We asked to hear some of your creepiest, spookiest ghost stories and boy did you all deliver. After spending time combing through your tales of unexplained phenomenons and otherworldly visitors, we’re bringing you the top tales that kept us up at night. First up, C.G shares the story of the haunting of their childhood home. Turn on a little Beethoven and dive in.
From C.G. in Greenville, South Carolina:
When I was 11, my parents and I moved into a simple, two-story brick house that had been built in the fifties. Only two people had ever lived in the house, the older couple who had originally built the place. The husband had died some years before, and the wife was selling the house so she could move into a retirement home.
Not long after we moved in, I was startled awake one night by the sound of music, classical music, to be precise. My mom always plays classical music when she works, and since her office was just down a short hallway from my bedroom, I assumed she had left her stereo on. So I got up to turn it off.
You probably see where this is going.
Not only was the stereo in her office turned off, but so was my dad’s stereo downstairs in the living room. The TV sound system was off as well. And the music didn’t sound like it was coming from downstairs, it was definitely emanating from the second floor, and was loudest in the bathroom, of all places. I looked and looked, but I couldn’t find any source for it. Over the next year, I would repeat this sequence many more times; whenever I heard the music in the middle of the night, I always checked all the stereos in the house, just to be sure. But of course none of them were ever on.
The second strange thing that happened was far scarier. I was still a bit afraid of the dark at that age, so I left the hallway light on and didn’t close my bedroom door. The hallway was open to the split-level staircase below, and my bed was positioned as such that I could see part of the landing, and the second level of stairs.
So it was more than a little disconcerting when, one night as I lay in bed, I saw a large black mass of…something, moving up the stairs. Waist-high and incorporeal, it lingered in the hallway outside my bedroom for a moment, then disappeared into the bathroom.
I hid under the covers and stayed that way until morning light. I half-convinced myself that I had been asleep, and had dreamed the mass up. But I would see it again and again, nearly a dozen times in all, while I lived in that house.
Soon after, I began to experience extreme paranoia whenever I was in the bathroom; the gut-twisting feeling of being watched was unbearable. I would often become convinced there was someone hiding in the tub behind the shower curtain, waiting to leap out as soon as my back was turned, but when I fearfully pulled back the curtain, expecting to be attacked, there was no one there. I also developed a near phobia of the mirror; whenever I looked into it, I felt sure I would see a second person there, beside me. I started to avoid looking in the mirror at all.
Weirder still was the blood stain that appeared about six months after moving in. It was small, only about an inch in diameter, and marked a floor tile right next to the tub, under the bath math. I couldn’t remember cutting myself, and when I checked the mat I found no corresponding stain. And no matter how hard I scrubbed, the stain wouldn’t come off. But it would fade away, eventually…only to come back a few weeks or months later. It always looked fresh, too.
I tried to describe what was going on to my parents, and overheard them later worriedly discussing whether I needed a psych evaluation. Convinced I was going crazy, I shut up about my experiences and didn’t tell anyone else.
At this time, I was a Girl Scout. Multiple mothers co-led our troop, including one woman who worked as an EMT, and who also had a bit of penchant for oversharing. About a year after moving into this house, I had to give her my newer address for permission form purposes. I’ll never forget the look on her face when she read the piece of paper I’d handed her.
“Huh. Yeah, I remember this place. We got called out there for the old owner.” She paused. “He died in that upstairs bathroom, you know.”
As I gathered from her story, the man who had built the house suffered a heart attack while taking a shower in the upstairs bathroom. He hit his head on the side of the tub, knocking him unconscious. His wife called emergency services when she found him, but by the time the EMTs arrived, he was already dead.
“The weird thing is,” my troop leader mused, “he had a shower radio, and it was on when we got there. I still remember the classical music that was playing.”
Thanks so much for sharing your story, C.G.!
Have a scary story of your own? It’s not too late to tell us about it.