True Ghost Stories

Are Ghosts Real?

Have you ever felt like you were being watched, even when there was no one around? Or maybe you’ve heard strange noises coming from another room, even when you know you’re alone in the house. These could be signs that your home is haunted.

While many people believe in ghosts, there is no scientific evidence that they exist. However, that doesn’t mean that there aren’t people who have had strange and unexplained experiences that they can’t explain.

There are plenty of stories of people who say they have encountered ghosts. Some people even claim to have seen ghosts with their own eyes. Whether or not you believe in ghosts, these stories can be very creepy.

Here are some haunted house stories from real people who say they have encountered ghosts in their own homes:

Always A Dreamer

My family and I moved into a house built in the early 1900’s. It had been recently remodeled so not much of the original building was left.

The day my husband, my two sons and I moved in was chaotic. But what I remember most of all about that day was, when we immediately entered the front door it was freezing.

My husband had gone over to check the thermostat. It was set at sixty-eight. It did not feel sixty-eight, it felt like twenty. I shivered and headed to put some boxes in the kitchen.

My sons were running amuck, giggling and play fighting. I had to constantly tell them to be careful and knock it off. Frustrated, I had gone into the bathroom with a box of bathroom items and shut the door, trying to clear my head mostly and have a minute to myself. This move had been so stressful.

As I was running my hands under the warm water and splashing it on my face, I looked up at myself in the mirror. I looked so tired. The late nights of packing were definitely wearing on me.

I splashed some more water on my face and reached down into the box for a roll of paper towels. When I was upright again, water still dripping off my face, I saw her. A little girl standing behind me, head cocked to the side, smirking.

I froze. I wanted to wipe my face, but she looked so menacing and I was scared of blocking my vision for even a moment. Could she hurt me?

Finally, I mustered the courage to wipe the water off of my face and she was gone. What I had hoped would be a stress relief had turned into something completely different.

I exited the bathroom, stiffly trying to gain my wits. What had just happened? Was I so sleep-deprived from packing that I made it all up?

After fifteen minutes or so and nothing else unusual happening, I shrugged it off and went back to unloading the truck.

That evening, in our half-unpacked room, I lay on the mattress on the floor next to my husband. (We had not had time to put together bedframes yet.) He was exhausted and ready for sleep. I, on the other hand, needed to read first to wipe away some of the day.

We had a small table lamp plugged in a foot or so away from our mattress. I turned it on and began to read. Before long, my eyes were heavy and burning and I could not read anymore. I kept reading the same sentences over and over.

I rolled over on my side and reached to turn off the lamp. But before I reached the switch, the bulb burst. Shards of broken bulb cascaded over the back of my hand like fallen snowflakes.

I gasped and sat there terrified. What had just happened? The bulb did just fine in our old house.

I laid there for minutes just listening for anything to be afraid of. Nothing. I was too tired to clean up the bulb mess, so I wrote it off for something to take care of in the morning.

Finally, I scooted deep under the blankets and spooned up against my husband, as if his sleeping body could keep me safe. He snored on, impervious to the light bulb shattering.

Finally, I drifted off. I do not usually dream, but in this house, I dreamt all of the time. Almost every single night. And they were not good dreams, but reoccurring dreams of terror.

I dreamt I was a little girl around the age of eight. A man led me tightly by the wrist into the basement of our new house. I did not put up a fight even though the grip he had on my wrist was so tight that I worried it would bruise.

I looked up at the man, and his facial features were present, but blurred. This confused me. I somehow knew in my dream that this man was my father, but I could not see clearly enough that he was.

In the basement, there was a sink in the far corner. A small stand alone, with a deep bowl. The bowl was full to the top edges with water. The man stopped me in front of the sink and slapped me across the face so hard, I fell hard onto the ground.

Through strands of hair I gazed at him, shocked and hurt. His blurred face smirked or smiled, hard to tell which.

My body began to shake in terror. What was I to do? And why was this happening? These thoughts sprinkled my mind consistently.

Again, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me to my feet. He pulled my hair back as if putting it in a ponytail and plunged my face into the water.

I kicked at the air and screamed in muffled sobs which were absorbed by a waterless abyss. I choked on water and felt everything going black.

He pulled my head from the sink. His face was inches from mine when I heard him speak. “I will fucking kill you,” he hissed. Then, before I had a moment to comprehend or run, my face was driven deep into the water. Again, I was fighting for my life. Kicking, using my hands as leverage on the sink, I tried to pull my head out, but to no avail.

As the blackness surrounded me a second time, I woke up coughing, holding my throat.

The room was pitch black. My husband’s snores were barely audible next to me. I scanned the room, searching for familiarity. Reality set in, and I remembered where I was. The new house.

My heart racing, I laid there in the dark, trying to catch my breath. What a dream. What a horrid, horrid —

Footsteps. From the hallway. Stomping closer and closer to the door. They were too heavy to be my son. My heart began pulsing faster, and faster, my chest aching.

The handle of the door, which we had shut when we went to bed, jangled. Slightly…just enough to hear.

I held my breath and laid there. Do I put the covers over my head and close my eyes like a five-year-old? Do I just sit still and hope it goes away? Do I wake my husband and tell him? So many thoughts cascaded, too many to recollect. The only thought I held on to immensely was, I am going to die.

Readers Beware

Literature interested me the most in life. Is there truly anything that smells better than the pages of a brand-new book? I lived for that smell. That smell drove me into a career I would begin to fear.

As long as I can remember, I was a literary nerd. My parents would tease me because I would open a book, any book, and just devour it in a matter of hours. Fiction was my favorite.

I loved being able to picture myself in these amazing worlds that others had created. I truly was a dreamer. Maybe that’s why no one seemed to believe me at first. But once they came to the bookstore and it happened in front of them, they were believers too.

It was a day in December. I remember because we had just had our first snowfall and I was thoroughly excited to wear my brand-new jacket. I saved two months to buy that gaudy thing.

I trudged up the stairs, arms full to the brim with books. I was excited to check these books back in and check out many more. This was something of a perk of my job. No library fees… ever!

I placed the books on the counter, grabbed the scanner and started checking them back into the computer. That’s when I heard the first noise. It was a flappy noise. As if pages were flapping. Then, a thud.

Confused and slightly concerned, I rose from my chair and went to investigate. I was the only person there yet. I had not unlocked the doors behind me when I had arrived.

First, I went into the mystery section, which is where I thought the noise had come from. Nothing unusual there. Then, I explored the horror section. Something peculiar. A row of books were off the shelves. Not just on the floor randomly mind you, laying perfectly on their backs as if someone had laid them there. All were open to exactly page thirty-five. Huh.

I shook off the creepiness of the encounter and easily placed them back on the shelf where they belonged.

Back at the counter, I was stamping the books with their check-in dates and double checking that they had entered correctly into the computer. Everything seemed to match, so I started the journey of putting them back to ‘their homes’ as I call it.

Romance fiction is one of my favorites, so most of them ended up there. What single female doesn’t love her romantic fiction, am I right?

I had nearly all put back in their homes, except two. From behind me I heard the creaking of floorboards. I furrowed my brow in confusion and listened for a moment. There it was again!

I peered over my shoulder, to see no one. (As expected, because as I said before, I was the only one there.) I then resumed finding the places for the other two books I’d checked out.

After I had placed the last one, I could have sworn I felt something against my cheek. It is hard to explain, but I will try. It felt like a cold wind with very delicate wisps. Almost like a cloud, but that cloud had just momentarily brushed against my cheek.

The experience sent a chill through me, and the hairs on the back of my neck were surely at attention. I tried my best to shake off the experience and get back to the desk. I strolled to grab my keys.

A few expected regulars followed me as I unlocked the door. “Good morning May, good morning Albert,” I smiled. “What is on the menu today?”

“Oh, you know me,” May chirped, “Anything that’s spicy!”

We both giggled, and I gave her shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll be right behind the desk if you need me, hun.”

“Sounds wonderful, thank you.”

Albert was an absolute sweetheart. He was pudgy and balding, but beyond his looks for his middle-age, the man was a true gem. He always had a cute little joke for me. I think it was one of the things I looked forward to most when I opened the library.

The man was like clockwork. He was retired at forty-eight, and the library was his first stop after breakfast. Sometimes, he’d even bring me a coffee from the diner if it was too chilly outside.

By the way, I must add here that yes, Albert was flirting with me. And we are happily married now.

As I sat at the desk, Albert eyed me, “You ready for today’s joke?”

“Am I ever! Lay it on me sir!”

“Alright. Here she goes,” He appeared momentarily deep in thought, “Why is a young lady like an arrow?”

“Why?” I shrugged, my eyes wide awaiting the punchline.

His adorable pudgy frame jiggled as he chuckled, “Because they are all aquiver in the presence of a beau.”

“Oh Albert,” I rose from my seat and came around to embrace him, “you always know how to make me laugh.”

“You know it!”

“What is the literary find for today,” I questioned.

“Oh, you know me, I love the war books.”

“Do you need any help finding one? I can see if I can find something intriguing in my computer.”

“Thanks, but no. Browsing around is the best part!”

At that moment, both of us were in a bubble. Nothing else seemed to exist. We were one with each other’s silly smiles and gazes. At least until we heard May scream. Not just any scream. The bloody murder, someone just died kind of scream.

In horror, we both went running. Sprinting towards the romantic fiction section. (I made it there a little faster than Albert…)

“It burns! It burns!” May was screaming and running her hands up and down the sleeves of her jacket.

“What burns?” We asked in unison.

“I don’t know!” She cried.

I hastily tugged at her jacket and tossed it on the floor. May pulled up her sleeves and revealed three scratches on each arm.

“Something scratched me! I saw this mist float from over there,” she pointed to the end of isle, “to right here and disappear in the books. That’s when I felt this incredible pain.”

Albert looked at me, and I shrugged. I didn’t know what on earth to think of this. In my life, I’ve never seen or heard of anything like this before. As the millennials say these days, ‘My mind was blown.’

Luckily, these occurrences were the only that I can recount to you besides a few minor floor creaks, and phantom footsteps.

However, a few teenagers swore up and down that they heard footsteps, and no one was visible.

Lease Breaker

My boyfriend and I had just broken up, so I had moved out and into a one-bedroom apartment with my cat Trixie.

It was a little rough for the wear, but it was all I could find in my price range with such last-minute notice.

At first, I noticed the cat would sit in the kitchen tussling its tail around and just staring at the corner. Sometimes it would hiss and arch its back, but most of the time it would just sit there, intrigued.

Mostly, I tried to ignore it. However, one morning I was making a pot of coffee. I was late for work and trying to brush my hair while I waited for the coffee to brew.

All of the sudden, it was like ice brushing my shoulder. I felt cold tingles down my arm, standing my hair on end. I shivered. I walked over and checked the thermostat and it was set at the usual temperature, so I shrugged it off as my imagination.

When I got home from work that day, I was greeted by Trixie. She was running in between my legs, purring and meowing for her dinner. I set my purse on the counter, got her food out of the pantry and filled her bowl.

Half-way through eating she just stopped. She sat down and just stared. Nothing came between Trixie and her food. This was really weird! That is when I started paying closer attention.

I was boiling some pasta on the stove for my easy bachelorette dinner. Trixie was sleeping on the couch, sprawled in every direction (because she’s just a couch hog like that).

While I was stirring the pasta and humming to myself, from behind me I heard something slide off of the counter and contents spill on the floor. I whipped around and found my purse on the floor. Makeup, keys and money were littered on the tile.

I stood there arching my brow trying to figure out how that happened. It wasn’t even close to the edge. I peered around the door frame and Trixie was awake now and alert, but still on the couch. Weird.

I crouched down and started picking up items and stuffing them back in my purse. That’s when the air got really heavy and dense. It’s hard to explain.

An audible whisper said, “Goooooo.”

I dropped my purse on the floor and ran into the living room and called my sister. I asked her to come over because I was freaked out. Luckily, she only lived two blocks away and came right over.

Hannah and I sat on the couch and watched a movie to get my mind off of things after I finished my pasta. She asked if I wanted her to spend the night, but I said no. The more I thought about what happened, the more I felt silly and maybe that I had just imagined it after a long day at work and too much stress in my life.

Around ten o’clock, she headed out and I went to take a shower. I was in there trying to not think about anything that happened that day at home, as well as keep my mind from veering in that direction. Then I heard a weird, squeaky noise.

My hair was lathered up and I was worried that if I opened my eyes, I was going to get soap in them. I was shaking because it happened when I couldn’t possibly see, so I washed as much soap as I could out of hair and off of my face so I could open an eye.

On the glass door was a distinct handprint. But because I wasn’t able to look at it right away, it was already starting to fog over and fade away. The freakiest thing about that handprint was, if you are in the shower, the fog is on the inside of the door not the outside. So, whatever made the hand print was in there with me.

I didn’t even rinse the last bit of shampoo out of my hair. I turned the water off, threw the shower door open and ran out of there as fast as I could, no towel and all.

I ran to my bedroom, grabbed my cell phone and immediately dialed Hannah. I begged her to come back and spend the night with me.

We talked about my options. I had just signed a lease and there was no way to get out of it. Hannah offered for me to move in with her for a couple of months so I could break the lease and move out.

I had that entire apartment packed in two days. I did not spend another night there either. That night, I grabbed what clothes I needed and stayed at her house. And when it came time to move my stuff out, I had other people there with me.

Upstairs on the left

My wife and I were celebrating five years of married bliss. After quite a few discussions about how to celebrate and treat ourselves, we settled on a cozy Bed and Breakfast two towns over.

The day we checked in was the day I should have turned the car around. I should have said, “You know honey, the mountain spa sounds way better.” But… I didn’t.

The building was older, which originally was why it charmed us in the first place. But, as we walked through the front doors, you could feel it.

The air was heavy, and the place just had a terribly bad energy about it. I shrugged it off as being in an unfamiliar place and chose not to mention it to my wife.

We checked in to our room and headed up the stairs to the first door on the left. My wife’s face was beaming. She had always wanted to try a Bed and Breakfast. I smirked to myself over her joy.

Once in our room, suitcases on top of the bed, my wife turned to me, “So this is going to sound a little crazy.”

My eyebrow arched and my interest was peeked, “Ok.”

“Did you get a weird feeling downstairs like you were being watched?”

I contemplated on how to respond. I definitely felt something odd, but I had not felt like I was being watched.

“We just had a long drive, maybe your mind was just wandering a bit. Why don’t I run you a bath?”

I could see that my answer frustrated her, but I didn’t believe in ghosts.

Silent defeat fell over her face and she nodded. “Yes, maybe that will help.”

After her bath, we had dinner at a nearby restaurant. It had come highly recommended by the owner, and I have to say I was pleasantly surprised. The food was very good.

“Do you mind if we go for a walk and see the town?” My wife asked after dinner.

“No, that sounds great!”

We walked about three blocks, taking photos along the way. Then we walked back to the Bed and Breakfast and we took some photos out in front as well.

“We should probably get ourselves to bed,” I reminded, “we have a few things planned around seven tomorrow.”

“Oh yes, I almost forgot!”

While we made our way to our room, this time I did not notice a heavy feeling. Everything seemed as it should be. I must have been tired from the drive as well, who knows.

At 2:45 am, I awoke to the covers being ripped off of me and something attempting to jerk me off of the bed by my ankle.

I could make out a black shadowy figure, and that was all. Terrified, thinking someone broke into our room, I quickly shook myself free and turned the light on, only to see the shadow instantly disappear. Nothing was in our room. All the while, my wife was sleeping soundly next to me, only half of the covers on her. I swear she could sleep through an earthquake!

I did not go back to sleep that night. I turned the light back off and sat on the sofa, watching tv. Every little noise perked my ears.

By seven o’clock, I was delirious. I made an excuse to my wife as if I was coming down with a stomach bug. I asked if we could cancel and do the activities later in the day. I could tell she was bummed, but she agreed.

Finally, I got some rest. Nothing tried jerking me off of the bed, and the air was as it should be. I slept for about three hours or so.

Just as I was waking up, my wife put the digital camera in my face. “Hey — — what are you doing?” I snipped.

“Just look.” Her face was all concern.

I sighed. I had only been awake about a minute. I hastily grabbed the camera from her and started flipping through the photos.

“Specifically, the ones out front of the Bed and Breakfast,” she directed.

I shot her a look of annoyance and flipped faster through the photos. When I got to the pictures she was referring to, my blood ran cold. I blinked my eyes to make sure I was viewing this correctly.

“So, what exactly do you think you saw in these?” I asked, lifting my head to face her.

“Exactly what you think you are seeing right now.”

I turned my attention back to the camera, amazed and terrified at the same time. I did not believe in ghosts, but this place was haunted.

The figure I had seen in our room trying to pull me off of the bed? He was in every one of our photos. The photos in front of the Bed and Breakfast were the creepiest.

In the others, he was far away. Barely seen in the shots. But the closer we walked and snapped, the closer he was in every shot. Then, when we photographed the Bed and Breakfast, he was literally so close behind us that we should have felt his breath on our necks.

The last photo looked as if his distorted hand was around my wife’s throat. He didn’t have a face. He was all black. A black shadow. But you could tell by how his black shadow hand wisped over the front of her neck that he was sinister.

Needless to say, we did not finish our stay there. One and done. And we do not go to Bed and Breakfast’s for any reason. It was an anniversary neither of us will forget.

Starving Artist

I was a painter. Always creating. Alone in my own world of dreams and thoughts. I could paint for hours. On one occasion, I painted for a day and a half straight. I was on a roll and I didn’t want to stop until it was finished. It was going to be my best work yet.

We had lived in the house for about two years. Nothing out of the ordinary had ever happened before. At least, not that I had noticed.

I was eighteen and I had taken a year off before committing to college. I wanted to explore my painting. I wanted to be seen. I had to get my work out there. This was a career I’d wanted to pursue since I was able to walk.

Now, I’m not one of those sucky creative types. I didn’t have an unrealistic dream what-so-ever. I was good. Damn good. I had sold paintings to parents of my friends for years. But I wanted more. I wanted the whole world to see what I could do. I wanted my name known on other continents.

One night, while online doing some hunting for new fresh ideas, I saw a photo during my search that intrigued me. I clicked on it. An article popped up that seemed to have been written just for me.

It was a spell you could do with a black candle in front of a mirror in the dark. You needed to prick your finger once, allow a drop of blood to fall onto the wick and then light the candle.

According to the article, you then stared deep into the mirror for however many minutes you could muster, repeating out loud what you wanted. Before you asked for what you desired, you were to say, “Mistress of Evil, Mistress of Greed, these are the things I hope to succeed.”

Call me crazy, but the whole idea peaked my interests. I went to a local wiccan shop and bought a black candle and a lighter.

Did I think some magic words and a candle were going to create my destiny for me? Not really, but it couldn’t hurt trying, right? Or could it?

So, that evening once my parents had gone to bed, I sat my easel next to my bedroom mirror. I figured it would help me stay focused on what I wanted; keep the image of my dream fresh in my mind as I did the mini ritual.

I turned off all of the lights and felt my way back to the mirror. I fumbled on the counter for the candle then picked it up. I used a safety pin to prick my finger and took a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

A droplet of blood landed on the wick and I slowly rose the lighter and lit the candle.

In the darkness, I could hear myself breathe. Slow, cautious breaths. I looked deep into my mirror. Concentrated. Hoping. I want to be famous. Help me be famous. Painting is my entire being.

I began to whisper at the mirror, “Mistress of Evil, Mistress of Greed, these are the things I hope to succeed.”

I paused, listening. Nothing was happening.

“I want to be a famous painter. I want people other than friends and family to buy my paintings. Mistress of Evil, Mistress of Greed, these are the things I hope to succeed.”

Nothing spooky happened. I actually thought it was all a stupid hoax. I blew out the candle and turned my bedside lamp on and read for a while before falling into a deep sleep.

It was an unnerving dream. A horrible dream. It is a dream I am sure I will remember forever.

In my dream, I was walking up an old rotted staircase. Along the wall, paintings were hung. They appeared old and tattered. The family faces that were painted appeared to be rotting, but not from age or wear.

A certain painting stood out to me the most. It was of a young girl. Her skin was white, her eyes black holes. She leaned on her hands in a serene pose. Her nails were impressively long. Her hair was a brownish chocolate that seemed to flow to her mid-back. Upon her face were gashes. It was painted that way.

How odd, I thought in my dream. But I kept climbing the stairs, seeing morbid painting after morbid painting. In one, there was a man, in tattered clothing, standing next to a shovel with a sinister smirk on his face. He too had pale white skin and black holes for eyes.

In the background of the painting was a barn that looked like our barn. And a freshly dug grave with a cross directly behind him.

I finally reached the top of the stairs, the wallpaper peeling off of the walls. The floorboards creaked slightly under my feet and in the distance could hear the steady drip of a leaky faucet.

Every step I took, the dripping got faster and closer.

Drip….drip….drip.

Drip…Drip…Drip.

Drip..Drip..Drip.

A door on my left was ajar and echoed the sounds. It had to be coming from there. I walked inside. It was a bathroom.

As soon as I walked in, I realized I was now in my own bathroom. In my own house.

I turned my bathroom light on and looked around. It was my sink, my toothbrush on the counter, my mirror. Weird.

In a few moments, I had studied the whole room. Everything was in its place as in my own bathroom. And the noises continued.

The dripping appeared to come from the bathtub, where the curtain was drawn. This is probably the point where everyone yells at the television, “Don’t open it! Get out of there!” And possibly in my unconscious mind, I was thinking similar thoughts. But, I figured it was a dream and I could wake myself up.

As I reached out to open the curtain, the dripping stopped. I stood there with my arm outstretched, unsure if I should open the curtain at all now.

Losing my courage to open the curtain, I turned to rush out of the bathroom. The man from the painting face to face with me, shovel in hand.

He did not scream at me, nor try to impale me with the shovel. He just stared at me with his eyeless sockets.

I awoke from my dream, drenched in sweat. It wasn’t the scariest dream I had ever had, but surely the oddest.

For the rest of the night, I decided to stay up and just paint while watching some television to get my mind off of things.

Around six in the morning, my eyes were heavy and I started dosing in and out in front of my easel. I put the caps back on all my paints, put my brushes in the sink and tucked myself back into bed.

This time I did not dream. It was a peaceful sleep.

I awoke around noon or so. I stretched and yawned. I looked around my room, remembering the nightmare from earlier. Sunlight was beaming in and birds were chirping outside my window.

I got out of bed and walked over to my dresser to brush my hair. As I was brushing, I gazed over at my easel to see how well my middle of the night painting turned out. I dropped the brush.

My mouth dropped open wide and I just couldn’t stop staring at the painting.

I had painted the man and child from my dream. They were standing in front of the barn. The little girl smiled, eyeless, holding my decapitated head in one hand and a saw in the other. The man sneered at his daughter, my lifeless body at his feet.

I tried to find the website again that had the ritual and the photo. I searched online for two days and could not find it anywhere. Did I release some sort of demon from this ritual? Or am I just having crazy dreams that, when I’m tired, I paint without remembering?

I will say, my friend Anna saw the painting and was shocked. I usually painted happier things. She told me she was worried about me being depressed to have painted something so morbid. She advised me to throw the painting out.

I did just that too. I walked with her out to our trash bins and she watched me throw it in there and close the lid.

An hour or so later, there was a knock at the door. Anna was still there with me.

I answered the door and it was a man I did not know. He looked about twenty-five, had a goth look, complete with septum and bridge piercings.

“Can I help you?” I’d asked.

“Yes. Your painting is getting wet.” He held up the painting I had thrown in the trash.

Anna and I looked at each other. “Did you go through my trash?” I was pissed.

“No. It was sitting by your front door and I noticed it while I was walking by.”

“You can buy it if you want,” Anna chimed in.

I was not sure how much I believed him, honestly. However, I was curious how much he was willing to pay. So, I quoted him two hundred dollars.

He agreed and bought it. He pulled out a wallet with a chain attached and handed me four fifty-dollar bills, thanked me and walked off.

Again, Anna and I exchanged glances and shut the door.

Check out more haunting stories just like this one on Bone-chilling Tales To Keep You Awake PODCAST or A Truly Haunted Podcast both hosted by Author Eve S. Evans.

Eve is the author of over 51 Paranormal/Horror books including several anthologies of Real Hauntings from all over the world. She began her journey into the paranormal after residing in 2 haunted houses that she could not explain.

The real hauntings in this article are © Eve S Evans.