty. It worked fine after that.
Still, I convinced myself maybe I'd imagine the laugh, maybe the
light just flickered. Coincidentally, you find ways to
explain things when the alternative is something else.

(08:57):
Another time during winter, I fell asleep on the porch in the
sun. It was one of those crisp
afternoons where the cold air and the warm sunlight balance
each other perfectly. I must have dozed off for 20
minutes. The next thing I remember is
being jolted awake by something ice cold splashing on my face.
My shirt was soaked and my skin burned from the cold.

(09:18):
I sat up, choking on my breath and scanned the porch.
No bucket, no bottle. No one around the gate was
locked. My hands were shaking as I ran
inside, yelling for my family, but the house echoed back at me.
No one was home, not even my brother.
After that, the house stopped feeling like home.

(09:39):
Little things kept happening. At night, my blanket would
slowly slide off me while I was half asleep.
I'd tug it back, only for it to happen again minutes later.
Some nights it felt like someonegrabbed my ankle and yanked hard
enough that I nearly slid off the bed.
My brother swore he experienced the same thing.
His door opening on its own, footsteps in the hallway, the

(10:01):
feeling of someone sitting on the end of his bed.
But whenever we tried to catch whoever or whatever it was,
there was nothing. No proof, just empty air.
It became a pattern of doubt. One of us would hear something,
accuse the other, only to find out they weren't even home.
My parents dismissed most of it.They'd say houses make noises,

(10:23):
Electricity can be faulty. Memories can be unreliable.
I wanted to believe them, but the events were too sharp, too
real. The scariest night happened
around 2:00 AM. I'd woken up thirsty and gone to
the kitchen for water. The house was silent, the kind
of silence that presses on your eardrums.
As I was drinking, the kitchen lights started to flicker,

(10:46):
softly at first, then strobing rapidly, like a bad horror
movie. The temperature drops so quickly
that I saw my breath cloud in the air.
Then, with a bang, the kitchen window flung open halfway.
The curtains flew inward like someone had run past.
On the glass, clear as day, was a large handprint.
My throat went dry. I screamed for my parents.

(11:07):
They came running within seconds, but by the time they
arrived, the lights were steady,the window was closed, and the
handprint was gone. Not smeared, gone completely.
My dad checked the locks, the yard, everything.
There was no sign of a break in after that.
I started sleeping with my door locked and my headphones on,
trying to drown out anything I might hear.

(11:29):
But even then, sometimes I'd wake up in the night with that
crawling sensation that something was watching me, not
from the hallway inside the room.
As the years passed, the activity never followed any
pattern. Sometimes months would go by
without anything happening, thenrandomly a door would slam when
no windows were open or the TV would turn on by itself in the

(11:50):
middle of the night. My brother and I both developed
this habit of pretending nothingwas wrong because acknowledging
it made it worse somehow. Eventually, when I was in
college, my parents decided to move.
It wasn't because of the weird events, they just wanted a
bigger place. I didn't argue, none of us did.
We moved out and the house stayed empty for years.

(12:11):
No one bought it. I'd pass by occasionally on my
way to visit friends. It always gave me a weird pit in
my stomach. The lawn would be overgrown, the
windows dark, but sometimes whenI drive by at night, the porch
light would flick on even thoughthe house had no electricity, or
the old lawn mower which had been left in the shed would

(12:32):
suddenly start buzzing. The last time I passed by, the
house was still vacant. The For sale sign was bleached
from the sun. As my car idled at the stop
sign, I glanced at the porch. The light flicked on.
I watched it, heart beating in my throat.
The curtain shifted slightly, like someone was standing behind
them. Maybe it's faulty wiring.

(12:54):
Maybe it's the wind. Maybe memories get distorted
over time. That's what I tell myself.
But every time I think about that scream in my ear, the sound
that started it all, it's as clear as it was that morning.
Sharp, wet, too close. I've heard people say you can
feel when a place remembers you.I don't know if that's true, but

(13:15):
sometimes when I pass that houseI swear it's waiting.
Story #3 I've always been the kind of person who secretly
hoped to experience something paranormal.
Not in a summoned demons with a Ouija board kind of way, but I
grew up glued to Discovery Channel shows like a Haunting.
I'd sit cross legged on the floor, lights off, watching

(13:37):
families describe the weirdest things that supposedly happened
to them. A part of me believed it, but
another part thought maybe they're exaggerating.
Back then I was best friends with a girl who was the complete
opposite. She was a strict Christian,
hated ghost talk, and genuinely believed that just mentioning
anything paranormal invited evilin.

(13:58):
So when we hung out, I kept my fascination to myself.
It wasn't a topic we ever touched, mostly because she'd
shut it down immediately. The day it happened, we were at
her house. It was midwinter, one of those
afternoons where the outside light turns pale grey and makes
everything indoors feel slightlydim, even with the bulbs on.
Her room was warm, the heater humming softly, and we were

(14:22):
sitting on the carpet playing with Polly Pockets.
We were around 9 or 10, old enough to talk more than play,
but too young to admit we were getting bored of toys.
At some point we stopped playing.
We were both holding the dolls, but had drifted into some random
conversation. Her room was quiet except for
the heater outside, The wind haddied down and the windows were

(14:45):
shut tight. Her sisters were asleep in the
next room and her parents were downstairs when the conversation
fizzled. There was this short, heavy
silence that I still remember vividly.
It wasn't awkward, just still. Our eyes for some reason.
Both shifted toward the corner of the room where her closet
stood. It was an old white painted

(15:07):
wooden door with a slightly loose handle.
Hanging from that handle was a medium sized pink purse.
It wasn't special, just something she used to stuff
little trinkets in. Then, without warning, the purse
jerked. Not a tiny sway, not the kind of
movement a draft might cause. It shook hard, violently.
The strap looped around the handle once, like someone had

(15:30):
grabbed it and given it a strongyank.
There was no breeze. The heater was a baseboard type,
nowhere near the closet. All the windows were closed.
It was freezing outside. For a second, I froze.
My brain tried to rationalize it.
Maybe a vibration, A slam door somewhere, but I couldn't hear
anything else in the house. I glanced at her, thinking maybe

(15:52):
she hadn't seen it, but her wideeyes and pale face told me
otherwise. That's when we both screamed at
the top of our lungs. Her parents came running
upstairs, irritated and confused.
They checked the closet, the purse, the hallway.
Of course, nothing was out of place.
The purse was still looped around the handle, swinging
slightly. No one believed us.

(16:13):
They said maybe the heating pipebehind the wall rattled it, or
maybe one of us kicked the floorand made it move.
But I know what I saw. That purse whipped.
Most people would end the story there, but that incident was
only the start. That night, I couldn't stop
thinking about it. I replayed the scene again and
again, trying to come up with explanations.

(16:33):
I told myself it must have been some freak air pressure change,
or maybe one of her sisters running down the hallway created
vibrations through the wall, buta small, unsettled part of me
wasn't convinced. A few weeks later, I went back
to her house. Her parents had brushed off the
incident, so we didn't bring it up, but the room felt different.
The heater still hummed, but theair inside felt thick, like

(16:57):
there wasn't enough oxygen. When I walked past the closet, I
swear the air turned cooler, like a faint draft leaking from
a crack. But the door was perfectly shut.
That evening, as we sat on the carpet again, I heard what I can
only describe as a faint scratching sound coming from
inside the closet. It was light, irregular, almost

(17:18):
like a small animal shifting inside.
I told myself maybe there was a mouse.
Old houses get mice. But when her dad checked later
because she thought she heard ittoo, there was nothing.
No droppings, no signs of pests,nothing.
Another time, while she was in the bathroom, I sat alone in her
room, waiting. The purse was gone by then.

(17:40):
She'd moved it to a drawer because it freaked her out.
But as I sat cross leg near the bed, I heard a soft thump from
inside the closet. Not loud, just a single dull
sound, like something had falleninside.
The door didn't move, but the silence that followed was
heavier than before. When she came back, I didn't
mention it. I visited less frequently after

(18:01):
that, Not because anyone said anything, but because the room
had developed this strange, unexplainable atmosphere.
It wasn't every time, but occasionally when I was there
alone, I'd feel a light pressurein my ears, like when an
elevator starts descending. I'd glance at the closet and my
chest would tighten for no reason.
The weirdest part happened months later.

(18:23):
Her parents were hosting a smallgathering downstairs and we were
upstairs watching TV. She left to grab snacks and I
was alone in the room again. I remember the heater was off
because it was getting warmer outside.
The house was completely still. That's when I noticed the closet
door was open about two inches. I was sure it had been closed
earlier. I wasn't scared at first, doors

(18:45):
open on their own sometimes. But as I stared at that narrow
gap, I swear I saw something shift inside.
Not a clear figure, not a face. Just a subtle movement in the
darkness, like fabric slowly sliding against wood.
The rational part of my brain said maybe her coat slid off a
hanger, but my body didn't believe it.
My pulse spiked, my palms got sweaty, and the air felt

(19:08):
charged. I stood up slowly, heart
hammering, and pushed the door shut.
It made a long, creaky sound as it latched, and I remember
holding my breath the entire time.
Nothing else happened that day, but ever since that moment, I've
never been able to fully explainwhat I experienced.
Years have passed. I've had other weird encounters.

(19:30):
Footsteps in empty halls, suddencold spots, things moving
slightly, but most of them can be explained away by bad
plumbing, vibrations or my imagination.
But the purse incident? No one has ever given me a
convincing answer. People say maybe the heating
system turned on suddenly and created air pressure changes, or

(19:51):
maybe someone slammed a door downstairs and the vibration
travelled up the wall. Maybe, but if you'd seen how
that purse jerked, almost looping around the handle like
someone had grabbed it, you'd understand why it still makes
the hairs on my neck stand up. I sometimes wonder if something
was in that closet. Something harmless, maybe.
Or maybe not. What unsettles me most isn't

(20:15):
what happened that day, but thatthere's a tiny, lingering part
of me that still expects to see that purse whip again whenever
I'm in a quiet room. It's been years and I still
don't have a solid explanation. Maybe there isn't one story #4I
grew up in New Mexico, so stories of LA Yarona weren't
exactly foreign to me, but I never imagined I'd think of them

(20:36):
while raising my own kid. It started when my daughter was
around 31, lazy afternoon. While she was playing in a room,
she casually mentioned that there was a woman in a long
dress crying in the corner. She said the woman had red water
on her hands. She said it like she was talking
about a toy, not like she was scared.
I checked her room, obviously nothing.

(20:59):
Closet under the bed corners. Everything was empty.
I chalked it up to imagination, maybe something she picked up
from a book or a show. She wasn't frightened, so I
didn't want to make a big deal out of it.
For the next few months, everything stayed normal.
Then the crying started. At first, I thought it was a
dream. I'd wake up in the middle of the
night to a sound so sharp and distinct it's sliced through the

(21:22):
stillness of the house. A woman sobbing, muffled at
first, then clearer the more I focused.
It was coming from my daughter'sroom.
The first time I ran to check, heart pounding.
My daughter was fast asleep, sprawled across the bed with her
stuffed Bunny. The crying stopped the second I
opened the door. I searched, found nothing, but

(21:44):
it kept happening. Every night around the same
time, between 2:00 and 3:00 AM, that weeping would echo faintly
down the hallway. It had a wet quality to it, like
someone sobbing with water dripping nearby.
It was loud enough that it didn't feel like it could be
pipes or a house settling. I tried everything to find a
source. I checked for leaks.

(22:06):
The roof was fine, no burst pipes.
Even walked outside one night tomake sure it wasn't some weird
acoustics from a neighbor's place.
The sound was always concentrated in her room.
The crying was unsettling, but it was what happened in the
daytime that really shook me. My daughter had started
wandering off, not just a few steps away.

(22:27):
I turned my back for a minute while folding laundry or
answering the door, and she'd begone.
I'd find her in odd places, far from where she'd started,
sometimes behind the garage, once in the neighbor's yard,
staring at the ground. What disturbed me most wasn't
the wandering. It was the water.
Every single time she'd be drenched, hair sticking to her

(22:49):
forehead, clothes soaked through, shoes squishing with
each step. But there was no open water
source anywhere near our property.
No pools, no fountains, no rivers.
We lived in a dry suburban neighborhood.
The first few times I thought maybe she'd spilled something on
herself, but the amount of waterwas too much.
It looked like she jumped into apool fully clothed.

(23:10):
There were no wet patches leading to where I found her
either. It was as if she just
materialized like that. I started keeping her close to
me constantly, but even with both eyes on her, she'd
sometimes vanish. Not for hours, not even for
long, just enough to make my stomach drop.
And when I found her, she'd be wet again.
Then, one morning, things escalated.

(23:31):
I went to her room to wake her up for preschool.
As I stepped inside, something squelched under my foot.
I looked down and froze. There were splashes of red water
on the floor. Not blood, exactly.
It was thin, diluted, but unmistakably red.
It was scattered near her bed, like someone had shaken wet
hands after dipping them in it. I checked her hands clean.

(23:54):
Her clothes were dry. There were no leaking pipes, no
paint cans, nothing that could explain it.
I wiped it up and told myself maybe it was some weird rusty
water from the heater, though deep down I knew that didn't
fit. I started losing sleep.
The nightly crying got louder. It sounded closer.
Sometimes it was so vivid that it felt like someone was right

(24:15):
behind the wall. Once I sat in the hallway in the
dark at 2:30 AM, with my back against the wall waiting, the
sobbing started again. I swear it was less than a meter
away from me, just behind her door.
When I opened it, the room was silent and freezing cold, like
someone had left a window open in December.

(24:36):
But every window was shut. Then came the night at the lake.
We had gone camping as a family.It was supposed to be a break
from the constant unease. My daughter fell asleep inside
the tent, tucked in her little sleeping bag.
My husband and I were sitting just outside, talking quietly
under the stars. After maybe half an hour, I
decided to check on her. The tent was empty.

(24:58):
My heart plummeted. We both scattered, calling her
name. The campground was quiet except
for the chirping of crickets andthe occasional crackle from
other people's fires. Then I saw her.
She was walking straight toward the lake.
Her steps were slow, deliberate,like she was following
something. The moonlight reflected off the
water, but the surface wasn't the normal dark blue.

(25:20):
It was red. Thick, deep red, as if someone
had poured gallons of blood intoit.
For a second I genuinely thoughtthere was a mass killing or
something had contaminated the lake.
The red was spreading from the middle outward, rippling like
ink in water. My daughter kept walking, eyes
fixed ahead. I sprinted, grabbed her just

(25:41):
before she stepped in. She didn't fight or cry, she
just stared at the water blankly.
I carried her back to the tent without looking back.
The next morning, the lake was perfectly normal.
Clear blue-green water, no traceof red.
No one else at the campsite mentioned anything unusual.
A few days later, at home, my daughter casually mentioned the

(26:01):
crying lady again. She hadn't brought it up since
that first time months ago. She said it like she was talking
about breakfast. My pulse was hammering in my
chest. The crying continued for a few
more nights. Then suddenly it stopped.
My daughter told me one morning that the lady was gone and that
everything was OK now. She said it like she was stating

(26:22):
a fact and that was it. The crying never came back.
The wandering stopped. No more red water.
But sometimes, late at night, when the house is silent, I
still lie awake and strain my ears.
Occasionally I think I hear a faint sound, like water dripping
steadily in the distance. Other times it's just the
whisper of wind through the vents.

(26:43):
I tell myself it was pipes, or some strange sleepwalking
behavior, or a trick of light atthe lake.
But every now and then, when I walk past her old room, I swear
the air feels heavier, damp, like the air after rain.
I don't go inside after dark anymore.
Story #5 Still on the fence, butI've always thought ghost

(27:05):
stories were fun but never really believed in them.
The restaurant I worked at back then was in one of those places
that seemed designed for ghost tours, an old brick building in
downtown Savannah sitting over anetwork of tunnels that were
supposedly used to move yellow fever patients out of sight
Centuries ago. Every guide in town would stop
outside, lower their voice dramatically, and talk about the

(27:28):
lost souls wandering beneath thecity.
Inside, the staff had their own folklore.
They blamed everything from misplaced spoons to flickering
lights on Peter, the restaurant's unofficial ghost.
At closing time, people would jokingly remind each other to be
respectful of Peter. He needs his sleep.
I used to roll my eyes at that. A few years back, we started a

(27:51):
series of overnight renovation projects, extending the bar,
upgrading the stereo system, installing new fixtures.
I volunteered because I needed the extra cash.
The problem was, I was also the morning shift manager, so my
schedule turned into brutal stretches of 10:00 PM to 7:00 AM
shifts, followed by a two hour nap and then opening the

(28:12):
restaurant again. The building felt different at
night. During the day, it buzzed with
voices, clattering plates and music.
At 3:00 or 4:00 AM, though, the whole place seemed to breathe
differently. The wood floors creaked more,
the old pipes hissed unexpectedly, and there was this
odd echo in the hallways that wasn't there during normal

(28:32):
hours. The night we updated the sound
system is the one that stuck with me.
It was just me and the contractor, a friend of the
owner. By around 5:00 AM, we were
wrapping up. He wanted me to test the sound
system, hook up my phone, play some music, walk around and make
sure each speaker worked. The music filled the restaurant,

(28:53):
bouncing off the empty walls. It felt almost wrong hearing
loud pop music in the middle of the night, like the building
itself didn't appreciate the intrusion.
As I walked through the dining area, checking the speakers 1 by
1, the sound bounced between rooms.
I remember pausing briefly near the old tunnel entrance in the
basement. It had been sealed decades ago,

(29:16):
but the bricked over archway wasstill visible through a utility
door. The bass from the music seemed
to thrum against that section ofwall in a way that made my skin
prickle. I was halfway through the
walkthrough when it happened. A sudden crash echoed from the
kitchen, loud enough to drown out the music for a second.
Metal on metal, like an entire rack of pans have been slammed

(29:37):
to the floor. Then came the distinct sound of
ceramic shattering. It wasn't subtle, it was the
kind of noise that makes your stomach drop because you already
know you'll be the one cleaning it up.
I swore under my breath, killed the music, and ran toward the
kitchen. The sound didn't fade naturally.
It stopped abruptly, leaving only the faint metallic wobble

(29:59):
of something settling. The contractor came up from the
basement, wide eyed. We both hurried into the kitchen
and everything was exactly as itshould have been.
No bowls on the floor, no brokenplates.
The metal pans were stacked exactly how I'd left them.
There wasn't even dust disturbedon the shelves.
We checked the storage room, theline under the prep tables,

(30:21):
nothing. The sound had been too loud to
misinterpret, but there wasn't asingle piece of evidence that
anything had happened. We didn't linger.
Neither of us wanted to say it out loud, but the air in the
kitchen felt heavier after that,like the temperature had dropped
a few degrees. We locked up quickly and went
home. The next morning, when I told
the staff, they laughed and saidI'd woken Peter up.

(30:44):
I tried to reason it out. Maybe the sound had come from
outside, echoing weirdly. Maybe a stack of pans had
shifted and then fallen back into place, though that seemed
unlikely. Maybe the music itself had some
strange percussion sound I'd never noticed before.
That explanation almost held until the following nights.

(31:04):
On the second night, the contractor wasn't there.
It was just me finishing up somelast minute cleaning after the
electricians left. Around 3:30 AM, while I was
alone in the dining area, the overhead lights started to dim,
then brighten in a slow, almost pulsing rhythm.
I figured it was a wiring issue since they've been fiddling with

(31:25):
the circuits earlier, but when Iwent to the panel in the back,
everything was normal. As I stood there checking the
Breakers, I caught a faint whiffof something foul.
It was subtle at first, then grew stronger, a mix of rot and
stagnant water. I checked the drains, the trash,
everything. The smell vanished within a
minute, as if it had never existed.

(31:47):
The third night was worse. I'd set up my phone to play
music again while mopping the floors.
Somewhere between the second andthird song, I noticed the
plastic doorway strips leading to the kitchen were swaying
slightly. At first I thought it was just
the draft from the AC, but the movement grew stronger, as if
someone had walked through them hard and they were still
swinging. The AC vents were off.

(32:10):
I walked toward them, mop in hand, feeling increasingly
foolish. As I got closer, the swing
slowed, then stopped completely.The air around the doorway felt
oddly cold compared to the rest of the restaurant.
I finished cleaning as fast as Icould and decided not to mention
it to anyone. The following week, while
closing up after another overnight shift, I went down to

(32:32):
the basement to grab some extra cleaning supplies.
I don't like the basement, no one does.
It's a cramped, low sealing mazeof old pipes, stacked crates,
and weird alcoves. At the far end, through a
utility room, you can see the bricked up tunnel entrance.
It's just old stone and mortar, but something about that sealed

(32:53):
arch always gave me goosebumps. That night, while down there, I
heard what sounded like someone dragging something heavy across
the floor above me. Long, slow scraping.
I froze, listening. The noise stopped when I went
upstairs. Nothing had moved.
I told myself it was probably the contractor moving equipment.

(33:13):
Then I remembered he hadn't beenthere that night.
Over the next few weeks, little things kept happening.
Utensils would be in different spots than I remembered leaving
them. One morning.
The coffee filters were arrangedin a strange spiral on the
counter. Neat, almost intentional.
I blamed exhaustion at first. Working overnight and then
opening again messes with your memory.

(33:34):
But the one thing I can't explain happened about a month
in. I just finished my shift, locked
up, and stepped outside. As I turned to leave, the stereo
system inside suddenly powered on by itself.
Music blasted through the windows, the same playlist I'd
use that first night. I went back in, turned it off
and double check the timers and switches.

(33:56):
Everything was set to manual. I told myself it was a glitch.
It had to be. Still, every time I think back
to that first crash in the kitchen, the impossible noise
with no evidence, I get chills. I don't know if Peter exists.
Maybe it was all exhaustion, oldbuilding quirks and electrical
issues. Maybe my brain filled in gaps

(34:18):
that weren't there, but I've worked a lot of late night
shifts in different places sincethen, and I've never felt that
same sense of being watched fromjust outside the edge of the
light. And I don't volunteer for
overnight shifts anymore. Not when you know someone is
watching you and you might be their next prey.
Story number six. I've always considered myself a

(34:38):
rational person. I like to think everything has
some sort of explanation, whether it's science, human
error, or coincidence. I'm not into paranormal stuff
and I don't believe in ghosts ordemons.
That being said, what I experienced on a train ride
about 10 years ago still sits uneasily in the back of my mind.
I've run through every logical explanation I can think of, but

(35:00):
none of them fully stick. It was early autumn.
I was heading upstate for a family gathering.
Nothing exciting. I remember it was one of those
slightly chilly days where the windows fog just a little and
everything outside looks like a wet painting.
The train wasn't completely full, maybe 1/3 of the seats
were occupied. I had snagged a window seat and

(35:21):
was zoning out to music, watching the blurred trees whip
by. About 40 minutes into the ride,
I noticed the door between cars sliding open with that familiar
mechanical. A man stepped in and right away
something about him felt off. It wasn't just his appearance,
although that was strange enoughto make people glance twice.

(35:42):
His face was unusually angular, like someone had stretched and
sharpened it in all the wrong places.
His cheekbones jutted out in an almost skeletal way, his jawline
look too defined, and his eyes were sunken but intense.
If you've ever seen those St. caricature artists who
exaggerate features for humor, imagine that, but in real life

(36:04):
without the humor. His clothes were filthy but
bizarrely colorful. Bright yellows, pinks, greens.
He wore layers like he had grabbed random items from a
costume trunk. Oversized shirts, scarves, and
even what looked like a Tutu or skirt over tattered pants.
It was hard not to stare. But what really hit me was the

(36:25):
smell. The stench rolled through the
car like a living thing. It was sour and rotten, like
garbage left out in summer heat,mixed with something chemical,
almost metallic. People around me wrinkled their
noses and suddenly turned their heads away.
I instinctively held my breath as he shuffled past, clutching A

(36:46):
grimy plastic bag. He didn't say a word, just move
slowly down the aisle toward thefar door.
Every step left this faint squeak on the linoleum, and the
air seemed to thicken around him.
Eventually he reached the other end, slid open the door, and
disappeared into the next car. I exhaled, relieved.
I've seen plenty of eccentric people on trains before, chalked

(37:10):
it up to a random homeless guy with odd fashion sense.
A few minutes passed. I went back to my music, glanced
outside again. The rhythm of the train lulled
me into that half alert state where you're not fully paying
attention. Then the door slid open again.
He walked in, but he didn't comefrom the far door.
He came from the same door he'd originally entered from the

(37:31):
exact same direction. For a second, my brain didn't
process it. I thought maybe he turned back,
maybe changed his mind. But then it hit me.
I was sitting near the middle, facing the aisle.
There was no way he could have walked back past me without me
seeing him. There was only one aisle, one
level. No trick doors, no hidden

(37:53):
compartments. I sat up straight, pulling my
ear buds out. The same angular face, the same
Tutu, the same plastic bag, the same stench, thick and
nauseating. He shuffled past again in the
same slow, deliberate steps. The floor squeaked exactly the
same way. My heart started pounding.

(38:15):
I looked around, trying to see if anyone else was noticing.
They were. People were glancing at each
other with that wide eyed, puzzled look, like everyone was
trying to figure out if they just seen what they thought
they'd seen. There was no conversation, no
outbursts, just the shared silent confusion.
He reached the far door again and disappeared.

(38:36):
I remember sitting there, frozen, going through possible
explanations. Maybe there was another guy
dressed exactly the same, maybe twins.
But the face, no, it was too distinct.
Maybe I zoned out and he doubledback, but the aisle was right
there. I would have seen him.

(38:56):
And then something else happenedthat made the hairs on my arms
stand up. The fluorescent lights above
flickered. Not in the usual train way where
they hum and stutter. This was a sharp, synchronized
flicker that seemed to happen the moment the door closed
behind him. A split second blackout, then
back on. Several people visibly
stiffened. A woman across from me rubbed

(39:17):
her arms like she was cold. The smell didn't fully leave
after he was gone. This time it lingered faintly,
like it had soaked into the air itself.
About 20 minutes passed before anything else unusual happened.
I tried to rationalize it, telling myself maybe there were
two similar looking people or I'd miss something.
I even considered. Maybe I dozed off and woken up

(39:39):
mid loop. Then the train slowed down for a
brief stop at a small station. A few new passengers got on,
including a young guy who sat a few rows ahead.
He started coughing almost immediately, waving his hand in
front of his face. The faint smell was still there.
When the train started moving again, I noticed something
unsettling. The windows on the door he'd

(40:00):
entered from were completely fogged over, like condensation.
But only that door. The others were clear and on the
glass, faintly visible, was a smear.
Like a long handprint dragged down the window from the inside,
I tried to convince myself someone had leaned on it
earlier. About 10 minutes before my stop,
the door slid open again. My stomach dropped.

(40:23):
It was empty. No one stepped through, but the
smell rushed in again, suddenly stronger.
The lights flickered once more, perfectly timed with the
opening. The empty doorway gaped for a
few seconds longer than usual before closing with a loud
clunk. I swear at that moment, everyone
in that car shifted uncomfortably.
A man 2 seats over muttered something under his breath and

(40:46):
rubbed his temples. A woman clutched her purse
tighter. No one said anything out loud.
It was like a collective agreement to not acknowledge
whatever weirdness was happening.
When my stop finally came, I practically jumped out of my
seat. I walked down the platform,
glancing back at the train as itpulled away.
For just a second, through the last car's door window, I

(41:07):
thought I saw a flash of those colorful clothes, a Tutu shape
pressed faintly against the glass.
But then the train was gone. Over the years, I've tried to
rationalize it. Maybe it was two different guys
dressed similarly. Maybe my mind filled in gaps I
didn't notice. Maybe the lighting, timing and
my music distracted me enough tocreate the illusion.

(41:29):
But then I remember the smell, that pungent, rotting metallic
stench that seemed to linger long after he'd passed.
I remember the synchronized flickering of the lights, the
fog glass, the empty doorway, the way everyone silently
acknowledged something odd was happening without a single
person speaking up. I don't believe in ghosts.

(41:50):
I really don't. But every time I take a train
now, especially on chilly autumndays, I find myself watching
those sliding doors a little more closely than I should.
And sometimes, late at night, ifthe train passes through a
tunnel and the lights flicker, Icatch myself holding my breath
without even realizing it.