What's Your Ghost Paranormal Story?

What's Your Ghost Paranormal Story?

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Story one.

Speaker 2 (00:00):
Growing up in rural Virginia, I'd heard plenty of stories
around campfires, the usual local legends and haunted houses that
every small town has, But I was always the skeptic,
rolling my eyes while my friends got spooked. That changed
during my first year as a homeowner. My house wasn't
anything special, a modest nineteen sixties ranch style place on

(00:21):
the edge of town that needed work but fit my budget.
The previous owners had been an elderly couple who'd lived
there for decades before passing away within months of each other.
Their children just wanted to sell quickly and move on.
I'd been living there about three months when it happened.
It was mid October, unusually cold for that time of year,

(00:41):
I remember, because the heating system was struggling, making these
weird clicking sounds as it cycled on and off throughout
the night. That Wednesday, I got home from work around
six pm. I was exhausted from a long shift at
the hospital where I worked.

Speaker 1 (00:55):
As a lab tech.

Speaker 2 (00:56):
All I wanted was a hot shower and to collapse
on the couch would take out. I had just stepped
out of the shower when I heard it, a sound
like someone clearing their throat. I froze, towel in hand. Hello,
I called out, immediately, feeling stupid. I lived alone, and
I knew i'd locked the door. Nothing just the usual

(01:17):
house creaks and the distant hum of my refrigerator. I
brushed it off as house noises. Old homes make all
kinds of sounds as they settle right. I got dressed,
ordered Chinese food, and tried to focus on the TV
show I was half watching. That's when I heard it again,
A man's voice, soft but clear, saying what sounded like

(01:39):
cold tonight. I shot up from the couch, heart pounding.
Who's there, I shouted, grabbing my phone, ready to call
nine one one. My house wasn't big, just two bedrooms,
a bathroom, kitchen, and living room. There weren't many places
someone could hide. I did a quick search of every room,
even checking closets and under the bed like a kid

(02:00):
afraid of monsters.

Speaker 1 (02:02):
Nothing.

Speaker 2 (02:02):
No signs of a break in. All windows, locked, back doors,
still bolted from the inside. I told myself it must
have been the TV, though I knew it wasn't. I
turned up the volume, trying to drown out my unease.
When the doorbell rang, just my delivery driver with the food.
After eating, I felt more rational. Houses make noise. Maybe

(02:24):
it was the pipes or the heating system. I decided
to go to bed early and forget about it. Around
three am, I woke up suddenly. The house was silent
except for the faint ticking of my bedside clock. Then
I heard it, distinctly, a man's voice right below me, saying,
can you hear me up there? My blood turned to ice.

(02:45):
The voice was coming from beneath my bedroom floor. I
know you're awake, the voice continued, I can hear you breathing.
I lay perfectly, still, too terrified to move. My bedroom
was at the end of the hall, directly above the
crawl space that under half the house, a crawl space
I'd never bothered to inspect since moving in. Don't be scared,

(03:06):
the voice said, sounding closer now, as if right under
my bed. I've been waiting for someone to talk to.
I reached for my phone with a shaking hand. But
what would I tell the police that there was a
voice coming from under my floorboards. They'd think I was
crazy or drunk. I'm going to count to three, the
voice said, Then I want you to answer me one two.

(03:29):
I bolted from the bed and ran to the hallway,
flipping on every light switch I passed. My mind was racing.
If someone was under the house, they must be getting
in somehow. Standing in my kitchen, I remembered the access
hatch to the crawl space was outside around the back
of the house. It had a padlock on it. I'd
seen it during the home inspection, but maybe it was broken.

(03:53):
Don't leave yet, the voice called from the direction of
my bedroom. I've been so lonely. That's when I I
heard a distinct scratching sound, like fingernails dragging slowly across
the underside of my bedroom floor. I grabbed my car
keys and ran out the front door in my pajamas,
not even stopping to put on shoes. I drove straight
to a twenty four hour diner and sat there until sunrise,

(04:16):
calling in sick to work. When I returned home with
a police officer i'd convinced to check the property, we
found the crawl space padlock, intact and undisturbed. The officer
shined his flashlight around inside but found nothing except dust,
insulation and some old pipes. No signs anyone's been under here,
he said, looking at me like I was wasting his time.

(04:38):
No footprints in the dirt, no disturbances at all. I
couldn't explain it, and I was starting to doubt myself.
Maybe it had been a vivid nightmare that evening. I
called a locksmith to replace the padlock anyway, just to
be sure. While he was working, he mentioned something that
made my skin crawl. You know, the last owners installed

(04:58):
this heavy duty lock after they I found a homeless
guy living under here. This was years ago, though guy
apparently had been there for months before they discovered him.
Tragic case. They found him dead under the main bedroom
hypothermia during a cold snap. I never heard the voice
again after that day.

Speaker 1 (05:16):
Story two.

Speaker 2 (05:17):
I'm Jake born and raised in Fairfax County, Virginia, a
place swimming in Civil War history.

Speaker 1 (05:23):
Growing up surrounded.

Speaker 2 (05:24):
By all these historic sites, you get used to field
trips to old battlefields and plantations. Most were boring as hell,
But this one, this one was different. It was October
twenty fourteen. I was in fifth grade and our class
took a trip to Belgrove Plantation, near the Cedar Creek Battlefield.

(05:45):
The place was impressive, big white columns out front with
visible damage from.

Speaker 1 (05:49):
Civil War bullets.

Speaker 2 (05:51):
But whatever, I was ten and mostly concerned, was sitting
next to my friends on the bus. The tour guide,
this older lady with a thick Southern accent, was leading
us through the mansion. We ended up in this big
kitchen with massive double doors on either side, both standing
open to let in the autumn breeze. The room still
had the original brick oven and these creepy old utensils

(06:12):
hanging on the walls. Now, children, this kitchen would have
been bustling with activity. The guide was saying, with enslaved
people preparing meals for the plantation owners. And that's when
I heard it, a woman humming. It was faint but clear,
coming from outside one of the doorways that led to
the garden. The melody was strange, not like anything I recognized.

(06:33):
Old sounding missus Peterson, our teacher's aide, who we all
called Bulldog. Behind her back, she had this underbite and
was always snarling at us. Suddenly cut off the tour guide.
Which one of you is humming? She snapped, stop it
right now. We all looked at each other, confused. Nobody
was making any noise. I said, cut it out, She repeated,

(06:55):
glaring at us. It's coming from outside, I said, pointing
to the garden doorway. Bulldog rolled her eyes, but walked
over to the doorway and peered out. She frowned, then
actually stepped outside. We watched through the doorway as she
looked around the garden, turning in a complete circle. When
she came back in, her face had changed. There's nobody

(07:15):
out there, she said quietly to the tour guide. The
tour guide got this weird look on her face. Let
me check the other side, she said, heading toward the
opposite doorway. The humming grew louder while she was gone.
It was a woman's voice, soft but clear, like she
was right outside the door. The melody was repetitive, almost
like a lullaby, but with something off about it. The

(07:39):
tour guide returned, her face pale. There's no one outside,
she said. Let's move on to the dining room, shall we.
She hurried us out of the kitchen, practically shoving kids
through the doorway. As I left, I glanced back through
the garden doorway. I swear I saw movement, just a
flash of gray like the hem of a dress, disappearing

(07:59):
around an The rest of the tour was rushed. The
guide kept looking over her shoulder, and Bulldog stayed close
to our group instead of bringing up the rear like usual.
Something had spooked them both. On the bus ride home,
I overheard Bulldog talking to our teacher. I heard it
clear as day. She whispered, standing right in that garden, humming,

(08:20):
but there was no one there.

Speaker 1 (08:22):
Nothing.

Speaker 2 (08:24):
Three years later, I was at the county library working
on a history project when I came across a book
called Haunted Virginia. I flipped through it out of curiosity
and froze when I saw a chapter on Belgrove plantation.
According to the book, in eighteen sixty four, the lady
of the house, Elizabeth Hight, was found badly beaten in
the smokehouse. She had distinct bruises shaped like handprints on

(08:47):
her face and neck. She died three days later, never
regaining consciousness. A young enslaved girl was accused of the murder,
despite her protestations of innocence, she was hanged within a week.
The book claimed that Elizabeth had been known for her
habit of walking in the garden every afternoon, humming the
same melody as she tended to her flowers, and since

(09:08):
her death. Visitors in staff at Belgrove have reported hearing
a woman humming in the garden, always the same strange tune,
always when no one is there. I never told anyone
about finding that book Story three. I never believed in ghosts,
not until last winter. I'm Lucas thirty two, living in
a small two bedroom house in rural Maine that I

(09:31):
inherited from my grandparents. The nearest neighbor is about half
a mile away, and the dense pine forest surrounding my
property makes it feel even more isolated. I've always been
fine with that. I work remotely as a software developer,
and the quiet helps me focus. The night it happened,
we'd had a massive snowstorm. Power was flickering all evening,

(09:53):
and I'd already set up candles in a flashlight by
my bed just in case. Around midnight, I finally fell
asleep to the sound of wind howling through the trees.
I woke up suddenly at three seventeen am. I remember
the time because I immediately checked my phone when I heard
the noise. A distinct tapping sound was coming from my
living room window. Three quick taps, pause, three more taps.

(10:15):
At first, I thought it was just ice or a
tree branch, but it was too rhythmic, too deliberate. I
lay there, frozen under my covers, listening as the tapping continued.
Tap tap tap, pause, tap tap tap. It's nothing, I
whispered to myself, trying to calm down. Probably just the wind.
But then I heard something worse, the sound of my

(10:37):
front door squeaking open, followed by footsteps in the entryway.
My heart nearly burst out of my chest. I live alone,
nobody else has keys. The door had definitely been locked.
I always double checked before bed. The footsteps were slow, dragging,
almost They moved from the entryway into the living room,
then stopped. I couldn't breathe. I reached for my phone

(11:01):
to call nine to one one, but my hands were
shaking so badly I could barely hold it. Then the
temperature in my bedroom plummeted. I could see my breath
forming clouds in the air. The footsteps started again, heading
down the hallway toward my room.

Speaker 1 (11:15):
Thump drag, thump drag.

Speaker 2 (11:21):
I sat up, clutching my blanket, eyes fixed on my
bedroom door, which i'd left slightly ajar. The footsteps got closer, louder,
and then They stopped right outside my room. The door
slowly pushed open wider. Nothing was there, nothing I could
see anyway, But the space in my doorway wasn't empty.

(11:41):
I could feel a presence, something watching me. Who's there?
I managed to croak out. My voice sounded like it
belonged to someone else. No response, just the sound of breathing, raspy,
wet breathing, coming from the empty doorway. Then my bedside
lamp turned on by itself, and that's when I saw it,
not directly, but in the mirror my closet door.

Speaker 1 (12:03):
A figure stood in my doorway.

Speaker 2 (12:05):
It was tall, impossibly thin, with skin that looked gray
and water log. Its face was mostly obscured by long,
stringy black hair, but I could see its mouth stretched
into a grin that was far too wide for any
human face. I couldn't move, couldn't scream, could barely breathe.
It took one step into my room. In the mirror,

(12:27):
I watched it raise one long fingered hand and point
directly at me. Remember me, it whispered. The voice was distorted,
like someone speaking underwater, but somehow familiar. That's when recognition
hit me like a truck. Two years ago, a kayaker
had gone missing on the lake behind my property. They
found his body three weeks later, tangled in weeds at

(12:50):
the bottom of the lake. I'd been the last person
to see him alive, waving to him from my back
deck as he paddled out into the fog. You saw me,
the thing rasped. You could have warned me about the storm.
I couldn't respond. Terror had completely paralyzed me. The figure
moved to the foot of my bed, still only visible
to me through the mirror. Water began dripping from it,

(13:12):
pooling on my hardwood floor. I just wanted someone to
know what happened, it said, someone needs to know. Suddenly
it was right next to me, its face inches from mine.
I could smell lake water and decay. I got caught
in weeds. It whispered directly into my ear, panicked, tipped over.
My leg was tangled. I tried to get free for hours.

(13:35):
Nobody heard me screaming. I felt cold, wet fingers touch
my arm, and I finally found my voice and screamed.
The lamp exploded with a loud pop, plunging the room
back into darkness. When I managed to turn on my
phone's flashlight with trembling hands. The figure was gone. The
only evidence it had been there was a puddle of

(13:55):
water on my floor and lake weeds scattered across my bed.
Spent the rest of the night sitting in my car
with the engine running and lights on.

Speaker 1 (14:04):
When morning came, I.

Speaker 2 (14:05):
Drove straight to the police station to tell them what happened.
They thought I was crazy or on drugs, but when
they reluctantly checked it out, they found something that made
their faces go pale. The Kayaker's water damage phone sitting
on my kitchen counter. It hadn't been recovered with his
body on. It was a video his final moments fighting

(14:27):
to free himself from the weeds as water slowly filled
his kayak. I put my house up for sale the
next day. Story four. I never believed in ghosts, not
until last winter when I moved into that old farmhouse
outside of Millfield, Minnesota. I'm Sarah thirty four, elementary school
teacher by day, an apparently ghost magnet by night. The

(14:49):
house was a steal. That should have been my first warning.
But when you're a single mom with mounting debt and
a seven year old who needs stability, you take what
you can get. Mom, this place smells funny, Lily said
when we first walked through the creaking front door. It's
just old house smell, Sweetie. Nothing some air fresheners can't fix,

(15:10):
I assured her, though I'd noticed it too, a strange
metallic smell that lingered in certain areas of the house.

Speaker 1 (15:17):
The first month was uneventful.

Speaker 2 (15:19):
We settled in, unpacked our boxes, and tried to make
this drafty, old farmhouse feel like home. I chalked up
the occasional odd sound to the house settling or the
wind whistling through the poorly sealed windows. That was until
the night of January seventeenth, I woke up around three
am to what sounded like scratching inside the walls of
my bedroom. Not the gentle scrape of a tree branch

(15:43):
or the scurring of a mouse. This was deliberate, slow,
like fingernails dragging across the inside of the plaster. Scratch, scratch, pause, scratch.
I froze, holding my breath, straining to hear in the darkness. Hello,
I called out, stupidly, as if whatever was making that

(16:04):
sound would politely respond. The scratching stopped immediately. The silence
that followed was somehow worse I convinced myself it was
just the old pipes, or maybe some animal that had
found its way into the walls. I even got up,
turned on all the lights, and checked on Lily, who
was sleeping peacefully in her room across the hall. After

(16:24):
finding nothing, I eventually went back to bed, though sleep
didn't come easily. The next night, nothing happened, or the
night after that. I started to think maybe I'd imagined
it or dreamed it. Then came Friday night. Lily was
at a sleepover at her friend's house, so I was alone.
I'd fallen asleep on the couch watching Netflix when something

(16:45):
woke me up. That same scratching sound, but this time
it wasn't coming from my bedroom wall. It was coming
from directly behind the couch. Scratch, scratch, pause, scratch. My
blood ran cold. I sat perfectly still, afraid to even breathe.
Then the scratching changed. It became more purposeful, more rhythmic.

(17:08):
It took me a moment to realize it was forming
a pattern. Three short scratches, three long scratches, three short scratches,
over and over sos.

Speaker 1 (17:19):
That's when the whispering started.

Speaker 2 (17:21):
At first, I thought it was just the wind, But
then I could make out words faint, barely audible, but unmistakably.

Speaker 1 (17:28):
There, help us, Please, help us. It was a child's voice.

Speaker 2 (17:33):
I scrambled off the couch so fast I knocked over
my half empty wineglass. The whispering stopped abruptly, but the
scratching continued. Who's there, I demanded, my voice shaking. This
isn't funny. Silence fell over the house, complete suffocating silence.
I turned on every light in the house and called
my sister, who lived about an hour away. There's someone

(17:56):
in the wall, I told her, knowing how insane I sounded. Sarah,
old houses make weird noises, she said, trying to sound reasonable,
despite the obvious concern in her voice. Remember when we
were kids and we thought the attic was haunted. It
was just raccoons. This isn't raccoons, Jen, I heard voices,
a child's voice, asking for help. There was a long

(18:19):
pause on the other end. Have you been taking your
anxiety medication? I hung up on her. I knew what
I'd heard. I spent the rest of the night sitting
in my car in the driveway, too terrified to go
back inside. When dawn broke, I felt ridiculous. In the
harsh light of day, my fears seemed overblown. I went

(18:40):
back inside to shower and change before picking up Lily.
The house was quiet and normal. I even knocked on
the wall where I'd heard the scratching, half expecting it
to be hollow or different. Somehow it wasn't. That afternoon,
I took Lily to the local library, more to distract
myself than anything else. While she browsed the kids section,

(19:00):
I found myself looking up the history of my house.
What I found made my stomach drop. In nineteen fifty two,
a family of four had lived in my house, the Miller's.
According to old newspaper articles, the parents were arrested for
child abuse. The two children, aged six and eight, were
found locked inside a hidden room in the walls of
the farmhouse. They'd been kept there for months, scratching messages

(19:24):
to each other through the walls. Both children died shortly
after being rescued, severely malnourished and ill. The article included
a grainy black and white photo of the farmhouse. My farmhouse.
I felt sick. Could it be possible? Were those children still?
Somehow there? That night, I tucked Lily into bed and

(19:44):
sat on the edge of her mattress longer than usual,
watching her chest rise and fall.

Speaker 1 (19:48):
With each breath.

Speaker 2 (19:50):
Mom why do you look scared? She asked, her little
face serious in the glow of her nightlight. Just tired, sweetie,
I lied sleep tight. I went my room, but didn't
even try to sleep. Instead, I sat on my bed,
back against the headboard, waiting for what I wasn't sure.
Around two thirty am, it started again, scratch, scratch, pause, scratch.

(20:14):
But this time, instead of freezing in fear, I took
a deep breath and spoke to the darkness. I know
what happened to you, I said, my voice barely above
a whisper. I'm so sorry. The scratching stopped for several
long moments. There was nothing then, so faint I almost
missed it.

Speaker 1 (20:32):
Help us.

Speaker 2 (20:34):
I felt tears running down my cheeks. How I whispered back.
The temperature in the room plummeted. I could see my
breath clouding in front of me. That's when I noticed
something on the wall, mark's appearing as if invisible fingers
were dragging across the pant fi n d us. I
got up, slowly, approached the wall and placed my hand

(20:55):
flat against it. The cold was intense, like placing my
palm on a block of ice.

Speaker 1 (21:00):
Where are you?

Speaker 2 (21:01):
I asked, more scratching, more desperate now. Then the whispering intensified,
becoming a chorus of children's voices, not just two, many
many more. Find us, find us, find us, find us.
The voices grew louder until they were shouting, screaming, the
walls themselves seeming to vibrate with their desperation. I staggered backward,

(21:23):
tripping over my own feet and falling hard onto the floor.
The voices stopped abruptly. In the sudden silence, I heard
the creak of my bedroom door opening. I looked up, expecting,
hoping to see Lily standing there.

Speaker 1 (21:38):
The doorway was empty.

Speaker 2 (21:40):
But then in the hallway beyond I saw them, the
shadowy outlines of two small children, holding hands, staring at
me with hollow, dark eyes. One of them raised a
finger to their lips. Sh They whispered in unison, they'll
hear you. Then they vanished, melting into the darkness of

(22:00):
the hallway. I grabbed Lily from her bed and drove
straight to my sister's house.

Speaker 1 (22:05):
That night.

Speaker 2 (22:06):
We never went back the farmhouse still stands empty. Sometimes
I drive by it just to make sure it's still there,
that it wasn't all some horrible dream. The for sales
sign has been up for months. I've never told anyone
the full story until now. I don't expect you to
believe me. I wouldn't believe me either. But if you're
ever driving through Millfield and see a charming old farmhouse

(22:29):
with a suspiciously low asking price, keep driving. Because some
walls do more than just hold up the roof. Some
walls hold secrets that should stay buried. Story five. I've
never told anyone this story because honestly, I don't think
anyone would believe me. I still don't fully believe it myself,
and I was there. I moved to Boston after college

(22:52):
for work, just a normal it job, nothing special. The
apartment I could afford was this old converted brownstone in
doors not the best area, but not the worst either.
The building had that weird smell old buildings get like
decades of other people's lives soaked into the walls. It
was January so bitterly cold that the windows had frost

(23:15):
on the inside. I remember because I'd been living there
about three months when it happened, and I was still
getting used to how drafty the place was. That night,
I was up late playing some game on my laptop.
My roommate was out of town visiting family, so I
had the place to myself. Around three am, I decided
to finally call it quits and head to bed. I

(23:35):
shut down my computer and went to brush my teeth.
The bathroom was at the end of the hallway, and
for some reason I felt watched you know that feeling
when the hair on the back of your neck stands
up like that. I flipped on the bathroom light, and
as I was brushing, I swear to god, I heard
footsteps in the hallway, not like someone sneaking around, but normal,

(23:58):
casual footsteps, like someone who lived there was just walking
to their room. My first thought was that my roommate
had come home early, so I called out, hey, Jake,
that you nothing. I poked my head out of the
bathroom toothbrush still in my mouth, and looked down the
empty hallway. No one there, whatever, I muttered, figuring it

(24:21):
was just the old building settling. I finished brushing my
teeth and headed back to my bedroom. As I was
about to turn off the light. I heard three distinct
knocks on my bedroom door. Knock, knock, knock, slow, deliberate.
My heart jumped into my throat. I stood there, frozen,

(24:42):
staring at the door, thinking maybe I'd imagined it.

Speaker 1 (24:45):
Then it happened again, knock, knock, knock. Jake.

Speaker 2 (24:51):
I called, my voice cracking. This isn't funny, man, no answer.
I don't know what possessed me, but I walked over
to the door. My hand was shaking as I reached
for the knob. I hesitated, took a deep breath, and
yanked it open. The hallway was completely empty, but it
was freezing cold, like unnaturally cold. I could see my

(25:13):
breath in the air, which made no sense because the
rest of the apartment was normal temperature. I quickly shut
the door and locked it, telling myself I was being ridiculous.
Old buildings make weird noises, That's all this was. I
turned off the light and got into bed, pulling the
covers up tight. I was just about to drift off

(25:33):
when I heard it. Let me in a voice right
outside my door, not shouting, not whispering, just a normal
conversational tone, A woman's voice I didn't recognize. Let me in.
I'm cold. I sat bolt upright, heart hammering in my chest.
Who's there, I demanded, trying to sound brave, but my

(25:54):
voice betrayed me. Let me in, she repeated, I lived
here before. I reached for my phone on the nightstand,
ready to call nine to one one, when my bedroom
door started rattling, not like someone was trying the knob,
like someone was shaking the whole door in its frame,
bang bang bang, not knocking anymore, full on pounding.

Speaker 1 (26:16):
Let me in.

Speaker 2 (26:17):
The voice was angry, now desperate. I was paralyzed with fear,
clutching my phone, unable to even dial. Then it stopped,
complete silence. I sat there for what felt like hours,
afraid to move, afraid to breathe. Eventually I managed to
turn on my bedside lamp with trembling fingers. The silence

(26:38):
stretched on, and I started to wonder if I'd dreamed
the whole thing. Maybe I'd fallen asleep without realizing it.
Slowly I got out of bed and approached the door.
I pressed my ear against it nothing, Gathering every ounce
of courage I had, I unlocked the door and opened
it just a crack. The hallway was empty and back
to normal temperature. I was about to close the door

(27:01):
when I noticed something on the floor just outside my room.
Wet footprints, small ones like a woman's bare feet. They
led from the front door to my bedroom and then
just stopped. I slammed the door shut and spent the
rest of the night huddled in the corner of my
room with all the lights on. The Next day, I
asked my landlord if anyone had ever died in the apartment.

(27:24):
He looked uncomfortable and changed the subject. I moved out
the following week, never set foot in that building again.
Story six. Three summers ago. I was twenty three and
had moved back in with my parents in Brookhaven after college.
Money was tight in their place near Verdheim Wildlife Refuge
gave me somewhere to clear my head. While job hunting,

(27:46):
my dad mentioned that his buddy Mike, who worked at
the refuge, had found something odd during a routine survey
what looked like an unmarked cemetery deep in the western section.
Being a local history nerd, I decided to check it out.
It was mid July, hot as hell. I'd been hiking
through Verdheim dozens of times, but always stuck to the
mark trails. This time I had to use coordinates. Mike

(28:09):
had scribbled on a napkin leading me way off the
beaten path. After about an hour of pushing through thick underbrush,
I came across a small clearing that just felt wrong.
A rusted, partially collapsed iron fence surrounded what was unmistakably
a cemetery, maybe thirty feet by forty feet. Most of
the headstones were tipped over or broken, but a few

(28:31):
remained upright. Hello, I called out, feeling stupid immediately, who
was I expecting to answer? I stepped over the fallen
fence and approached the nearest legible stone. The inscription read
Martha Bartow, beloved wife and mother, seventeen ninety eight to
eighteen forty two. Several other stones bore the Bartow name.

(28:54):
That's when I noticed how quiet it was. Living near
vertheim you get used to constant noise, birds singing, insects, buzzing, leaves, rustling,
But in this cemetery it was dead silent, no wind,
no distant traffic, nothing. The silence felt physical, like pressure
against my ear drums. This is weird, I muttered, just

(29:16):
to hear something. My voice sounded flat. Like it couldn't
travel more.

Speaker 1 (29:20):
Than a few feet.

Speaker 2 (29:22):
I walked further into the cemetery, taking photos with my phone.
What struck me most was the ground itself. Nothing grew here.
Outside the fence, the forest was lush and green, but
inside was just bare dirt in dead leaves. I knelt
down to examine one of the fallen headstones when a
strange smell hit me, like wet soil and something metallic.

(29:45):
Looking up, I noticed the trees surrounding the cemetery seemed wrong.
Their branches curved away from the burial ground, as if
trying to escape. The sunlight dimed suddenly, though there wasn't
a cloud in the sky. Temperature dropped at least ten
degrees in seconds. My breath fogged in front of my face.
What the hell, I whispered. That's when I heard it,

(30:08):
a soft scraping sound, like something being dragged across dirt.
I turned slowly about twenty feet away near the back
of the cemetery. The ground was moving, not shaking like
an earthquake, actually bulging upward, as if something underneath was
pushing against it.

Speaker 1 (30:26):
I couldn't move.

Speaker 2 (30:28):
My body felt frozen as the dirt mounted higher, maybe
eight or ten inches above the surrounding ground. Then it stopped.
The silence grew deeper. I could hear my heart beat
too fast and too loud. A single, pale hand broke
through the surface. It wasn't decomposed or skeletal. It looked
like a normal human hand, fingers spread wide, reaching upward.

(30:51):
The skin was alabaster white, with dirt caught under the fingernails.
I stumbled backward, tripping over a headstone and falling hard.
My phone flew from my hand. When I looked up again,
the hand was gone. The mound of dirt had collapsed
back into a flat surface, as if nothing had happened.
I scrambled to my feet, grabbed my phone, and ran.

(31:14):
I didn't stop until I reached the main trail, lungs
burning and legs shaking. When I got home, I immediately
researched the Bartow family. They were indeed early settlers of Brookhaven,
along with the Hawkins family. I found records of the
main Bartow cemetery on the north side of the refuge,
but nothing about a second burial ground. I showed my

(31:34):
photos to my dad, who showed them to Mike. Mike
swore he'd never seen that cemetery before, even though he'd
worked at Berdheim for fifteen years and thought he knew
every inch of the place. The next day, I convinced
my dad and Mike to come back with me. We
followed the same path, using the GPS coordinates for my phone.
We searched for hours. We never found the cemetery again.

(31:56):
I've gone back a dozen times since then, using maps, GPS,
landmarks everything. It's like that clearing never existed. Sometimes I
wonder if I imagine the whole thing. But then I look
at the photos on my phone. Gravestones, the rusty fence,
the barren ground, and in one photo, barely visible in

(32:17):
the background, what might be the outline of fingers pressing
up against the surface of the dirt. I don't hike
in Berthheim anymore. Story seven. I never used to believe
in ghosts. That changed three years ago. My name's Marcus.
I live in this old converted warehouse apartment in downtown Portland,
one of those industrial sheikh places with exposed brick and

(32:41):
ductwork that seemed cool when I signed the lease. The
building used to be some kind of textile factory back
in the early nineteen hundreds twenty units now, though half
are vacant since rent keeps climbing. That night in December,
I was up late working on a deadline freelance. Graphic
design pays the bills, but sometimes that means three am
rendering sessions. A blizzard had been hammering the city for hours,

(33:05):
and the wind howled through the building's ancient bones, making
all kinds of weird noises. Around three point thirty, I
got up to make more coffee. My apartment has this
weird layout. The kitchen is separated from my office space
by a short hallway, with my bedroom and bathroom branching off.
As I shuffled toward the kitchen, the power flickered once twice,

(33:27):
then went out completely. Shit, I muttered, feeling my way
along the wall. The emergency lights in the hallway outside
my apartment kicked on, casting a dim glow under my door.
It was just enough to see vague shapes. I was
about to grab my phone for the flashlight when I
heard it footsteps, heavy ones right outside my door. No

(33:48):
big deal, I thought, probably just a neighbor checking the
circuit breaker, But then I remembered the unit next to
mine had been empty for months, the footsteps stopped directly
in front of my door. I froze midstep. Knock, knock, knock,
three slow, deliberate knocks. At three point thirty am, during

(34:09):
a blackout, Hello, I called out, my voice embarrassingly shaky,
Who's there? Silence, just the howl of the wind outside.
I crept toward the door, heart hammering against my ribs.
The peep hole showed only darkness. The emergency lights in
the hall must have failed. To building manager. I tried again,

(34:30):
is there a problem?

Speaker 1 (34:32):
Nothing?

Speaker 2 (34:33):
Then the knocking came again, louder, this time more insistent. Knock, knock, knock.
I jumped back, Who's there, I shouted, anger replacing fear.
It's the middle of the night. My phone was still
in my office. Should I call someone, the building manager,
the police. Before I could decide, I heard something that

(34:56):
made my blood run cold. A key in my life turning.
I never gave anyone a key, not even my girlfriend
at the time. I lunged forward and slammed my weight
against the door, fumbling with the dead bolt, just as
the handle began to turn. Get the fuck away from
my door, I yelled, trying to sound tough while internally

(35:16):
panicking the handle stopped, turning the key withdrew. I pressed
my ear against the door, listening nothing. No footsteps walking away,
no sounds at all except my own ragged breathing. After
what felt like forever, I worked up the courage to look.

Speaker 1 (35:32):
Through the peep hole again. A face stared back at me.

Speaker 2 (35:36):
I jerked away from the door so hard I fell
backward on to the floor because what I'd seen wasn't possible.
The face was pale, almost translucent, eyes like black holes,
and it was hovering at least seven feet off the ground.
I scrambled backward on my hands and feet like a crab,
unable to even scream. My back hit the wall and

(35:56):
I sat there, paralyzed. The knocking started again, but different,
now not on the door. It was coming from the windows,
all of my windows at once, tap tap tap, tap
tap tap, like fingernails on glass. Fifteen floors up. My phone.
I needed my phone. I forced myself to move, crawling
toward my office, not daring to stand. The power suddenly

(36:19):
came back on, lights blazing to life. The knocking stopped instantly.
I grabbed my phone with trembling hands and called the
building manager, Marcus do you know what time it is?
He grumbled. Someone tried to get into my apartment, I said,
my voice cracking. They had a key. He was silent
for a moment. That's impossible. Only I have the master

(36:41):
keys and I'm in bed while someone was just at
my door trying to get in. Look, I'll check the
security cameras in the morning. Probably just someone drunk at
the wrong apartment. Go back to sleep, he hung up.
I sat there clutching my phone, too afraid to move.
The next morning, I met the building manager in his office.
He pulled up the security footage from the hallway outside

(37:03):
my apartment. See nothing, he said, pointing at the screen.
The footage showed my hallway from three am to four
am empty. No one approached my door. That can't be right,
I insisted. Check the timing again. He sighed, but scrolled
through more footage. Still nothing. What about when the power

(37:23):
went out? I asked, backup generator kicks in for the
security system. He said there was no interruption in recording.
I left his office feeling sick. I knew what I'd heard,
what I'd seen. Two days later, I was talking to
missus Chen from down the hall. She's been in the
building since before the conversion. One of those tenants with
rent control they can't kick out. You're in fifteen oh seven,

(37:46):
aren't you, she asked. When I nodded, she frowned. Be
careful there. Why's that? She lowered her voice. That apartment
bad things happened there before the conversion. A foreman, they
say he locked a girl in that room during a fire.
She couldn't get out. I moved out the next day,
left most of my stuff behind. Some things aren't worth

(38:09):
trying to explain. I never did figure out what happened
that night. Story eight. I never believed in ghosts, not
until last summer.

Speaker 1 (38:17):
Anyway.

Speaker 2 (38:18):
I'm Ryan, thirty two, living in a small town outside
Portland where nothing ever happens.

Speaker 1 (38:24):
At least that's what I thought.

Speaker 2 (38:26):
It started when I got a call from my uncle Dave,
who'd passed away three months earlier.

Speaker 1 (38:30):
Yeah, you read that right.

Speaker 2 (38:32):
I was home alone on a Tuesday night, half asleep
on the couch with some Netflix show playing in the background.
It was around eleven thirty when my phone rang unknown number.
I almost didn't answer Hello, I mumbled static. Then a
voice distant but unmistakable, Ryan, It's Dave. My blood went cold.

(38:53):
The voice, gravelly familiar, belonged to my uncle Dave, the
same uncle whose funeral i'd attend to that spring. Who
is this, I managed to say, It's Dave. I need
help the basement. The line crackled, breaking up his words,
what basement? Who the fuck is this?

Speaker 1 (39:13):
I was fully awake, now, heart pounding my house. Something found. Please?

Speaker 2 (39:20):
The call cut off. I sat there, staring at my phone,
trying to make sense of what just happened. Maybe a
sick prank, but nobody could imitate Uncle Dave's voice that perfectly.
I called the number back nothing, straight to some automated
message saying the number wasn't in service. I tried three
more times, with the same result. I couldn't sleep that night.

(39:41):
By morning, I'd convinced myself it was just some weird
technical glitch or a cruel joke. But then I got
a text from the same number, basement Please. That's when
I made the decision I've regretted every day since. I
drove to Uncle Dave's old house. It had been sitting
empty since he died. My aunt couldn't bear to sell

(40:01):
it yet, but couldn't live there either. I still had
the spare key. The place smelled musty, like old books
and dust. Everything was exactly as he'd left it, half
empty coffee mug on the kitchen counter, reading glasses beside
his favorite chair. Newspaper from the day he died, still
folded on the coffee table. I stood in the foyer,

(40:21):
feeling like an intruder. Hello, I called out, My voice
echoed through the empty house. No response, of course, not
what was I expecting. The basement door was at the
end of the hallway. Uncle Dave had used it as
a workshop. He'd been an amateur woodworker. I hadn't been
down there in years. My hand trembled as I turned

(40:43):
the knob. The door creaked open, revealing concrete steps, disappearing
into darkness. I fumbled for the light switch. Nothing happened.
The bulb must have burned out. I turned on my
phone's flashlight and started down the stairs, each step creaking
onunder my weight. The basement air was cold and damp,

(41:03):
smelling faintly of sawdust and something else, something metallic. Hello,
I called again, my voice smaller now. The beam from
my phone illuminated the workspace, tools hanging on peg boards,
half finished projects, on the workbench, sawdust covering everything, and
then I saw it. In the far corner, where the

(41:23):
light barely reached, was an old trunk I'd never seen before.
It looked antique, with brass fittings and dark wood. It
didn't belong among Uncle Dave's modern tools. I approached slowly,
my footsteps echoing on the concrete floor. The trunk wasn't locked.
As I reached for the lid, my phone dinged another text,

(41:44):
don't open it, from the same number. I yanked my
handback like i'd been burned. My breath came in short, gas,
forming small clouds in the cold air. Then I heard it,
a sound coming from inside the trunk, a scratching like
fingernails against wood. I backed away, nearly tripping over a sawhorse.

(42:05):
The scratching grew louder, more frantic, and then whispers so
faint I could barely hear them, but definitely there, multiple
voices overlapping, urgent, help us, let us out.

Speaker 1 (42:21):
Please.

Speaker 2 (42:22):
My back hit the wall. I couldn't take my eyes
off the trunk. As the whispers grew louder, the scratching
more desperate. Then my phone rang again, the same number,
with shaking hands, I answered, what is happening? Uncle Dave's
voice came through, clearer this time. Ryan, listen carefully, don't
open that trunk. Whatever you do. It's not me calling you,

(42:45):
it's not me texting you. It's them. They're using my voice.
Who I whispered. They want out. They've been trapped for decades.
I found the trunk at an estate sale, didn't know
what it was, but once I brought it home, his
voice broke. They killed me, Ryan, heart attack, the doctor said,
But it was them. They drained me until there was

(43:07):
nothing left. The whispering from the trunk had stopped. The
basement was suddenly terrifyingly silent. Uncle Dave, what do I
A new voice came through the phone, not my uncle's.
This one was deeper, hollow, like it was coming from
the bottom of a well. We know you're here, Ryan.
I dropped the phone. It clattered on the concrete floor,

(43:30):
the screen shattering. The scratching started again, more violent. Now
the trunk began to shake. I ran up the stairs,
through the house, out the front door. I didn't stop
until I reached my car, fumbling with the keys, my
hands slick with sweat as I pulled away from the curb.
I glanced back at the house. In the basement window.

(43:52):
I saw shapes moving in the darkness, formless, shifting shadows
pressing against the glass. My phone is ringing again as
I'm writing this unknown number. It hasn't stopped for three days,
and now I'm getting texts from my mom, my sister,
my best friend, all of them asking me to come
over to help them with something in their basement. I'm

(44:14):
not answering. I'm not going anywhere. Story nine. I never
believed in ghosts until I moved to North Lake, Illinois,
small town about twenty miles west of Chicago. I'd found
this dirt, cheap rental on Willard Street, a two story
Victorian that needed work but had character, as the landlord
put it, What he failed to mention was why the

(44:36):
rent was so low. First night there, I woke up
around three am to the sound of crying, not loud sobbing,
but this soft, muffled whimpering coming from somewhere upstairs. My
bedroom was on the main floor and the upper level
was just empty rooms I was using for storage. I
figured it was probably just the pipes or something. Old
houses make weird noises, right But then it happened again

(44:59):
the next night, and the night after that, always around
three am, always the same sad, quiet crying. After a
week of this, I mentioned it to my neighbor while
getting the mail. Missus Patel, sweet lady in her seventies
who'd lived next door for decades. You're hearing it too,
she asked, lowering her voice like someone might be listening

(45:21):
the crying. My stomach dropped. Wait, you've heard it before,
she nodded. The Willard house has always had issues. The
family before you only lasted two months. What happened to them?
Missus Patel just shook her head. They never said, just
packed up and left. That night, I couldn't sleep. I

(45:42):
kept thinking about what missus Patel had said. Around two
thirty am, I decided I was being ridiculous. There had
to be a logical explanation. Maybe raccoons in the attic
or win through a crack somewhere. I grabbed my phone
for a flashlight and headed upstairs. The upper floor was cold,
like unnaturally cold compared to downstairs. The boxes I'd stacked

(46:05):
in the hallway cast weird shadows in my phone light.
I checked the first empty bedroom, nothing, second room also nothing.
The bathroom was clear. That left only the small room
at the end of the hall. It had been locked
when I moved in. Landlord said he'd lost the key
years ago, and I hadn't bothered with it since I
had plenty of other space. I approached the door, listening

(46:29):
nothing at first. Then there it was the crying, soft,
heartbreaking sobs, coming from behind the locked door. Hello, I
called out, my voice shaking, Is someone in there? The
crying stopped immediately. I stood frozen, heart pounding in my chest.
Then I heard something that still makes my skin crawl

(46:51):
when I think about it, A small, childlike voice from
inside the room.

Speaker 1 (46:55):
Help me.

Speaker 2 (46:56):
She locked me in again. My blood turned to ice.
I couldn't move. Please, the voice whispered, I'm so hungry.
I backed away from the door, nearly tripping.

Speaker 1 (47:08):
Over a box. Who who are you?

Speaker 2 (47:12):
No response, just silence. Then I heard what sounded like
small fingernails scratching at the inside of the door. Gentle
at first, then more frantic. She's coming, the voice whispered urgently.
She always comes when I talk to people. Don't let
her see you. The scratching stopped. The hallway temperature plummeted further.

(47:35):
I could see my breath now. Something moved in my
peripheral vision at the top of the stairs. I spun around,
but saw nothing there. Please, the child's voice pleaded, one
more time, just open the door. I turned back toward
the room, and that's when I heard it. Heavy footsteps
coming up the stairs behind me, slow deliberate steps. But

(47:57):
when I looked, there was nobody there. The footsteps continued,
invisible but unmistakable, coming closer. She's here, the child's voice whimpered.
The doorknob to the locked room began to turn back
and forth, violently, rattling, as if someone was desperately trying.

Speaker 1 (48:13):
To get out.

Speaker 2 (48:14):
I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Then suddenly the rattling stopped.
The hallway went silent. For a moment, I thought it
was over. That's when I felt cold breath on the
back of my neck and heard a woman's voice, harsh
and angry, whispered directly into my ear. He stays locked
up forever. I don't remember running downstairs, don't remember grabbing

(48:37):
my keys and wallet. I just remember sitting in my car,
shaking at a twenty four hour McDonald's parking lot until sunrise.
I broke my lease the next day. Missus Patel wasn't
surprised when I told her I was moving out. Before
I left, she finally told me what she knew. Back
in the nineteen seventies, a woman had lived there with
her son. Neighbors reported hearing fights, but no he intervened.

(49:01):
One day, the woman just disappeared. Nobody ever saw the
boy again. Story ten. I grew up just outside Dunlap, Tennessee,
out in the sticks. Nothing out there but winding roads,
rotting barns and forests so thick you could scream your
lungs out and no one would ever hear you. That's
not a metaphor either, it's kind of the local legend.

(49:22):
There's this bridge out past Stone Creek, no name, just
the bridge. Kids used to say if you parked on
it after midnight and shut everything off, the bridge would
scream at you. Not something under it the bridge. I
always called bullshit on that anyway. Last summer I went
back home for a week to visit my folks. Caught
up with some old friends. One night, guys I grew

(49:44):
up with I hadn't seen them in years. We had
some beers, swap stories, ended up out back on the porch,
and eventually someone brought up the bridge. We all laughed
it off, but then Josh goes, we should go right now.
We but not hammered, just stupid enough to follow through.
Five of us piled into Mason's rusted out forward and

(50:07):
around one am we were pulling onto that bridge like
a bunch of idiots in a horror movie. We cut
the headlights, rolled down, the windows, killed the engine. It
was dead quiet, not peaceful, quiet, thick quiet, like the
woods were holding their breath. For the first thirty minutes,
nothing happened, just crickets and the occasional tree creaking. I

(50:28):
sat in the middle back seat, starting to feel like
an idiot. Josh was in the passenger seat, running his mouth,
trying to psych us up. I heard it sounds like
a woman getting murdered, he said. Mason muttered, it's just
a bobcat. My uncle says, they screamed like that. Yeah,
I said, then, why don't you ever hear it from

(50:49):
the houses nearby? No one had an answer. By the
forty five minute mark, we were about to pack it in.
Then it happened, no warning, just this scream right outside
my wind. I can't explain it. It wasn't a bobcat.
I've heard bobcats. This was longer, more human, like someone
being flayed alive with no air in their lungs. Three

(51:12):
maybe four seconds of pure agony. It was so loud
it felt like it passed through the car, like it
was screaming inside our skulls, not around us, through us.

Speaker 1 (51:23):
We all jumped.

Speaker 2 (51:24):
Mason fumbled with the keys, stalled the engine. I shouted
go and smack the back of his seat. Josh had
gone pale, dead, silent in the car, even the crickets
had stopped. Then Mason got it started and we peeled
out like hell was on our heels. Nobody said a
word until we were about two miles down the road.

(51:44):
Then the panic hit. I was shaking so hard I
couldn't even hold my phone. Felt like my spine was
trying to crawl out of my back. Derek, sitting to
my right, suddenly shouted pull over, and Mason did. Derek
jumped out and threw up in the ditch. Meanwhile, Josh
just sat there still as a statue. I turned and

(52:05):
looked at him and saw it. He'd pissed himself full on,
soaked the seat. I didn't say anything, none of us did,
not even Mason whose car it was. That's how messed
up we were. No jokes, no comments, just silence. I
saw something, Mason muttered. We all turned in the rear
view when it screamed, like a shadow by the guardrail.

(52:29):
I didn't see anything. I felt something sure, like the
air had shifted, like something had brushed the car or us.

Speaker 1 (52:38):
But I didn't see a shadow. I didn't want to.

Speaker 2 (52:41):
Derek just got back in the car and shut the door,
like it was keeping something out. We drove back in silence.
No one even asked what that was. We didn't need to.
We knew it wasn't an animal, it wasn't a prank.
There was no one else out there. That road doesn't
lead to anything, no trails, no campsites, just the bridge
in the woods. I never went back, and I don't

(53:03):
think any of the others did either. I've heard people
say fear makes you imagine things, but it wasn't just fear.
I've been scared. This was different. This felt wrong, like
we weren't supposed to be there, like we'd heard something
we weren't meant to hear, like whatever made that noise
didn't want to scare us, It wanted to be heard.

(53:24):
And that scream I still hear it sometimes when I'm alone,
not like a memory, like an echo, like it left
something behind. I don't know what's under that bridge or
in it. But if you ever find yourself near Stone
Creek in Tennessee and someone dares you to go out there,
do yourself a favor. Don't Thanks for watching, don't leave

(53:46):
before leaving a light to this video. Also hit the
subscribe button to support my work and as always, have
a horrific nightmare, My dear