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3 Chilling Murder Houses You Didn't Know Were Out There:

And their secrets

By Author Eve S EvansPublished about a year ago 16 min read

These days our world seems enthralled with true crime and its grisly secrets. The crazier the story, the better. Many people believe that places can be haunted by the energy of past events. This is especially true of houses where a murder has taken place. But what do the people who live in these houses after the crime say about it? Here are some stories from residents of murder houses who have experienced firsthand the eerie aftermath of a grisly crime.

1) The Apartment

I had been anxious to move out of the dorms and experience the true freedom of New York City for a long time. When I found the apartment, a roomy one-bedroom on the third floor of a pre-war walkup, I was ecstatic. It even came fully furnished. I signed the lease, packed my clothes away, and headed uptown for my new home. I was happy, but only because this was before I knew about Mr. Grey.

The move-in process was seamless, save a few too many trips up and down the stairs, and within just a few days I had settled in. I planned a small housewarming with some friends for the next week, but in the meantime, I had to have my best friend, Miriam, come fawn over the place.

“It’s so cute, Jodi,” she exclaimed before even crossing the threshold. That’s one of the things I like most about Miriam, she’s always so positive, full of energy and life. We cracked open a bottle of wine and descended into overlapping chatter, flying through all the usual topics like men, money, and of course, our staggering course load. We wanted to be journalists and write for the Times, and we took out schooling seriously.

Finally, the bottle was empty, and our conversation slowed. I offered to turn on a movie and we agreed on a cheesy romcom. We nestled into the couch and enjoyed the view of the sinking sun across the city skyline. Everything was peaceful. Until we heard the footsteps.

I had been getting sleepy, my eyes drooping as the sun plunged below the edge of the world, thrusting the city that never sleeps into night. Then I heard footsteps. They were quick and percussive and sounded like they were coming from right behind us. I stiffened and turned around. Miriam did the same, pausing the movie to hear them again. It was silent for a moment, then the sound repeated, as clear as day, just like someone was no more than a few feet away.

Our nerves were on edge, but we wrote it off as a neighbor and some odd acoustics. We resumed the movie and sunk back into the couch. My eyes became heavy again.


With a noise like the strike of lightning, the bathroom door at the end of the hall slammed shut. We both jump to our feet, hair on end, and meet one another's gaze. There was someone in the house. Though I was frozen in fear, Miriam leaped up and darted into the kitchen, returning with a silver butcher's knife. She pressed her finger to her lips as a sign to remain silent, grabbed my hand, and we crept down the hall together towards the door.

When we reached the end of the hall, Miriam pressed herself flat against the wall, knife in hand. She gestured for me to open the door, and with a shaking hand, I reached for the knob. I took a deep breath and flung the door open to reveal… nothing.

The tiny window, not even large enough for an adult to fit through, remained closed and locked. The tiny room was silent and empty. I even threw back the shower curtain to be sure, the classic Psycho scene seared in my brain, but there was nothing. That’s when Miriam started laughing. When she spoke, her voice was honeyed with relief.

“I’m so glad no one else is here to see us make fools of ourselves like this!”

I tried to laugh along, but my nerves were shot. Something wasn’t right. Miriam could see my worry. She offered to stay the night and while I told her she didn’t have to, she insisted. We piled into my bed and tried to put the strange events out of our minds. After too many hours of tossing and turning, we finally drifted off into a restless sleep.

As I slept dreamlessly, Miriam thrashed with night terrors. She later told me they were the worst she ever had; her bright eyes framed by dark circles. She dreamed of a husband and wife. They were fighting. He hit her hard and she fell to the ground. She cried out in pain as he went for the gun. He fires a shot straight into her head, painting the walls with blood and brain matter. Then he turns the gun on himself. As he shot, ending his own life, Miriam awoke. She panted and tried to regain her bearings but as her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw something that turned her fear into absolute terror.

I wake to her scream and a sharp jab in the side. She points toward our feet. I was confused for a moment and then I saw it. At the end of the bed stood a figure. Not a form as much as a shadow. It was small and close, watching us sleep from the black holes where its eyes should have been. It heaved with ragged breath and slowly, too slowly, it began to drag itself into the bed.

I exchanged a look with Miriam and without hesitation, we knew what to do. We both tear off the sheets and run, screaming bloody murder, down the hall into the living room, slamming the bedroom door behind us.

The police arrived mercifully fast but with them brought more questions than answers. They scoured the apartment for signs of an intruder, checking locks and closets and under the bed. There was nothing. We told them the intruder must be hiding, that we were in danger, but they seemed nonchalant.

“Are you sure about what you saw,” the first officer asks? We insisted. The second officer shook his head and chuckled.

“Maybe it was Mr. Grey,” he muttered. His partner shot him a look and they both chuckled. They weren’t taking us seriously, I suddenly realized. To them, it was all a joke.

Finally, they left, with a word of warning not to waste their time again. We locked the door behind them and watched the sunrise with all of the lights on, the butcher knife grasped firmly in Miriam’s hand.

Needless to say, that was the last night I spent in that apartment. With a month-to-month lease, it was easy to leave, spending the rest of the term in the safety of my mother’s Harlem apartment. We were so scared, in fact, that we forgot to look up anything about Mr. Grey until the very next day. When we did, we almost couldn’t believe what we saw.

His name was Donald. Donald Grey. He had walked in on his wife with another man. The man that had run for the door, footsteps clattering across the living room, and escaped down the winding flights of stairs. Mr. Grey hit Mrs. Grey. She fell to the floor. He went for the gun. He shot her then he turned the gun on himself. He had killed her and himself, and it had all happened right there, in the apartment where my best friend dreamed the whole damn thing.

2) Help Me

I grip the mug tightly with two hands to keep it from shaking. I take a deep breath and try to steady my mind. Coffee scented steam curls into the air, catching the morning light that shines cheerily through the huge bay windows. Mere weeks ago, I walked into this house for the very first time and knew immediately I had to have it. I imagined moments like this, sitting in front of the beautiful east-facing windows while enjoying the serenity of my morning cup of coffee. To the realtor’s surprise, I didn’t hesitate to take it. If I had only known, then what I know now... If I had been able to sense that some kind of evil lived here… I would have left this place as fast as I could and never looked back.

I sigh and wipe my tired, bloodshot eyes. This was supposed to be my fresh start. I signed the divorce papers and the lease on the same day. Kenneth cried, but I didn’t. After eight years, I couldn’t even muster a single tear, instead, all I felt was an immense wave of relief.

“I’m going to miss you, Anna,” he said, his eyes sparkling. I guess he should have thought about that before he slept with some woman named Cindy.

I moved all the boxes from the motel room I called home for far too long, leaving the wedding album on the curb where it belonged. The first night, sleeping on nothing but a bare mattress on the floor, it was as if the weight of the world had been lifted off my shoulders. I felt free, and for the first time in a long time, I felt hopeful. That would be the only night I’d sleep peacefully in this house.

It started with the whispers. As I unpacked boxes on my bedroom floor the next night, I had heard it. At first, I thought it may be the rustling of the wind, giving it no thought. However, as night fell and the orange sunset melted into the inky blackness of night, the noise grew louder. It became unmistakable. I sat on the floor, back rigid, and listened as it grew in volume, a high-pitched child’s voice, soft and unintelligible.

“Hello,” I said, my voice cracking “is someone there?”

The noise stopped. For a moment all I could hear was the thunder of my racing pulse. Then it began again, louder this time, more panicked. It was coming from the closet. I stood and slowly approached the closed door of the nearly empty closet. Could there really be someone in there? As I drew closer, my arm outstretched toward the handle, I could make out two chilling words, repeated over and over again.

“Help me.”

I swung open the door, terrified of what I might see. It was empty. In an instant, the sound stopped, and the house was thrust into an oppressive silence. I didn’t sleep that night, and that was before I’d even seen the shadows.

I’d made it a week, a restless week, but a week, nonetheless. The whispers hadn’t come again, and I was beginning to think I may have imagined the whole thing. Stress, I told myself, from the divorce. I felt so comfortable, in fact, that when I awoke parched in the latest hours of the night when the suburban silence most heavily blankets the streets, I hadn’t thought twice before climbing out of bed to get a glass of water. I fumbled for the hallway light switch, the place still unfamiliar to me, when I glanced down the narrow room and saw something that made my blood run cold.

Illuminated by a shaft of moonlight was the form of a woman. Small and ephemeral, the shadowy silhouette reached out toward me with an outstretched hand. A tiny animalistic moan escaped its lips. Whatever it was, it was in pain.

Before I could recoil it was gone, darting through the wall and disappearing into the night as if it had never been there at all. It had been though. I know what I saw. Or I’m losing my mind.

I’m suddenly jolted out of my thoughts by a knock on the door. The coffee in my hands has gone cold. How long had I been sitting here?

I jump to my feet and pull my robe tightly around me as I shuffle clumsily to the door. I swing it open and before me stands a tiny older woman with flossy grey hair and a kind smile.

“Good morning, dear, I hope I didn’t wake you,” she says, her smile faltering slightly as she notices my unkempt appearance and the dark circles that wring my eyes. I’m silent for a moment, trying to make sense of things. She shuffles and clears her throat uncomfortably.

“I just wanted to introduce myself,” she says. “I’m Thelma, I live next door. I think your paper was delivered to us this morning. I thought I’d bring it over, and some cookies, of course.” She extends a plate of cookies and the day’s paper to me.

“Of course,” I exclaim, “please, come in! You have to forgive my confusion; I haven’t had my coffee yet.” Her smile returns and she hands me the cookies.

“I’m more a fan of tea,” she says.

I bustle her inside and put the kettle on to boil, trying to shake off the fear that clings to me for hours after every night. We make pleasantries, but I’m barely listening, my eyes darting back and forth like fearful prey. But then I hear something that makes my ears perk and fear prickle my spine.

“I’m just surprised somebody moved in at all, after what happened,” Thelma says, lowering her voice as she speaks. “It was horrible.” Hot sweat floods my palms.

“What do you mean?” I ask. I’m not sure I want to know, but I have to.

“The murder, of course,” Thelma replies with a raised brow. I gulp. “That sick man killed his wife while she was pregnant with their child. He buried them right over there, in the backyard. It took months before anyone found out. You can imagine my surprise. But surely you know this already?”

My heart thumps in my throat. The woman smiles, not kindly this time, but menacingly. She’s enjoying this, I suddenly realize, being the bearer of bad news. She was relishing the moment of revelation. Suddenly, I feel afraid in a way I never have before. The walls of the house are closing in on me, the old woman looms before me with a ghoulish smile still plastered across her face. She inhales and licks her thin, dry lips.

“I was right next door when he did it. I told my husband I thought I’d heard a noise, but he said it was impossible. Later, when we found out what happened it all made sense. She was crying out, that woman, while she was being stabbed over and over. She was saying… help me.”

3) Dead & Breakfast

You would never know by looking at it that this place had seen such horror. When we arrived, it was a crisp fall day, the kind of day where the air seems clearer. The trees were a palette of autumnal warmth and the lone bed and breakfast at the end of the long, winding driveway looked both regal and comforting. It was the picture-perfect place for a romantic getaway. Of course, Joy and I weren’t there to enjoy the scenery we were there to hunt ghosts.

Check-in went smoothly and we were shown up to the first room on the right of the second floor, as per our request. The woman at the desk gave us a knowing look as she noted the room number and the bulging containers of paranormal tracking technology that I breathlessly lugged up the carpeted staircase. She was probably used to it. This place had a reputation after all, and we were far from the first ghost hunters to stay the night.

We made ourselves comfortable. The room was quaint and antique, all lace and dark wood. It reminded me of my grandmother's house in the best of ways. We lounged on the four-poster bed until the sun began to set.

“We better get ready, Karen,” Joy finally said, glancing toward the window. “It’s almost nightfall.” I nodded and we sprang into action. Joy and I had been working together for so long that the process was seamless. When we first began our work, almost ten years ago, it had simply been two internet friends meeting up to have a laugh over a shared passion but as we started experiencing more and more unexplainable things, it became a full-blown obsession. We began documenting our encounters with the paranormal for our own enjoyment but after one of our videos garnered over a million views on YouTube, we realized we could make it a business. Now, a trip to a haunted bed and breakfast is simply a typical work trip.

Joy turned on the camera and checked the mic before handing it to me, then pulled out the EMF detector so we would be able to detect atmospheric anomalies. Meanwhile, I tried to decide where to set up the Rem Pod. Joy caught my eye and snickered when she saw me place it on the bed.

“You think the spirits will be sleepy, huh?” she asked playfully. I smile despite myself. Finally, when everything was set up and the landscape beyond the window disappeared into the darkness, we were ready.

She took her seat in front of the camera and I began recording. She smiled her signature grin at the lens.

“Hi, subscribers! Welcome back to our channel. Today, we’re at a very special place. We’re staying at the Stone Town B&B, which many true fans might recognize the name of. It was once the home of the wealthy and prominent Blackwell family in the early twentieth century. They were known in the area for keeping to themselves and were considered just as mysterious in life as they are in death. What we do know, however, is that one autumn night much like tonight, the woman of the house Agatha Blackwell killed her entire family. She started with her two children, Edie and John. She used their pillows to smother them. Then, in this very room that was once the master, she pulled out a pistol and shot her husband as he slept. Finally, she turned the gun on herself. The bodies weren’t found for over a week because of the remote location and private nature of the family. When they were finally identified they had become so badly decomposed they were hardly recognizable. No one knows why Agatha did it but tonight we’re going to try to find out.”

With that I slipped the light switch, hurling the room into darkness.

“And now, we wait.”

At first, there was little activity. We began, as usual, asking for the spirits to show themselves. We caught some unintelligible audio. For an amateur ghost hunter, this might have been a win, but we hardly stopped there. We asked and waited and asked again. For a while there was nothing and it seemed that the night would be a bust. I yawned and checked my watch. Almost midnight, I thought. Then, it happened all at once.

The EMF reader blinked orange. We fell silent and waited. Then, clear as day, we heard it.

“Why, mommy?”

It was a child’s voice. I felt the familiar rush of fear and adrenaline. We had made contact. Joy stopped pacing the room and sat down again in front of the camera.

“We want to know why, too,” she said. The EMF detector blinked orange again, then the Rem Pod began to beep. My spine tingled. These were some serious readings. Joy doubled down.

“Why did you do it, Agatha? Why did you kill those precious little angels?” I tensed at the question. We didn’t want to make her mad. Joy was too excited, though. Through the camera lens, I could see it on her face. Then we hear the same small voice again.

“Terrible,” it said “terrible, terrible, terrible.” My skin prickled with goosebumps. All of our devices were now beeping wildly, the lights blinking like strobes. We heard another sound, a different voice this time but, it was just as clear. It was a woman. She was sobbing. I gulp and finally see Joy’s expression falter. This was one of our most extreme encounters to date and the reality of the situation suddenly became heavy.

“Why?” Joy cried out again, “Why did you do it?”

Everything went quiet. The readers stopped blinking and the room was pitch black again.

“Shit,” Joy muttered. I peeked through the viewfinder. We must have scared them off, I thought, but what I saw from behind the lens made my heart stop cold.

A man, tall and dark, stood behind Joy. His eyes were pupil-less and milky white, and blood dripped from a hole in the center of his forehead. Maggots squirmed in the decaying flesh of his horrible face and his mouth was open in a silent scream. His hands reached out towards her neck; the long fingers ready to wrap around her delicate throat. Before I could cry out, all of the meters began to blink and chime louder and brighter than I’d ever seen before. I gasped and threw on the lights.

Joy sat in her chair, rigid with terror. The man was gone but something else was there; a word, sprawled across the wall in dripping blood.


I had never packed so quickly in my life. Joy did too, scrambling around the cursed room in a flurry of silent fear. We threw our gear in the car and watched as the smirking front desk woman waved us goodbye. She had seen it all before.

As we drove off into the night, I thanked both God and the Devil that my friend had made it out alive. However, when I turned to offer my sympathy, her toothy grin was plastered back across her face. Confused, I asked her what in the world she was so happy about. She just shook her head and giggled girlishly, fixing me with her unflappable gaze. When she spoke, her voice betrayed no fear.

“This is going to make a great video.”


About the Creator

Author Eve S Evans

After residing in two haunted houses in her lifetime, Eve Evans is enthralled with the world of paranormal. She writes ghost stories based on true events and fictional thriller & horror novels.

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    Author Eve S EvansWritten by Author Eve S Evans

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