As a beacon to guide ships safely to Drogheda port, the Maiden Tower at Mornington Beach bears its own histories. It is said that once a woman threw herself from the tower when she thought that her lover had died in the war.
Perched upon the southern bank at the River Boyne’s mouth in Ireland, two old structures stand sentinel over the waters—an eerie duo that has borne witness to centuries of maritime history. The Maiden Tower, the 60 ft tower on Mornington Beach. The Tower dates all the way back to the 16th century, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I. The Lady’s Finger is a solitary stone pillar.
Read More: Check out all of the ghost stories from Ireland
These two maritime markers served as vital navigational aids for ships venturing into the River Boyne prior to the construction in 1765. The mariners of yore depended on the sight of these structures to safely navigate the river’s winding course.
The Maiden Tower: Looking out from the beach, the tower stands as a beacon for passing ships. There are many legends about this tower, one of them is that it is haunted. On foggy nights, people claim to see a young woman, still waiting for her lover. // Source: Wikimedia
The Waiting Maiden
Amidst the tower’s ancient stones, echoes of folklore and legend resound. One tale tells of a faithful lady who, eagerly awaiting her husband’s return from the war. Before leaving, the woman made her lover promise he would return on a ship with white sails if he lived, and if he did not, the ship would have black sails.
When he finally returned, the sails were black and the woman thought he was dead. Overwhelmed with grief tragically plunged from the tower.Turned out though, that the black sail was either a mistake, or her man had used it to surprise her in a twist.
When he saw what had happened, he too jumped from the tower to join her in the afterlife.
It is said that ever after, people have seen the ghost of the maiden, standing at the top of the tower, still waiting for the ship to tell that her lover really did survive.
The Lady’s Finger, a 13ft high obelisk, was said to have been erected in the memory of the tragic maiden that threw herself from the tower. Reportedly the term “Lady’s Finger” was given and the maiden never received a wedding ring.
The Spinning Lady in the Maiden Tower
But amidst the historical accounts and maritime tales, one enigmatic figure remains—a mysterious old woman who, in 1819, took up residence atop the tower. On a Spring morning in 1819 the fishing community of the little village were surprised to see smoke rising from the top of the tower and found the old hermit woman in the tower.
Spinning yarn under a makeshift sail roof, she wove herself into the tapestry of local folklore, earning the moniker ‘the lady of the tower.’ The villagers gave her food daily and looked at her like a holy woman.
As the severe winter of 1821 gripped the land, she left the tower’s solitude to a medical institution, passing away shortly thereafter. She was buried in an unmarked pauper’s grave and no one found out who she was.
The Enduring Mystery of the Maiden Tower
Public access to the tower persisted until the mid-1990s, when a metal grill sealed the raised doorway, safeguarding it from vandalism. In 2003, the metal grill was removed, and the tower suffered desecration. To thwart further intrusions, a solid metal door was erected, barring entry.
The Maiden Tower and the Lady’s Finger, steadfast guardians of the River Boyne, continue to cast their spectral presence over the waters, bearing witness to centuries of maritime history and enigmatic tales that linger on the whispering winds of time.
For years the Varala family was haunted by mystic forces in their house in Borraxeiros. This poltergeist-like activity was thought to have been brought from South America on one of his travels and was slowly making them go mad in the Casa Varela.
Are you ready to hear a creepy tale that will send shivers down your spine? There is a haunted house located in Spain that has terrified those who live there. The house is known to be haunted by the lingering ghost of a former inhabitant.
Read more: Check out all of our ghost stories from Spain
The ghosts inside of Casa Varela has been described as being particularly malevolent and has been seen lurking in the shadows, making eerie noises, and even moving objects.
The Haunting Begins in Casa Varela
Borraxeiros in Pontevedra is one of those places that have historically been known as Deep Galicia. It is in the deepest of the forests where the population is sparse and myths and legends lurk in the shadows between the thick forest.
Casa Varela: For 5 years the Varela family was terrorized by what they believed was a paranormal phenomenon that haunted them. // Source: Blogspot
This story lasted for 5 years filled with terror for the family that lived in this horror house called Casa Varela. It was owned by D. Manuel Varela who was a simple farmer living with his family, just trying to make ends meet on the farm.
Read more: Check out all of our ghost stories set in Haunted Houses from around the world.
It all began one afternoon in 1916. It was May, and summer and lighter times were all ahead. But not for the Varela family whose house started to have strange things happening. Rain of stones started to drizzle and devastate the house.
Manuel Varela went to the Civil Guard to ask for their help, but they were unable to find the cause of this strange event of Casa Varela. Soon, even more strange things started to haunt the family.
Objects in the house moved, even the furniture rose through the air and violently crashed the walls. The whole family suffered long sleepless nights and paranoia. What was going on? The spirits tugged at their clothes in the night and slapped and beat them whenever they tried to sleep.
Other harrowing experiences like the bedding being pulled off them, being chased out from the house and flour being thrown in their face, they slowly started to lose their mind, but had nowhere to go.
In 1921 the events inside of Casa Varela stopped without an explanation and without them really having done anything. It never started again, but for the family, the things that had happened, had forever marked them.
After 5 years of this nightmare, it was too much for Mr. Varela who ended up crazy and he started talking to himself and visiting the cemetery. The neighbors said he went there to pray because the voices in his head told him to.
Why did this happen to the family? One of the theories was that M. Varela had been living in Cuba for many years before returning to Spain. Some claim that he brought something with him home, some sort of black magic or voodoo from the island far away.
The Haunted Terror House of Casa Varela Today
Today, there are reports of people seeing lights in the ruins of the Casa Varela as well as moving shadows and what looks like red eyes in the dark. It is said that even cows are scared to get close to the house. The Haunted Terror House of Casa Varela stands as a chilling reminder of the horrors that once plagued the Varela family, and it continues to draw the attention of thrill-seekers and paranormal enthusiasts from all over.
For those who dare to venture inside, they are met with an overwhelming sense of unease as they step through the decaying remnants of the entrance. Many who have entered the Haunted Terror House report strange occurrences and unexplained phenomena. Whispers echo through the halls, and cold drafts send shivers down your spine. Shadows dance in the corners of your vision, disappearing as soon as you turn to look. It’s as if the spirits that once tormented the Varela family still linger within these walls, eager to make their presence known.
In a souvenir shop in the Grand Canyon based on a traditional Hopi House, employees and visitors claim the place is haunted by a couple of mischievous ghosts they often call the Brown Boys.
On the South Rim of the Grand Canyon stands an adobe-style structure known as the Hopi House found on the trails next to the El Tovar Hotel that are also said to house some ghosts of their own. Built in 1904, this historic building was designed by architect Mary Colter to resemble a traditional Hopi pueblo, inspired from Hopi dwelling at Oraibi in Arizona.
Read More: Check out all ghost stories from the USA
Its purpose was to showcase and sell the art and crafts of the local Hopi Indians. Over the years, Hopi House has continued to serve as a gift shop and as a living museum, attracting countless visitors with its unique charm and rich cultural heritage. What wasn’t planned however were the haunted rumors about the ghost of the “Brown Boys” said to linger around the house.
The Grand Canyon: The National park of the Canyon encompasses over 1.2 million acres of rugged landscape, with the Colorado River carving a mile-deep gorge that stretches 277 miles long and up to 18 miles wide around 5 or 6 million years ago. The park’s striking geological formations, vibrant hues, and dramatic vistas attract millions of visitors each year, offering opportunities for hiking, rafting, and exploring the highs and lows of the Canyon. It is also said to have several haunted places.
The Hopi Tribe
The Hopi are one of the oldest Native American tribes in North America, with a history that dates back over a thousand years. Originating in the southwestern United States, the Hopi are descendants of the ancient Puebloan cultures, including the Ancestral Puebloans, who inhabited the region long before European contact.
Known for their sophisticated agricultural practices, they built terraced fields and intricate irrigation systems to sustain their crops in the arid environment. The Hopi people have maintained a rich cultural heritage, marked by complex religious ceremonies and the Kachina spirit system, which involves elaborate dances and masked performances. Despite facing numerous challenges, including forced relocations and pressures from modern development, the Hopi have preserved their traditions, languages, and way of life, continuing to live on their ancestral lands in northeastern Arizona, particularly on the Hopi Reservation.
Hopi Dancer at the Hopi House: There have also been shows for people showcasing the Hopi people. Here from a performance for his Majesty, Shah of Iran, Mohammed Reza Pahlavi, Brigadier General Abdol Hussei Hedjazi, military aide, and Park Superintendent H.C. Bryant, watch a Hopi Indian dance presented at the Hopi House in 1949.
The Hopi Natives have a profound and ancient connection to the Grand Canyon as well as it being their ancestral land. According to Hopi tradition, the Grand Canyon is the site of their emergence into the world, where they ascended from the lower worlds through the Sipapu, a small hole in the canyon’s floor. They believe that the canyon and its surrounding landscape are inhabited by deities and ancestral spirits, such as Maasaw, the keeper of death. This profound spiritual connection underscores the Hopi’s respect for the natural environment and their enduring stewardship of the Grand Canyon’s sacred spaces.
The Legend of the Brown Boys
While the Hopi House is renowned for its architectural beauty and cultural significance, although not built by the Hopi themselves, it is also famous for its ghostly inhabitants, known as the “Brown Boys.”
These two spirits are often seen and felt within the walls of the historic structure. The “Brown Boys” are said to be mischievous spirits, making their presence known by causing disturbances and playing tricks on those who enter.
Who they are people don’t know. And like the authentic Hopi art in the reconstructed house, they remain as the artist, nameless. Could it be someone from the Hopi that perhaps worked or lived around the area? Could it even be some kids or tourists that once only passed through the Canyon? The answer to the question will most likely remain unanswered.
Paranormal Activity at Hopi House
Witnesses have reported seeing the spirits running around the structure during the evening hours. Electrical items are mysteriously turned off, and objects are thrown about seemingly of their own accord. Some mornings, employees also claim to have found the dolls they sell rearranged. These disturbances have led many to believe that the “Brown Boys” are perhaps some type of poltergeists.
Interior of Hopi House: Upstairs sales room in hopi house where the Brown Boys are said to haunt. Benches around room draped with navajo rugs. Circa 1905. // Source: Flickr
Employees of the Hopi House have grown accustomed to the presence of these spirits, often referring to them by name. Despite the playful nature of the “Brown Boys,” their antics can be unnerving, especially when experienced after dark.
The sense of being watched, the sudden cold spots, and the inexplicable sounds all contribute to the eerie atmosphere that surrounds the Hopi House after dark. Perhaps it is the “Brown Boys” out and about on their usual haunting mischief.
“Leixlip Castle,” published in 1825, is a novel by Charles Robert Maturin, a renowned writer of Gothic literature and an Irish Protestant clergyman. Born in 1782 and passing away in 1824, Maturin left a lasting impact on the Gothic genre, with his most famous work being “Melmoth the Wanderer,” about at man selling his sould to the devil for an extended life.
“Leixlip Castle” continues this tradition, offering readers a haunting and atmospheric story set in the eponymous castle, where secrets, supernatural elements, and human folly intertwine to create a truly Gothic experience. In 1720 Jacobite supporter Sir Redmond Blayney, tired of the boasts of his Whig about the Siege of Derry, moves from the North of Ireland to rent Leixlip Castle in County Kildare outside Dublin. Over the following years his three daughters all begin suffering from supernatural and tragic events.
Leixlip Castle by Charles Maturin
THE incidents of the following tale are not merely founded on fact, they are facts themselves, which occurred at no very distant period in my own family. The marriage of the parties, their sudden and mysterious separation, and their total alienation from each other until the last period of their mortal existence, are all facts. I cannot vouch for the truth of the supernatural solution given to all these mysteries; but I must still consider the story as a fine specimen of Gothic horrors, and can never forget the impression it made on me when I heard it related for the first time among many other thrilling traditions of the same description.
C.R.M.
The tranquillity of the Catholics of Ireland during the disturbed periods of 1715 and 1745, was most commendable, and somewhat extraordinary; to enter into an analysis of their probable motives, is not at all the object of the writer of this tale, as it is pleasanter to state the fact of their honour, than at this distance of time to assign dubious and unsatisfactory reasons for it. Many of them, however, showed a kind of secret disgust at the existing state of affairs, by quitting their family residences and wandering about like persons who were uncertain of their homes, or possibly expecting better from some near and fortunate contingency.
Among the rest was a Jacobite Baronet, who, sick of his uncongenial situation in a Whig neighbourhood, in the north–where he heard of nothing but the heroic defence of Londonderry; the barbarities of the French generals; and the resistless exhortations of the godly Mr Walker, a Presbyterian clergyman, to whom the citizens gave the title of ‘Evangelist’;–quitted his paternal residence, and about the year 1720 hired the Castle of Leixlip for three years (it was then the property of the Connollys, who let it to triennial tenants); and removed thither with his family, which consisted of three daughters–their mother having long been dead.
The Castle of Leixlip, at that period, possessed a character of romantic beauty and feudal grandeur, such as few buildings in Ireland can claim, and which is now, alas, totally effaced by the destruction of its noble woods; on the destroyers of which the writer would wish ‘a minstrel’s malison were said’.–Leixlip, though about seven miles from Dublin, has all the sequestered and picturesque character that imagination could ascribe to a landscape a hundred miles from, not only the metropolis but an inhabited town. After driving a dull mile (an Irish mile)(1) in passing from Lucan to Leixlip, the road–hedged up on one side of the high wall that bounds the demesne of the Veseys, and on the other by low enclosures, over whose rugged tops you have no view at all–at once opens on Leixlip Bridge, at almost a right angle, and displays a luxury of landscape on which the eye that has seen it even in childhood dwells with delighted recollection.–Leixlip Bridge, a rude but solid structure, projects from a high bank of the Liffey, and slopes rapidly to the opposite side, which there lies remarkably low. To the right the plantations of the Vesey’s demesne–no longer obscured by walls–almost mingle their dark woods in its stream, with the opposite ones of Marshfield and St Catherine’s. The river is scarcely visible, overshadowed as it is by the deep, rich and bending foliage of the trees. To the left it bursts out in all the brilliancy of light, washes the garden steps of the houses of Leixlip, wanders round the low walls of its churchyard, plays, with the pleasure-boat moored under the arches on which the summer-house of the Castle is raised, and then loses itself among the rich woods that once skirted those grounds to its very brink. The contrast on the other side, with the luxuriant walks, scattered shrubberies, temples seated on pinnacles, and thickets that conceal from you the sight of the river until you are on its banks, that mark the character of the grounds which are now the property of Colonel Marly, is peculiarly striking.
Visible above the highest roofs of the town, though a quarter of a mile distant from them, are the ruins of Confy Castle, a right good old predatory tower of the stirring times when blood was shed like water; and as you pass the bridge you catch a glimpse of the waterfall (or salmon-leap, as it is called) on whose noon-day lustre, or moon-light beauty, probably the rough livers of that age when Confy Castle was ‘a tower of strength’, never glanced an eye or cast a thought, as they clattered in their harness over Leixlip Bridge, or waded through the stream before that convenience was in existence.
Whether the solitude in which he lived contributed to tranquillize Sir Redmond Blaney’s feelings, or whether they had begun to rust from want of collision with those of others, it is impossible to say, but certain it is, that the good Baronet began gradually to lose his tenacity in political matters; and except when a Jacobite friend came to dine with him, and drink with many a significant ‘nod and beck and smile’, the King over the water–or the parish-priest (good man) spoke of the hopes of better times, and the final success of the right cause, and the old religion—or a Jacobite servant was heard in the solitude of the large mansion whistling ‘Charlie is my darling’, to which Sir Redmond involuntarily responded in a deep bass voice, somewhat the worse for wear, and marked with more emphasis than good discretion–except, as I have said, on such occasions, the Baronet’s politics, like his life, seemed passing away without notice or effort. Domestic calamities, too, pressed sorely on the old gentleman: of his three daughters the youngest, Jane, had disappeared in so extraordinary a manner in her childhood, that though it is but a wild, remote family tradition, I cannot help relating it:—
The girl was of uncommon beauty and intelligence, and was suffered to wander about the neighbourhood of the castle with the daughter of a servant, who was also called Jane, as a nom de caresse. One evening Jane Blaney and her young companion went far and deep into the woods; their absence created no uneasiness at the time, as these excursions were by no means unusual, till her playfellow returned home alone and weeping, at a very late hour. Her account was, that, in passing through a lane at some distance from the castle, an old woman, in the Fingallian dress, (a red petticoat and a long green jacket), suddenly started out of a thicket, and took Jane Blaney by the arm: she had in her hand two rushes, one of which she threw over her shoulder, and giving the other to the child, motioned to her to do the same. Her young companion, terrified at what she saw, was running away, when Jane Blaney called after her–‘Good-bye, good-bye, it is a long time before you will see me again.’ The girl said they then disappeared, and she found her way home as she could. An indefatigable search was immediately commenced–woods were traversed, thickets were explored, ponds were drained–all in vain. The pursuit and the hope were at length given up. Ten years afterwards, the housekeeper of Sir Redmond, having remembered that she left the key of a closet where sweetmeats were kept, on the kitchen table, returned to fetch it. As she approached the door, she heard a childish voice murmuring–‘Cold–cold–cold how long it is since I have felt a fire!’–She advanced, and saw, to her amazement, Jane Blaney, shrunk to half her usual size, and covered with rags, crouching over the embers of the fire. The housekeeper flew in terror from the spot, and roused the servants, but the vision had fled. The child was reported to have been seen several times afterwards, as diminutive in form, as though she had not grown an inch since she was ten years of age, and always crouching over a fire, whether in the turret-room or kitchen, complaining of cold and hunger, and apparently covered with rags. Her existence is still said to be protracted under these dismal circumstances, so unlike those of Lucy Gray in Wordsworth’s beautiful ballad:
Yet some will say, that to this day She is a living child– That they have met sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonely wild; O’er rough and smooth she trips along. And never looks behind; And hums a solitary song That whistles in the wind.
The fate of the eldest daughter was more melancholy, though less extraordinary; she was addressed by a gentleman of competent fortune and unexceptionable character: he was a Catholic, moreover; and Sir Redmond Blaney signed the marriage articles, in full satisfaction of the security of his daughter’s soul, as well as of her jointure. The marriage was celebrated at the Castle of Leixlip; and, after the bride and bridegroom had retired, the guests still remained drinking to their future happiness, when suddenly, to the great alarm of Sir Redmond and his friends, loud and piercing cries were heard to issue from the part of the castle in which the bridal chamber was situated.
Some of the more courageous hurried up stairs; it was too late–the wretched bridegroom had burst, on that fatal night, into a sudden and most horrible paroxysm of insanity. The mangled form of the unfortunate and expiring lady bore attestation to the mortal virulence with which the disease had operated on the wretched husband, who died a victim to it himself after the involuntary murder of his bride. The bodies were interred, as soon as decency would permit, and the story hushed up.
Sir Redmond’s hopes of Jane’s recovery were diminishing every day, though he still continued to listen to every wild tale told by the domestics; and all his care was supposed to be now directed towards his only surviving daughter. Anne, living in solitude, and partaking only of the very limited education of Irish females of that period, was left very much to the servants, among whom she increased her taste for superstitious and supernatural horrors, to a degree that had a most disastrous effect on her future life.
Among the numerous menials of the Castle, there was one withered crone, who had been nurse to the late Lady Blaney’s mother, and whose memory was a complete Thesaurus terrorum. The mysterious fate of Jane first encouraged her sister to listen to the wild tales of this hag, who avouched, that at one time she saw the fugitive standing before the portrait of her late mother in one of the apartments of the Castle, and muttering to herself–‘Woe’s me, woe’s me! how little my mother thought her wee Jane would ever come to be what she is!’ But as Anne grew older she began more ‘seriously to incline’ to the hag’s promises that she could show her her future bridegroom, on the performance of certain ceremonies, which she at first revolted from as horrible and impious; but, finally, at the repeated instigation of the old woman, consented to act a part in. The period fixed upon for the performance of these unhallowed rites, was now approaching–it was near the 31st of October–the eventful night, when such ceremonies were, and still are supposed, in the North of Ireland, to be most potent in their effects. All day long the Crone took care to lower the mind of the young lady to the proper key of submissive and trembling credulity, by every horrible story she could relate; and she told them with frightful and supernatural energy. This woman was called Collogue by the family, a name equivalent to Gossip in England, or Cummer in Scotland (though her real name was Bridget Dease); and she verified the name, by the exercise of an unwearied loquacity, an indefatigable memory, and a rage for communicating, and inflicting terror, that spared no victim in the household, from the groom, whom she sent shivering to his rug,(2) to the Lady of the Castle, over whom she felt she held unbounded sway.
The 31st of October arrived–the Castle was perfectly quiet before eleven o’clock; half an hour afterwards, the Collogue and Anne Blaney were seen gliding along a passage that led to what is called King John’s Tower, where it is said that monarch received the homage of the Irish princes as Lord of Ireland and which was, at all events, the most ancient part of the structure.(3)
The Collogue opened a small door with a key which she had secreted, about her, and urged the young lady to hurry on. Anne advanced to the postern, and stood there irresolute and trembling like a timid swimmer on the bank of an unknown stream. It was a dark autumnal evening; a heavy wind sighed among the woods of the Castle, and bowed the branches of the lower trees almost to the waves of the Liffey, which, swelled by recent rains, struggled and roared amid the stones that obstructed its channel. The steep descent from the Castle lay before her, with its dark avenue of elms; a few lights still burned in the little village of Leixlip–but from the lateness of the hour it was probable they would soon be extinguished.
The lady lingered–‘And must I go alone?’ said she, foreseeing that the terrors of her fearful journey could be aggravated by her more fearful purpose.
‘Ye must, or all will be spoiled,’ said the hag, shading the miserable light, that did not extend its influence above six inches on the path of the victim. ‘Ye must go alone–and I will watch for you here, dear, till you come back, and then see what will come to you at twelve o’clock.’
The unfortunate girl paused. ‘Oh! Collogue, Collogue, if you would but come with me. Oh! Collogue, come with me, if it be but to the bottom of the castlehill.’
‘If I went with you, dear, we should never reach the top of it alive again, for there are them near that would tear us both in pieces.’
‘Oh! Collogue, Collogue–let me turn back then, and go to my own room–I have advanced too far, and I have done too much.’
‘And that’s what you have, dear, and so you must go further, and do more still, unless, when you return to your own room, you would see the likeness of some one instead of a handsome young bridegroom.’
The young lady looked about her for a moment, terror and wild hope trembling at her heart–then, with a sudden impulse of supernatural courage, she darted like a bird from the terrace of the Castle, the fluttering of her white garments was seen for a few moments, and then the hag who had been shading the flickering light with her hand, bolted the postern, and, placing the candle before a glazed loophole, sat down on a stone seat in the recess of the tower, to watch the event of the spell. It was an hour before the young lady returned; when her face was as pale, and her eyes as fixed, as those of a dead body, but she held in her grasp a dripping garment, a proof that her errand had been performed. She flung it into her companion’s hands, and then stood, panting and gazing wildly about her as if she knew not where she was. The hag herself grew terrified at the insane and breathless state of her victim, and hurried her to her chamber; but here the preparations for the terrible ceremonies of the night were the first objects that struck her, and, shivering at the sight, she covered her eyes with her hands, and stood immovably fixed in the middle of the room.
It needed all the hag’s persuasions (aided even by mysterious menaces), combined with the returning faculties and reviving curiosity of the poor girl, to prevail on her to go through the remaining business of the night. At length she said, as if in desperation, ‘I will go through with it: but be in the next room; and if what I dread should happen, I will ring my father’s little silver bell which I have secured for the night–and as you have a soul to be saved, Collogue, come to me at its first sound.’
The hag promised, gave her last instructions with eager and jealous minuteness, and then retired to her own room, which was adjacent to that of the young lady. Her candle had burned out, but she stirred up the embers of her turf fire, and sat, nodding over them, and smoothing the pallet from time to time, but resolved not to lie down while there was a chance of a sound from the lady’s room, for which she herself, withered as her feelings were, waited with a mingled feeling of anxiety and terror.
It was now long past midnight, and all was silent as the grave throughout the Castle. The hag dozed over the embers till her head touched her knees, then started up as the sound of the bell seemed to tinkle in her ears, then dozed again, and again started as the bell appeared to tinkle more distinctly–suddenly she was roused, not by the bell, but by the most piercing and horrible cries from the neighbouring chamber. The Cologue, aghast for the first time, at the possible consequences of the mischief she might have occasioned, hastened to the room. Anne was in convulsions, and the hag was compelled reluctantly to call up the housekeeper (removing meanwhile the implements of the ceremony), and assist in applying all the specifics known at that day, burnt feathers, etc., to restore her. When they had at length succeeded, the housekeeper was dismissed, the door was bolted, and the Collogue was left alone with Anne; the subject of their conference might have been guessed at, but was not known until many years afterwards; but Anne that night held in her hand, in the shape of a weapon with the use of which neither of them was acquainted, an evidence that her chamber had been visited by a being of no earthly form.
This evidence the hag importuned her to destroy, or to remove: but she persisted with fatal tenacity in keeping it. She locked it up, however, immediately, and seemed to think she had acquired a right, since she had grappled so fearfully with the mysteries of futurity, to know all the secrets of which that weapon might yet lead to the disclosure. But from that night it was observed that her character, her manner, and even her countenance, became altered. She grew stern and solitary, shrunk at the sight of her former associates, and imperatively forbade the slightest allusion to the circumstances which had occasioned this mysterious change.
It was a few days subsequent to this event that Anne, who after dinner had left the Chaplain reading the life of St Francis Xavier to Sir Redmond, and retired to her own room to work, and, perhaps, to muse, was surprised to hear the bell at the outer gate ring loudy and repeatedly–a sound she had never heard since her first residence in the Castle; for the few guests who resorted there came, and departed as noiselessly as humble visitors at the house of a great man generally do. Straightway there rode up the avenue of elms, which we have already mentioned, a stately gentleman, followed by four servants, all mounted, the two former having pistols in their holsters, and the two latter carrying saddle-bags before them: though it was the first week in November, the dinner hour being one o’clock, Anne had light enough to notice all these circumstances. The arrival of the stranger seemed to cause much, though not unwelcome tumult in the Castle; orders were loudly and hastily given for the accommodation of the servants and horses–steps were heard traversing the numerous passages for a full hour–then all was still; and it was said that Sir Redmond had locked with his own hand the door of the room where he and the stranger sat, and desired that no one should dare to approach it. About two hours afterwards, a female servant came with orders from her master, to have a plentiful supper ready by eight o’clock, at which he desired the presence of his daughter. The family establishment was on a handsome scale for an Irish house, and Anne had only to descend to the kitchen to order the roasted chickens to be well strewed with brown sugar according to the unrefined fashion of the day, to inspect the mixing of the bowl of sago with its allowance of a bottle of port wine and a large handful of the richest spices, and to order particularly that the pease pudding should have a huge lump of cold salt butter stuck in its centre; and then, her household cares being over, to retire to her room and array herself in a robe of white damask for the occasion. At eight o’clock she was summoned to the supper-room. She came in, according to the fashion of the times, with the first dish; but as she passed through the ante-room, where the servants were holding lights and bearing the dishes, her sleeve was twitched, and the ghastly face of the Collogue pushed close to hers; while she muttered ‘Did not I say he would come for you, dear?’ Anne’s blood ran cold, but she advanced, saluted her father and the stranger with two low and distinct reverences, and then took her place at the table. Her feelings of awe and perhaps terror at the whisper of her associate, were not diminished by the appearance of the stranger; there was a singular and mute solemnity in his manner during the meal. He ate nothing. Sir Redmond appeared constrained, gloomy and thoughtful. At length, starting, he said (without naming the stranger’s name), ‘You will drink my daughter’s health?’ The stranger intimated his willingness to have that honour, but absently filled his glass with water; Anne put a few drops of wine into hers, and bowed towards him. At that moment, for the first time since they had met, she beheld his face–it was pale as that of a corpse. The deadly whiteness of his cheeks and lips, the hollow and distant sound of his voice, and the strange lustre of his large dark moveless eyes, strongly fixed on her, made her pause and even tremble as she raised the glass to her lips; she set it down, and then with another silent reverence retired to her chamber.
There she found Bridget Dease, busy in collecting the turf that burned on the hearth, for there was no grate in the apartment. ‘Why are you here?’ she said, impatiently.
The hag turned on her, with a ghastly grin of congratulation, ‘Did not I tell you that he would come for you?’
‘I believe he has,’ said the unfortunate girl, sinking into the huge wicker chair by her bedside; ‘for never did I see mortal with such a look.’
‘But is not he a fine stately gentleman?’ pursued the hag.
‘He looks as if he were not of this world,’ said Anne.
‘Of this world, or of the next,’ said the hag, raising her bony fore-finger, ‘mark my words—so sure as the–(here she repeated some of the horrible formularies of the 31st of October)–so sure he will be your bridegroom.’
‘Then I shall be the bride of a corpse,’ said Anne; ‘for he I saw tonight is no living man.’
A fortnight elapsed, and whether Anne became reconciled to the features she had thought so ghastly, by the discovery that they were the handsomest she had ever beheld–and that the voice, whose sound at first was so strange and unearthly, was subdued into a tone of plaintive softness when addressing her or whether it is impossible for two young persons with unoccupied hearts to meet in the country, and meet often, to gaze silently on the same stream, wander under the same trees, and listen together to the wind that waves the branches, without experiencing an assimilation of feeling rapidly succeeding an assimilation of taste;–or whether it was from all these causes combined, but in less than a month Anne heard the declaration of the stranger’s passion with many a blush, though without a sigh. He now avowed his name and rank. He stated himself to be a Scottish Baronet, of the name of Sir Richard Maxwell; family misfortunes had driven him from his country, and forever precluded the possibility of his return: he had transferred his property to Ireland, and purposed to fix his residence there for life. Such was his statement. The courtship of those days was brief and simple. Anne became the wife of Sir Richard, and, I believe, they resided with her father till his death, when they removed to their estate in the North. There they remained for several years, in tranquility and happiness, and had a numerous family. Sir Richard’s conduct was marked by but two peculiarities: he not only shunned the intercourse, but the sight of any of his countrymen, and, if he happened to hear that a Scotsman had arrived in the neighbouring town, he shut himself up till assured of the stranger’s departure. The other was his custom of retiring to his own chamber, and remaining invisible to his family on the anniversary of the 31st of October. The lady, who had her own associations connected with that period, only questioned him once on the subject of this seclusion, and was then solemnly and even sternly enjoined never to repeat her inquiry. Matters stood thus, somewhat mysteriously, but not unhappily, when on a sudden, without any cause assigned or assignable, Sir Richard and Lady Maxwell parted, and never more met in this world, nor was she ever permitted to see one of her children to her dying hour. He continued to live at the family mansion and she fixed her residence with a distant relative in a remote part of the country. So total was the disunion, that the name of either was never heard to pass the other’s lips, from the moment of separation until that of dissolution.
Lady Maxwell survived Sir Richard forty years, living to the great age of ninety-six; and, according to a promise, previously given, disclosed to a descendent with whom she had lived, the following extraordinary circumstances.
She said that on the night of the 31st of October, about seventy-five years before, at the instigation of her ill-advising attendant, she had washed one of her garments in a place where four streams met, and peformed other unhallowed ceremonies under the direction of the Collogue, in the expectation that her future husband would appear to her in her chamber at twelve o’clock that night. The critical moment arrived, but with it no lover-like form. A vision of indescribable horror approached her bed, and flinging at her an iron weapon of a shape and construction unknown to her, bade her ‘recognize her future husband by that.’ The terrors of this visit soon deprived her of her senses; but on her recovery, she persisted, as has been said, in keeping the fearful pledge of the reality of the vision, which, on examination, appeared to be incrusted with blood. It remained concealed in the inmost drawer of her cabinet till the morning of the separation. On that morning, Sir Richard Maxwell rose before daylight to join a hunting party–he wanted a knife for some accidental purpose, and, missing his own, called to Lady Maxwell, who was still in bed, to lend him one. The lady, who was half asleep, answered, that in such a drawer of her cabinet he would find one. He went, however, to another, and the next moment she was fully awakened by seeing her husband present the terrible weapon to her throat, and threaten her with instant death unless she disclosed how she came by it. She supplicated for life, and then, in an agony of horror and contrition, told the tale of that eventful night. He gazed at her for a moment with a countenance which rage, hatred, and despair converted, as she avowed, into a living likeness of the demon-visage she had once beheld (so singularly was the fated resemblance fulfilled), and then exclaiming, ‘You won me by the devil’s aid, but you shall not keep me long,’ left her–to meet no more in this world. Her husband’s secret was not unknown to the lady, though the means by which she became possessed of it were wholly unwarrantable. Her curiosity had been strongly excited by her husband’s aversion to his countrymen, and it was so–stimulated by the arrival of a Scottish gentleman in the neighbourhood some time before, who professed himself formerly acquainted with Sir Richard, and spoke mysteriously of the causes that drove him from his country–that she contrived to procure an interview with him under a feigned name, and obtained from him the knowledge of circumstances which embittered her after-life to its latest hour. His story was this:
Sir Richard Maxwell was at deadly feud with a younger brother; a family feast was proposed to reconcile them, and as the use of knives and forks was then unknown in the Highlands, the company met armed with their dirks for the purpose of carving. They drank deeply; the feast, instead of harmonizing, began to inflame their spirits; the topics of old strife were renewed; hands, that at first touched their weapons in defiance, drew them at last in fury, and in the fray, Sir Richard mortally wounded his brother. His life was with difficulty saved from the vengeance of the clan, and he was hurried towards the seacoast, near which the house stood, and concealed there till a vessel could be procured to convey him to Ireland. He embarked on the night of the 31st of October, and while he was traversing the deck in unutterable agony of spirit, his hand accidentally touched the dirk which he had unconsciously worn ever since the fatal night. He drew it, and, praying ‘that the guilt of his brother’s blood might be as far from his soul, as he could fling that weapon from his body,’ sent it with all his strength into the air. This instrument he found secreted in the lady’s cabinet, and whether he really believed her to have become possessed of it by supernatural means, or whether he feared his wife was a secret witness of his crime, has not been ascertained, but the result was what I have stated.
The separation took place on the discovery:–for the rest.
I know not how the truth may be. I tell the Tale as ’twas told to me.
THE END
Charles Maturin (1782–1824) was an Irish writer and clergyman best known for his Gothic novel “Melmoth the Wanderer” (1820). A descendant of Huguenot refugees, Maturin’s works often explore themes of religious conflict, human suffering, and the supernatural. Despite initial struggles to achieve literary success, his distinctive style and dark, elaborate storytelling eventually gained him recognition. “Melmoth the Wanderer,” his most acclaimed work, tells the story of an immortal man doomed to wander the earth, seeking someone who will take on his curse. Maturin’s influence extended to notable writers such as Edgar Allan Poe and Charles Baudelaire, securing his legacy within the Gothic literary tradition.
Frozen in all eternity as a stone below the old castle of Duino on the cliffs. It is said to be haunted by the Lady in White, the former lady of the castle, thrown off the cliffs by her jealous husband. Now she returns to the castle to watch over her child she left behind.
Bordering Norway and Sweden, the mysterious Finnskogen forest, with its deep rooted trees holds ghosts, curses and lingering spirits. Like the poltergeist like ghost at Välgunaho farm, who drove its residents away and left it abandoned for over a century.
Now, the former barracks has turned into the National Museum of Ireland. If we are to believe the rumours, the ghosts of war from the former Collins Barracks are said to still linger.
In the old farm for the rich and the powerful in the northern parts of Norway, Løp Gård is said to hold many of their former inhabitants, even in their death.
Was she a Witch or Serial Killer with connection to the Hellfire Club that her legends paint her to be? What was the true story behind Darkey Kelley, said to haunt Dublin as the Green Lady of the Liberties.
After tragedy struck Birthe Svendsdatter, she threw herself from the window and ended up with a limp and a brain injury. Called Halte-Birthe because of her limp, she is said to haunt Fossesholm Manor to this day.
Feeling like a sudden and invisible burden, the life force of wary travellers were long subjected to the terror of the Aufhocker. A creature between the vampire, werewolf and goblin spirits, the legend of the empty road were long haunted by something heavy.
A maid who once worked at the hotel allegedly took her own life at the old Visnes Hotel, deep in the Norwegian fjords. Now it is said she is lingering in the afterlife in the old rooms she once worked in.
An ancient ghost coming from the depths of graves across the nordic countries, the Haugbúi Draugr could be both dangerous and even deadly. Not merely a specter, but the rotten flesh of the dead, the ghosts are remembered as The Walking Dead of the North.
One of the houses on Carrer dels Mirallers in Barcelona city is often called the Demon house because of the rumors about what went on inside the house. According to the legends, it was a place where some stray priests dabbled in the occult, exorcism and possible demonic arts.
In the shadows of Barcelona’s Gothic Quarter you’ll stumble upon a street that harbors a chilling secret. Carrer dels Mirallers, a seemingly unassuming thoroughfare, hides a dark history that has fascinated locals and paranormal enthusiasts for centuries. Known as the Demon House, this enigmatic residence has long been shrouded in mystery, with tales of supernatural phenomena and eerie occurrences circulating among those brave enough to venture near.
The Legend and History Behind the Demon House
Carrer dels Mirallers, or Mirror Makers Street, is located in Barcelona’s historic Gothic Quarter, a neighborhood steeped in history and folklore. While the street where they used to make mirrors itself may not appear out of the ordinary, it is the stories associated with one particular house that have given it its ominous reputation. The Demon House on No. 7, as it is commonly known, stands as a testament to the dark and mysterious past of the area.
Read more: Check out all of our ghost stories from Spain
One of the buildings on Carrer dels Mirallers is adorned by the head of a woman, signaling that the house at number seven used to be a brothel back in its day. This connection to the world of vice and sin adds an eerie undertone to the already haunting atmosphere surrounding the Demon House. The building’s history as a den of debauchery only scratches the surface of the mysteries that lie within its walls.
The Home of Jacint Verdaguer
Another notable figure associated with the Demon House is Jacint Verdaguer, a famous and renowned Catalan poet living on the 4th floor. Verdaguer lived in the house for a period of time, and his presence has left an indelible mark on the building’s history. While Verdaguer was known for his literary contributions, he also had a penchant for dabbling in the supernatural.
Read more: Check out all of our ghost stories set in Haunted Houses from around the world.
In 1870 he decided on another path and became a priest. He was not a priest of the strictest sense of priests however and according to legends, he started to perform exorcisms on people and places.
The Exorcist Priest: Portrait of Jacint Verdaguer by Ramon Casas.
Jacint Verdaguer became acquainted with Father Joaquim Pinyol after a pilgrimage to the holy land that changed him completely. Father Pinyol was obsessed with demons he saw in the city. He founded the Oracion in the street and it became the center for exorcisms and the fight against the devil. And soon Verdaguer joined in.
Verdaguer was not a priest in the strictest sense, but according to legends, he started to perform exorcisms on people and places. The walls of the Demon House are said to have witnessed Verdaguer’s attempts to banish demonic forces from within. Whether these exorcisms were successful or not remains a mystery, but the stories surrounding Verdaguer’s involvement in the occult only serve to heighten the enigma surrounding the Demon House.
The Exorcisms on Carrer dels Mirallers
The exorcisms that have happened inside of the house, turned out to be quite brutal. They brought the sick into a room decorated like an oratory. They ran riot and the sick ended up eating morsels of glass and needles as they shouted about heaven and hell and everything that was there.
There were prayers and the next day the priests would mark their lips with a large medal and the people would take out the needles and everything else they had swallowed the day before.
The Haunted House on No. 7
Of all the houses on Carrer dels Mirallers, the number seven house holds a particularly sinister reputation. It is believed to be haunted by demonic spirits, and those who have ventured inside have reported chilling encounters and unexplained phenomena. The air inside the house is said to be heavy with an otherworldly presence, and visitors often feel an overwhelming sense of unease.
It is said that Verdaguer got too into the dark arts and managed to invoke a demon inside of the house in one of his scenes. It is said that it is still trapped in the house today.
The Enduring Allure of the Carrer dels Mirallers Demon House
The Carrer dels Mirallers Demon House continues to captivate the imaginations of locals and visitors alike. Its rich history, intertwined with tales of the supernatural, has earned it a place in Barcelona’s folklore. Whether you believe in ghosts and demons or not, there is no denying the eerie allure of the Demon House.
As you wander through the Gothic Quarter, take a moment to pause outside the Demon House. Listen closely, and you may catch a whisper carried on the wind or glimpse a fleeting shadow out of the corner of your eye. The mysteries of the Carrer dels Mirallers Demon House may never be fully unraveled, but that only adds to its enduring fascination.
The fine restaurant, One If by Land, Two If by Sea in the old building in New York are said to be haunted by more than one ghost. The staff have even tried to appease the spirit over the years, even by serving them food, but still, they continue to linger.
If you’re a fan of history and fine dining, then you must have heard of One If by Land, Two If by Sea in the West Village in Manhattan. This iconic restaurant, marketing itself as one of the most romantic spots in the city, has been a staple in New York City’s culinary scene for over four decades.
The name “One if by land, and two, if by sea,” is from the poem Paul Revere’s Ride by Henry W Longellow. The saying was a secret signal to alert patriots about the route the British troops went on their way to Concord, perhaps a hint to all the secrets and hidden passageways the building at least used to have. Because this elegant eatery has a dark and mysterious past.
Read More: Check out all ghost stories from the USA
One If by Land, Two If by Sea is said to be haunted by several ghosts, perhaps as many as twenty different ghosts. This includes the ghost of Aaron Burr’s daughter, Theodosia, who disappeared mysteriously at sea. The restaurant’s eerie ambiance, complete with antique chandeliers, flickering candles, and dark wood paneling, only adds to its haunted reputation.
One If by Land, Two If by Sea: Restaurant at 17 Barrow Street in Manhattan as it looked in 2024 said to be haunted by as many as twenty ghosts. // Source: Transpoman/Wikimedia
The History of the One If by Land, Two If by Sea Building
One If by Land, Two If by Sea is housed in a historic building that dates back to 1767. Originally built as a carriage house, the building has also served as a brothel, a speakeasy, and a residence for several prominent New Yorkers. Some even believe that the strange passageways down to the shore were used for forbidden contraband, or perhaps even used during the Revolutionary War. It was also used for runaway slaves in the underground railway.
The building’s storied past from carriage house, silent movie theater, bars and restaurants are reflected in its architecture, which features antique chandeliers, original brick walls, and dark wood paneling. But it’s not just the building’s physical attributes that make it unique; it’s also the ghosts that reportedly haunt its halls.
Ghostly Encounters and Haunted Tales
One If by Land, Two If by Sea is said to be haunted by several ghosts, including the ghost of Aaron Burr and his daughter, Theodosia. Theodosia was known for her beauty and intelligence, and her father, Aaron Burr, was one of the most controversial figures in American history.
In the 1790s, Aaron Burr kept his horses there when he was the Attorney General of the State of New York. Burr’s Wife, Theodosia Bartow Prevost had died early and he was raising his daughter by himself. His enemies said the daughter and father were too close.
There were many rumors floating around about their relationship being too intimate and many say that a famous duel between Burr and Alexander Hamilton started because of gossip about the father and daughter.
The two were rivals and tried to ruin each other’s reputation for years. On July 11, 1804 they held a duel in Weehawken in New Jersey. At this time, Burr was the Vice President of the United State, and Hamilton, a war hero as well as the first American Secretary of the Treasury. In the duel, Hamilton died and Burr lost everything. His carriage house was taken away from him and the building was used as an engine house for the fire station next door.
Aaron Burr Jr: (February 6, 1756 – September 14, 1836) was an American politician, businessman, lawyer, and Founding Father who served as the third vice president of the United States from 1801 to 1805 during Thomas Jefferson’s first presidential term. He is also said to haunt the restaurant as he owned the building when alive.
So what happened to his daughter? Theodosia married her husband, Joseph Alston, Governor and one of the most powerful and wealthy men in South Carolina, in 1801.
Theodosia Burr Alston: (June 21, 1783 – January 2 or 3, 1813) was an American socialite and the daughter of Aaron Burr. After she was lost at sea, she is said to haunt the restaurant with her father.
However, tragedy struck when Theodosia disappeared mysteriously at sea in 1813. She lived in Charleston, South Carolina after her fathers downfall, and she used to visit her father with her ship, the Patriot. She had just lost her ten year old son to malaria, and was only 29 years old. The ship sailed into the fog close to Cape Hatteras, one of the barrier islands of North Carolina and was never seen again.
Could it be enemies of her father or perhaps her husband who did something? Was it wreckers that had lured the ship to shore to rob them and kill the crew? Was it stormed by pirates and was she forced to walk the plank? Or was it just taken by a storm as her father insisted on until his death?
Her fate remains a mystery to this day, but many believe that she haunts the restaurant as well as her father. He died in a Staten Island boarding house in 1836, and they are often seen together in the restaurant’s mezzanine.
It is said that the ghost of Burr throws glass and plates around as well as moving chairs around. People claim to have seen his apparition, a hefty looking man in period clothing.
The ghost of Theodosia is said to walk up and down the stairs and one of the restaurant’s maître d’ quit after spotting her ghost. Earrings of women sitting in the bar are also said to keep disappearing, and people blame this on the ghost of Theodosia. This is said to have been most frequent in the 90s and it seems a long time since someone has made this claim.
Other Ghosts Haunting the Restaurant
The carriage house was sold in the late 1890’s and was used as a brothel and saloon as the area became an up and coming neighborhood. The building has several hidden passageways, running all the way to the Hudson river, making it a perfect place as a discreet meeting locale.
The ghosts of Theodosia and her lover are not the only spirits said to haunt One If by Land, Two If by Sea. Guests and staff working at the restaurant since it opened in 1973, have reported a variety of ghostly encounters over the years, including unexplained noises, cold spots, and the feeling of being watched. Some have even reported seeing apparitions of women in period clothing, which they believe to be the ghosts of former residents or prostitutes who worked in the building.
A woman wearing black is seen coming down the stairs as well. She is never seen going up them and some say that a strong stench of sulfur has come from the stairs. Some mediums claim she was a woman who tripped over her dress and broke her neck falling down the stairs.
A Flo Ziefield Follies girl is said to haunt the restaurant in the Constitution room. The term “Ziegfeld Follies Girl” is used broadly to describe the “singers, showgirls and dancers” who appeared in Florenz Ziegfeld Jr.’s theatrical Broadway revue spectaculars known as the Ziegfeld Follies from 1907 to the 1930s. The staff is said to light a candle for her ghost.
A Blacksmith is seen in the stairways in the upper stories of the building where he lived. Many years ago he was seen by a staff member who used to work there. Despite these spooky tales, One If by Land, Two If by Sea remains a popular destination for those looking to experience the restaurant’s haunted history firsthand.
The Haunted Restaurant: Over the years, guests and staff have claimed that something supernatural is going on in the old building. How much of the haunted rumors are true?//Source: Melanie Levi/Flickr
Ghostly Happenings in the Restaurant
Lights flicker in the restaurants, and some that have come to have a meal claim to have been shoved by an unseen force. In the kitchen there are strange and angry whispers of ghosts that want them out of the room. Ghosts are said to linger by the fireplace as well as the front door. Seemingly over the whole restaurant as the sound of glasses clink in empty rooms.
According to Rosanne Martino who was the manager of the restaurant, paintings and pictures put on the walls of the restaurant are also said to keep falling off and machinery malfunctions and goes off at odd times. At one point the staff has even tried to appease the spirits by serving them some Beef Wellington.
One If by Land, Two If by Sea is more than just a restaurant; it’s a piece of New York City history. From its haunted past to its famous guests and events, this iconic eatery has a story to tell.
The ghost stories about the cigar smoking cowboy, the two suicide brides as well as the playful ghost of a little girl has haunted the pristine rumor of The Driskill Hotel in Austin, Texas. But how much of the stories are true, and how many ghosts are still checked into the hotel?
Downtown in Austin, Texas, stands a grand hotel with a dark and mysterious past. The Driskill Hotel, built in 1886 by cattle baron Jesse Driskill has been a staple of the city’s skyline for over a century and is the oldest operating hotel in the city. But behind its impressive architecture and luxurious amenities lies a darker side.
Read More: Check out all ghost stories from the USA
Over the years, the Driskill has gained a reputation as one of the most haunted hotels in the country, with countless ghostly sightings and eerie occurrences reported by guests and staff alike. From the ghost of a young girl who fell to her death down the hotel’s grand staircase to the spirit of a cowboy who met his untimely demise in one of the guest rooms, Driskill’s history is steeped in supernatural lore.
History of The Driskill Hotel
The Driskill Hotel was built in 1886 by Jesse Driskill, a wealthy cattle baron who wanted to create a luxurious hotel that would be the jewel of Austin’s social scene. The hotel was designed by Jasper N. Preston, one of the most prominent architects of the time, and its grand exterior and opulent interior made it an instant icon after its grand opening close to Christmas that year. The Driskill quickly became the center of Austin’s social and political life, hosting events and galas that drew the city’s elite.
But the hotel’s fortunes took a turn when Jesse Driskill lost his fortune in a high-stakes poker game. He was forced to sell the hotel, and it changed hands several times over the years. By the 1920s, the Driskill had fallen into disrepair and was in danger of being demolished. That’s when a group of Austin citizens banded together to save the hotel and restore it to its former glory.
Driskill Hotel: The lobby of the Driskoll Hotel in Austin Texas, a portrait of the founder by the stairs believed to still haunt the hotel. // Source: Kenneth C. Zirkel/Wikimedia
Today, The Driskill Hotel is a beloved landmark in Austin, known for its rich history and luxurious amenities. But the hotel’s past is not all glamour and elegance – it’s also steeped in ghostly legends and spooky stories.
Ghostly legends of The Driskill Hotel
The Driskill Hotel is no stranger to supernatural activity. Over the years, countless guests and staff members have reported eerie encounters and ghostly sightings. Disembodied voices, apparitions, strange noises, mysterious leaks and cold sensations are only some of the rumors people staying and working at the Driskill have experienced.
The Haunted Song: “Ghost of a Texas Ladies’ Man” is a song from rock band Concrete Blonde, from 1992. Napolitano was inspired to write “Ghost of a Texas Ladies’ Man” after a supernatural experience she had during an overnight stay at the Driskill Hotel, in March 1991, on tour as the opening act for Sting: “There’s this horny ghost there that goes for women. ‘I wanna see you naked,’ that was the vibe. The minute I took my clothes off, I felt like there was someone watching me.He kept turning the lights on and off in my room. I finally unplugged all the lamps. Then he turned on the light in the closet and really slowly opened the closet door, just like a hand was opening it. The light in the closet shined out into the room onto the bed. Then I knew for sure he was there. I just said, ‘I know you’re here, but I know that you’re not going to hurt me, so I’m going to go to sleep now.’ I just got this feeling of amusement, like he was playing. He was just like a rascal. It was like a game. I guess I’m lucky he was in a good mood.”
The amount of information that has been passed down through the years have created many different variations and at times conflicting ghost stories. Here are just a few of the most chilling legends associated with the hotel.
The Ghost of Colonel Driskill
Jesse Driskill, the hotel’s founder, is said to haunt the halls of the Driskill to this day. Right after the hotel opened, he fell under financial stress as he had spent it all on alcohol, women and gambling as well as hotels. Besides the harsh winter and drought the following year after opening killed his cattle. Because of this, he had to give the Driskill up almost as soon as it opened and sold it to his brother in law. He had lost his fortune and built it up again many times, but this time, he wouldn’t recover financially. He died in May, 1890 of a stroke.
Legend has it that his restless spirit wanders the hotel, checking on the guests and staff and making sure everything is running smoothly. Some guests have reported hearing footsteps and the sound of a cane tapping on the floor, as if Colonel Driskill himself is still in residence. Driskill’s portrait hangs in the hotel’s grand lobby and some claim that this is the man they interacted with.
It is especially the room that was his favorite, overlooking 6th Street & Brazos that is haunted according to the stories. He has been seen by visitors, smoking a cigar as he looks out the window.
The smell of cigar is most connected with his haunting, the smell lingering in the lobby he used to greet guests. Security guards also claim to have heard his voice, asking for a match behind them, although nothing was there except the smell.
The Suicide Brides of The Driskill
Some of the more well known ghost stories from the Driskill are about the brides supposedly haunting it. The staff have reported about a woman crying on the floor when it is empty. Even the singer Annie Lennox claimed that one of the ghost brides had helped her choose a dress when she put two on the bed before taking a shower. When she came back, one of them was back in the closet.
Some say that perhaps in the 1950s, a bride stayed in room 525 when the fiance called the wedding off the day before. According to the lore, she hanged herself in the room.
The same thing happened several years later in the same room twenty years later on the same day. Or was it really the same room? Was it even a suicide the first time? Some claim that both brides killed themselves in room 525, but one of the stories is also said to have taken part in Room 329, and at least one source claiming it was in room 427 or 29.
One story goes like this: A bride checked into her room in the early 1990s. Or was it in the early 1980s? 1989 as some claim it was? This was by the way during a time when room 525 was shut off before it reopened for guests in 1998.
According to the legend, she was a socialite who had just been left by her fiance. She booked a five day stay at the Driskill. She had one final day where she went shopping for around 10 to 40k the second day she stayed there, all on her fiance’s credit card.
On her third day, she put up a “do not disturb” sign on her door. She lined up all of her new stuff by her bed before shooting herself in the head with a pillow muffling the sound. Some say they found her in the bathtub after they broke into the room after they suspected something was wrong.
The True Story of the Ghost Brides
How true this story is, is uncertain. There are many dates, room numbers and little detailing of the incidents, especially the first. According to the Austin Ghost Tour, this version was written by an employee in India for a company in New York that has never been to Austin. So what is the true story then?
Police reports talk about Tara, and she was not a socialite. She was said to have bought alcohol, cigarettes and a people magazine, instead of shopping goods. It is said that she would have died of alcohol poisoning if she hadn’t shot herself.
According to guests staying there, they claim to sometimes see the ghost of the woman dragging her many bags from her shopping day up and down in the halls of the hotel. There is also said to be a ghostly wailing coming from the rooms the brides died in.
The Child Ghost Playing at the The Driskill Hotel
On the fifth floor of the hotel is a mysterious portrait that is said to have caused supernatural occurrences. The portrait is unnamed, but based on a painting by Charles Trevor Garland (1855-1906) known as “Love Letter” by or for a Richard King.
It depicts a little girl with flowers in one hand and a letter in the other. Some claim it is haunted by the four year old daughter named Samantha Houson, of the US Senator Temple Lea Houston, who died in a horrible accident at the hotel.
The girl often called Samantha was playing in the Grand Staircase of the Mezzanine in 1887. This is before the painting was created though, or perhaps around this time. That May the hotel also closed its doors, so it had to have been before this.
Driskill hosted a function that year for a Legislative Session that year. US Senator Temple Lea Houston had seven children. Only four of their children survived childhood and one of them who didn’t was said to have been Samantha. The Senator had given his daughter a ball to play with. Skipping in the staircase she reached for her ball to bounce, but she fell and died of a broken neck.
People claim to have heard the sound of the ball bouncing from the walls as well as hearing the giggles of a little child. Guests have reported seeing apparitions of children playing in the hallways. When children come back from playing, they often claim to have played with a little girl called Samantha.
It is especially heard around the stairs, but as mentioned, the portrait on the fifth floor is also said to have strange things like dizziness and strange sensations around it that people often claim is connected to the girl. It is said that the painted girl looks eerily similar to Samantha. Perhaps the wildest story is how the girl’s expression in the painting seems to change when looking away.
The Presidential Ghost
One of the more famous ghosts said to haunt the hotel is Lady Bird and Lyndon B. Johnson, often referred to as LBJ. The couple first met in the Driskill Dining room in 1934 and returned every year for special occasions. It is said that the hotel was Lyndon B. Johnson’s favorite place in the city. It was even here he waited for the results of his 1948’s Senate run, his 1960’s Vice President run and in the presidential election in 1964.
According to those visiting the ballroom, they sometimes claim to see the late president with his wife in the mirrors as they pass by.
The Ghost of a Mrs. Bridge Minding the Front Desk
One of the former employees of the hotel said to haunt it, is Mrs. Bridge. She worked at the hotel for many years in the early 1900s and it is said she is sometimes still working. At night, people claim to have seen a woman in a Victorian dress, fussing over flower arrangements in the lobby. It is said that her apparitions are often accompanied by the smell of roses as she loved flowers when she was alive. She has also been seen walking from the vault to the lobby where the old front desk used to be.
The Ghost of Peter Lawless
One of the ghosts haunting the hotel is said to have a more poltergeist presence than the other. Peter Lawless worked as a ticket agent for the Great Northern Railroad in the early 20th century. Peter Lawless was born July 23, 1851 and died in Austin on June 29, 1931. After his wife passed, he moved into the Driskill.
From 1886 to 1916, he lived and worked from the fifth floor where he set up shop. Years it is said he lived there vary. Ever since his death people claim to have seen Lawless coming out from the elevators, looking at the time and his railroad watch and greeting the staff at the front desk before vanishing into thin air.
Housekeeping claims he is watching them as they are cleaning and there have even been those claiming to have seen him stepping in front of a bus outside the hotel. His ghost is said to have dark hair and pants with a white shirt and a pocket watch.
The Royal Haunting in the Mirrors
The Driskill Hotel is also said to be the place of a certain royal haunting.This haunting legend tied to Empress Carlotta of Mexico. She was born Charlotte and was a princess of Belgium. In the 1850s, Carlotta and her husband, Emperor Maximilian, ruled Mexico, seen as a puppet regime, but their reign ended in tragedy when Maximilian was executed, and Carlotta descended into madness. Heartbroken she survived with the support from European courts, suffering paranoid delusions.
The Ghost of an Empress: Empress Charlotte in mourning clothes. Photography by Eugène Disdéri, 1867.
After their fall, eight ornate gold-framed mirrors, originally meant as a belated wedding gift for Carlotta, made their way to the Driskill in 1930. It is not known if Empress Carlotta knew about the wedding gift at all, but some say that she is now haunting the mirrors. Adorned with a color palette of gold and white, the Maximilian Room features unique accents such as eight lavish gold leaf mirrors, originally discovered in the 1930s. This charming space has since been converted into an area for premium dining events, with 1,500 square feet of space and room for 20 to 150 attendees.
Since their installation in the hotel’s “Maximilian Room,” guests and staff have reported eerie experiences, including sightings of Carlotta’s ghost. One photographer claimed to see a woman in a white gown appear in the mirrors but vanish when he turned around, leaving only her reflection. Many believe Carlotta’s spirit haunts the mirrors, watching over the last remnants of her lost empire.
Why did the Hotel Become Haunted?
The Driskill has had many faiths coming through its doors throughout the years, but could it be another reason for it being haunted? Something older perhaps? One of the many reasons the hotel was built on this exact spot was because of the artesian water right by it. Driskoll thought that this would supply the hotel with water for years to come.
This artisan water used to be hollow ground for the native Americans though. Both the Apache, Tonkawas as well as the Comanche used to believe that the water from the spring had the power to hold spirits. Many believe this is the foundation that started the haunting.
Many paranormal investigators have spent numerous nights in the hotel in search of ghosts. Could the hotel really be haunted? Could it be that the ghost of Driskill is still smoking in the lobby, or could it actually be from the tobacco shop that used to be in the lobby still lingering? Could there be something lurking within the mirrors and paintings as well as the rooms not of this world?
Inside the Grand Canyon Caverns you can explore, have dinner in their restaurant or even sleep in their overnight suit. According to the stories, there are also stories about the possibility of encountering ghosts within the deep dark caves.
Venture to the western expanse of the Grand Canyon, and you’ll find yourself within the mystical embrace of the Hualapai Indian Reservation, home to a haunting mystery that unfolds in the depths of the Grand Canyon West Rim near the Peach Springs in Arizona along Route 66.
Read More: Check out all ghost stories from the USA
Amidst the expansive terrain lies a subterranean wonder known as the Grand Canyon Caverns, discovered by Hualapai woodcutters in the year 1917, revealing itself as the largest dry cavern system in the United States. Some also claim they are some of the most haunted ones.
The Grand Canyon: The National park of the Canyon encompasses over 1.2 million acres of rugged landscape, with the Colorado River carving a mile-deep gorge that stretches 277 miles long and up to 18 miles wide around 5 or 6 million years ago. The park’s striking geological formations, vibrant hues, and dramatic vistas attract millions of visitors each year, offering opportunities for hiking, rafting, and exploring the highs and lows of the Canyon. It is also said to have several haunted places.
The Grand Canyon Caverns History
These dry caverns, situated 220 feet below ground level, were formed 65 million years ago through the action of an ancient inland sea that covered the area. Visitors can explore the extensive underground network of rooms and passageways, which are known for their stunning geological formations, including stalactites and stalagmites.
The cave system is the largest dry caverns in the U.S and visitors can both tour, eat at the restaurant as well as stay the night. The caverns house the unique Grand Canyon Cavern Suite, a luxurious hotel room that provides an extraordinary and eerie overnight experience.
Yet, beneath the surface beauty of these colossal caverns lies a veil of spectral enigma, where shadows dance with the echoes of a bygone era, and the whispers of restless souls seem to linger in the eternal darkness.
Inside the Caves: Grand Canyon Caverns was designated a fallout shelter in 1961 and is believed to be haunted. // Source: Lauri Väin
It is said that the Grand Canyon Caverns are so dry that no bacteria or viruses can survive there for more than 72 hours. But could ghosts still be lingering here? According to the stories they do. The question that perplexes both visitors and locals alike is: Who are the spectral inhabitants of the Grand Canyon Caverns? Some believe that the ethereal presence of Native Americans, who found their final rest within these rocky chambers, continues to wander among the subterranean labyrinths.
It is said that many Hualapai tribe members were buried in the caverns centuries ago as an ancient burial place. It is the spirits of these tribesmen that haunt the caverns today. In the past 50 years, there have also been at least 8 people who have died or at least been buried on the property around the caves. Could some of these also be haunting the caves?
Other chilling accounts tell of a ghostly mine worker, a phantom of the past whose apparition has been glimpsed standing beside the cavern’s eerie elevator. His spectral form, frozen in time, echoes the tales of labor and sacrifice that once resonated within the subterranean depths.
The Haunted Grand Canyon Cavern Suite
For a truly haunted experience, there is also the Grand Canyon Cavern Suite found in the caves where a lot of the haunted rumors come from. This subterranean hotel room, situated within the expansive Grand Canyon Caverns, provides guests with an extraordinary opportunity to sleep in a lavishly appointed space surrounded by ancient rock formations. The room dates back to the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis, when a corner of the caverns was set up as a fallout shelter.
Grand Canyon Caverns Luxury Suite: For around 1000 dollars you can stay underground in the caves. Several of the guests that have stayed the night claim to have experienced what they believe to be paranormal. // Source: Flickr
Haunting of the Cave Hotel
One of the most common reports from the cavern suite involves rocks inexplicably whizzing through the air, especially after the Grand Canyon Caverns appeared on an episode of “Ghost Adventures.”.
Many guests have been disturbed by strange noises emanating from around the bed’s headboard. These sounds range from soft whispers to loud thumps, and often occur in the dead of night when the caverns are at their quietest. Some visitors have even reported feeling an unseen presence moving near the bed, as if someone—or something—is watching them as they sleep.
Dancing Shadow Figures
Shadow figures are another common sight within the cavern suite. Guests have described seeing dark, humanoid shapes dancing along the walls of the room, moving in eerie, fluid motions. These shadowy apparitions often vanish as quickly as they appear, leaving behind an unsettling sense of unease and the feeling of being observed. Could it be the pressing feeling of being placed deep in a dark cave or could it be something else?
Read More: Check out all ghost stories from Haunted Hotels
Perhaps the most unnerving reports involve the sounds of chanting that echo through the cavern’s depths. These chants, often described as rhythmic and otherworldly, seem to emanate from deep within the earth, reverberating through the suite’s stone walls. Some believe these chants are connected to ancient rituals or spirits that dwell within the caverns, adding to the suite’s mystique and haunted reputation.
Who are Haunting the Caves?
As mentioned, there are not many names attached to the possible hauntings said to go on inside of the Grand Canyon Caverns.
Some believe one of the ghosts to be that of Walter Peck, the man who turned the cave into a tourist attraction after he stumbled over it in 1927 on his way to a poker game. Perhaps it could be the two brothers of the Hualapai woodcutters who died of the flue when they discovered it in 1917 and were buried there after being trapped in a snow storm in 1917?
Or could it perhaps be something more ancient and unknown, lost in the darkness and deepness of the Grand Canyon Caverns?
“Each Man Kills” by Victoria Glad, published in 1951, is a gripping short story that delves into the darker aspects of human nature and the unsettling power of guilt. The narrative revolves around a man who is haunted by the consequences of a crime he committed. As he grapples with his conscience, the weight of his actions begins to manifest in increasingly disturbing ways. Glad’s story is a psychological thriller that explores themes of remorse, retribution, and the inescapability of one’s past deeds.
Each Man Kills by Victoria Glad
“… to live you must feed on the living“
Heading by Vincent Napoli
Now that it’s all over, it seems like a bad dream. But when I look at Maria’s picture on my desk, I realize it couldn’t have been a dream. Actually, it was only six months ago that I sat at this same desk, looking at her picture, wondering what could have happened to her. It had been six weeks since there had been any word from her, and she had promised to write as soon as she arrived in Europe. Considering that my future rested in her small hands, I had every right to be apprehensive.
We had grown up together, had lost our folks within a few years of each other and had been fond of each other the way kids are apt to be. Then the change came: It seemed I loved her, and she was still just “fond” of me. During our early college days I sort of let things ride, but once we went on to graduate school, I began to crowd her.
The next thing I knew, she had signed up with a student tour destined for Central Europe, and told me she would give me my answer when she returned. I had to be content with that, but couldn’t help worrying. Maria was a strange girl—withdrawn, dreamy and soft-hearted. Knowing the section she was going to, I was inclined to be uneasy, since it is the realm of gypsies, fortune tellers and the like. It is also the birthplace of many strange legends, and Maria claimed to be strongly psychic. As a matter of fact, she had foretold one or two things which were probably coincidental, like the death of our parents, and which even made an impression on me—and you’d hardly call me a “believer.”
This so-called talent of hers led her into trouble on more than one occasion. I remember in her senior year at college she fell under the spell of a short, fat, greasy spook-reader with a strictly phony accent and all but gave her eye teeth away, until I realized something was amiss, got to the bottom of it, and dispatched friend spook-reader pronto. If she should meet some unscrupulous person now, with no one around to get her out of the scrape—but I didn’t want to think of that. I was sure this time everything would be all right.
When she didn’t write at first, I let it go that she was busy. Finally, six weeks’ silent treatment aroused my curiosity. It also aroused my nasty temper, and the next thing I knew I was on a plane bound for the Continent. Within two hours after landing, I found her at a little inn in Transylvania, a quaint little place that looked as if it were made of gingerbread, and was surrounded by the huge, craggy Transylvania Mountain range. I also found Tod Hunter.
“What’s wrong, Maria? Why didn’t you write?” I asked.
Her usually gay, shining brown eyes flashed angrily. “Why couldn’t you leave me alone? I told you not to come after me. I came here so I could think this out. For God’s sake, Bill, can’t you see I wanted to think? To be by myself?”
“But you promised to write,” I persisted, wondering at this change in her, this impatience. Wondered, too, at her wraithlike slimness. She’d always been curved in the right places.
“Maria has been studying much too diligently,” Tod said slowly. “She’s always tired lately. She hasn’t been too well, either. Her throat bothers her.”
I wanted to punch his head in. For some reason I didn’t like him. Not because I sensed his rivalry; I was above that. God knows I wanted her to be happy, above everything. It was just something about him that irritated me. An attitude. Not supercilious; I could have coped with that. Rather, it was a calm imperturbability that seemed to speak his faith in his eventual success, regardless of any effort on my part.
I don’t know how to fight that sort of strategy. I look like I am: blunt and obvious. Suddenly I didn’t care if he was there.
“Maria. Ria, darling. This guy’s no good for you, can’t you see that? What do you know about him?”
She looked at me, her eyes surprised and a little hurt. Then she looked at him, seemed to be looking through him and into herself, if you know what I mean. A slow flush spread from the base of her throat, that thin, almost transparent throat.
“All I have to know,” she said softly. “I love him.”
She looked out the window. “I’m going up into Konigstein Mountain, to a small sanitarium for my health shortly; the doctor has told me I must go away, and Tod has suggested this place. There Tod and I shall be married.”
I knew then how it felt to be on the receiving end of a monkey-punch. That she had come to this decision because of my objections, I had not the slightest doubt. She was going to marry someone about whom she knew absolutely nothing. She was much more ill than she knew. Hunter was undoubtedly after her money; she was considerably well-off. Obviously she was once more being influenced in the wrong direction.
“I won’t let you!” I warned. “Give it some more time, if for nothing else, then for old times’ sake.”
“How about me, Morris?” Tod interrupted. “You haven’t asked me my feelings on the subject. I happen to love Maria dearly. Have I no say just because you’re a childhood friend of hers?”
“Childhood friend! I was her whole family for years before she ever heard of you! I’ll see you in hell before I let her marry you!” I shouted. Looking back, I’m sure that had he said anything else, I would have killed him, if Ria hadn’t come between us.
“That’s enough, Bill Morris! I’ve heard all I want to from you. I’m twenty-three, and if I choose to marry Tod, I’ll do so and there’s nothing you can do about it. Now, please go.”
“Okay, Ria,” I said, “if that’s the way you want it. But I’m not through. If you won’t protect yourself, I’ll do it for you. I’d like to know more about the mysterious Mr. Tod Hunter, American, and I do wish, for your own sake, you’d do the same. I wouldn’t care if you married King Tut, so long as you knew all about him. People just don’t marry strangers; not if they’re smart. For God’s sake, ask him about himself!”
“All right, Bill,” she replied, smiling patiently. “I’ll ask him. Now, do stop being childish.”
“Okay, darling,” I said sheepishly. “But do me one more favor. Don’t marry him until I get back. Only a little while; give me a week. Just wait a little longer.”
As I closed the door, I could still feel his smile, mocking—yet a little sad.
But Maria didn’t wait. I was gone a week. I had walked my legs off trying to track down the elusive Mister Hunter and discovered exactly—nothing. All his landlady could tell me was that he was an American who had come to this climate for his health, and that he slept late mornings. I was licked and I knew it. If I had been a pup, I would have fitted my tail neatly between my legs and made for home. But I wasn’t a pup, so I headed straight for Ria’s flat to face the music.
They were waiting for me, she and Tod. When I saw her, I wished I were dead.
She lay in Tod’s arms, her body a mere whisper of a body. White and cold she was, like frozen milk on a cold winter’s day. They were both dead.
You know how it is when at a wake someone views the deceased and says kindly, “She’s beautiful,” and “she” isn’t beautiful at all; just a made-up, lifeless handful of clay. Dead as dead, and frightening. Well, it wasn’t that way this time. Their fair skins were faintly pink-tinted and their blonde heads, hers ashen and his a reddish cast, gleamed brightly. And they sat so close in the sofa before the fire, his head resting in the hollow of her throat. They looked—peaceful; no line marred their faces. I almost fancied I saw them breathe. And on her third finger, left hand, was the ring—a thin, platinum band. He had won, and in winning somehow he had lost. How they had died and why they found each other and death at the same time, I would probably never know. I only knew one thing: I had to get away from there—quickly. I almost ran the distance to my flat. Stumbled into the place and poured a triple Scotch which I could scarcely hold. The Scotch seared my throat and tasted bitter; someone must have poured salt in it. Then I realized that it was tears—my tears. I, Bill Morris, who hadn’t cried since my fifth birthday—I was sobbing like a baby.
I didn’t call the police. That would mean I would have to go back and watch them cover that lovely body, carry it away and submit it to untold indignities in order to ascertain the cause of death. The cleaning girl would find them in the morning and would notify the police.
But it wasn’t so simple as that. In the morning I found I couldn’t shake off the guilt which possessed me. Even two bottles of Scotch hadn’t helped me to forget. I was dead drunk and cold sober at the same time.
I phoned Ria’s landlady and told her I had failed to reach the Hunters by phone, that I was sure something was amiss. Would she please go to their flat and see if anything was wrong.
She was amused. “Really, Mr. Morris, you must be mistaken. Miss Maria went out just an hour ago with her new husband. Surely you are jesting. Why she has never looked better. So happy. They have left for Konigstein. They have also left you a note.
I told her I would be right over, and hopped a cab. I began to think I was losing my mind. I had seen them both—dead. The landlady had seen them this morning—alive!“
When I arrived, the landlady looked at me for a long moment, taking in my rough, dark-blue complexion, unpressed clothes, red-rimmed eyes, then wagged a finger playfully.
“You are playing a joke, no? A wedding joke, maybe. Here, too, we haze newlyweds. But of course I understood. Who could help loving Miss Maria? Be of good heart, young man. For you there will be another, some day. But I talk too much. Here is your letter.”
I went where I would be undisturbed, to the reading room of the library on the same street as my flat. To the musty, oblong, dimly lit room whose threshold sunshine and fresh air dared not cross. Without the saving warmth of sunlight or the fresh, clean relief of sweet-smelling air, I read. Read, inhaling the pungent, sour smell of the Scotch I had consumed during the long, sleepless night. Read, and then doubted that I had read at all—but the blue ink on the white paper forced me to acknowledge its actuality. It had been written by Hunter, in a neat, scholar’s script.
Dear Morris: (It began)
Why should I not have wanted Maria? You did; others doubtless did. Why then should she not be mine? There are many things worse than being married to me; she might have married a man who beat her!
With her I have known the two happiest days of my life. I want no more than that. I have no right to ask for more. Have we, any of us, a right to endless bliss on this earth? Hardly.
You thought of her welfare above all; for that I owe you some explanation. You must be patient, you must believe, and in the end, you must do as I ask. You must.
You wanted to know about me—of my life before Maria. Before Maria? It seems strange to think about it. There is no life without Maria. Still, there was a time when for me she didn’t exist. I have been constantly going forward to the day when I would meet her, yet there was a time when I didn’t know where I would find her, or even what her name would be!
It was chance that brought us together. For me, good chance; for you, possibly ill chance; for Maria? Only she can say. Some three years ago I was studying in England under a Rhodes Scholarship. The future held great things for me. I was a Yank like yourself, and damn proud of it. Life in England seemed strange and slow and sometimes utterly dismal under Austerity. Then, little by little I slipped into their slower ways, growing to love the people for their spunk, and finally coming to feel I was one of them, so to speak.
I have said everything slowed down: I was wrong. Studying intensified for me. The folklore of the British Isles intrigued me. I delved into the Black Welsh tales, the mischievous fancies of the Irish, the English legends of the prowling werewolf. For me it was a relief from political science, which suddenly palled and which smacked of treason in the light of current events. My extracurricular research consumed the better part of my evenings. My books were and always have been a part of me, and as was to be expected, I overdid it. I studied too hard with too little let-up. Sometimes it seemed to me there was more truth to what I read than myth. It became somewhat of an obsession. Suddenly, one night, everything blacked out.
I came to in a sanatorium. I didn’t know how I got there, and when they explained it to me, I laughed. I thought they were joking. When I tried to get up, to walk, I collapsed. Then I knew how bad it had been. I knew, too, I would have to go slowly.
It was there I met Eve. She was beautiful. Not like Maria, who is like a fragile, fair, spun-sugar angel. Eve was more earthy, with skin like ivory, creamy and rich and pale. Her blue-black hair she wore long and gathered in the back. She looked about twenty-five, but a streak of pure white ran back from each of her temples. She was the most striking woman I have ever met. I had never known anyone like her, nor have I since I saw her last.
You know how it is: the air of mystery about a woman makes a man like a kid again. She reminded me of a sleek, black cat, with her large, hazel eyes. I bumped into her one day on the verandah, and spent every day with her after that.
The doctors wanted me to take exercise—short walks and the like, and Eve went with me, struggling to keep up with me. The slightest effort tired her. She suffered from a rather nasty case of anemia. She seldom smiled; the effort was probably too much for her. I saw her really smile only once.
We had been on one of our short hikes in the woods close by the grounds. She stumbled over a twig or a branch, I’m not sure which. Suddenly she was in my arms. Have you ever held a cloud in your arms, Morris? So light she was, although she was almost as tall as I. Warm and pulsating. Her eyes held mine; it was almost uncanny. I have never been affected like that by a woman. Then I was kissing her; then a sharp sting, and I winced. There was the warm, salt taste of blood on my lips. I never knew how it happened. But she was smiling, her full mouth parted in the strangest smile I have ever seen. And those small white teeth gleamed; and in her eyes, which were all black pupils now, with the iris quite hidden, was desire—or something beyond desire. I couldn’t define it then; now, I think I can. Her small, pink tongue darted over her lips, tasting, seeming to savor.
I was frightened, for some indefinable reason. I wanted to get away from her, from the woods, from myself. I grasped her arm roughly and we started back for the grounds. We never mentioned the episode again, but we neither of us ever forgot. She intrigued me now, more than ever. The doctors were able to satisfy my curiosity somewhat. They told me she had been a patient for some four years. Some days she was better, some days worse. She needed rest—much rest. Most days she slept past noon with their approval. Some days there was a faint flush beneath that ivory skin; other days it was pale and cool.
Just when we became lovers, I scarcely remember. Things were happening so fast I could barely keep pace with them. There was a magnetism about Eve which compelled. I couldn’t have resisted if I’d wanted to—and I didn’t.
I began to have long periods of lassitude, times when I would black out and remember nothing afterwards. And the dreams began. I would dream I was stroking a large, velvety-black cat, a cat with shining yellow eyes that looked at me as if they knew my every thought. I would stroke it continuously and it would nip me playfully. Then, one night the dream intensified: I was playing with the creature, caressing it gently, when of a sudden its lips drew back in a snarl, and without warning it sprang at my throat and buried its fangs deep! I thought I could feel life being drawn from me; I screamed.
The doctors told me afterwards that I was semi-conscious for days; that I had to be restrained.
When I was well again, Eve came to see me. She was gentle—soothing. She held me close to her and oh! it was good to be alive and to belong to someone.
I remember to this day what she wore. Black velvet lounging slacks, a low-necked amber satin blouse, caught at the “V” by a curiously wrought antique silver pin. It was round, about four inches in diameter. In its center was the carved figure of a serpent coiled to strike. Its eyes were deep amber topazes and its darting tongue was raised and set with a blood-red ruby.
“What an unusual pin, Eve,” I said “I’ve never seen it before, have I?”
“No,” she replied. “It belongs to the deep, dark, seldom discussed skeleton in the Orcaczy closet, Tod. You see, my great-great grandmother was quite a wicked lady, to hear tell. Went in for Witches’ masses and the like. They say she poisoned her husband, a rather elderly and very childish man, for her lover, whom she subsequently married. Together they did away with relatives who stood in the way of their accumulating more money. This pin was the instrument of death.”
Her slim fingers pressed the ruby tongue and the pin opened, revealing a space large enough to secrete powder.
“It’s like those employed by the infamous Borgias, as you can see,” she continued, shrugging. “Perhaps it was fate then, that her devoted new husband tired of her once her fortune was assured him, took a young mistress for himself, and disposed of the unfortunate wife, using her own pin to perpetrate her murder. She was excommunicated by her church, too, which must have made it most unpleasant for her, poor old dear.” The slim shoulders straightened. “But let’s not discuss such unpleasant things, my dear. The important thing now is for you to get well quickly. I’ve missed you terribly, you know.”
It was then I asked her to marry me. I knew I didn’t really love her, but there seemed nothing to prevent our marriage. And she had gotten under my skin. It was as elemental as that. She said she thought we should wait until I fully recovered.
“Don’t say any more, darling,” she said. “Rest your poor, sore throat.”
She bent over me solicitously and I reached up to stroke that smooth black hair. It had a familiar feel to it that I couldn’t quite place. Of course I had stroked it hundreds of times before, but it wasn’t that. Then she looked straight at me, those large, glowing hazel eyes boring into mine, and I knew. Knew and disbelieved at the same time. I froze where I lay, paralyzed by my fear; unable to make a sound.
“So you know,” she whispered. “It is well. I have marked you for my own these many months. Now that you know, you will not fight. You know what I am, or at least you can guess. This pin you admired so—it was mine three hundred years ago and it will always be mine!”
Her lips were on mine. She had never kissed me like this. It was like the touch of hot ice, freezing, then searing. Unendurable. I lay inert; I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to. I could scarcely breathe. Then I felt the blood within me pounding, pulsing, beginning to answer in spite of myself. I tasted once more the warm, salty fluid on my lips. Eve’s body was liquid in my arms; warm, heady, narcotizing. Once again I felt the agonizing, dagger sharp pain in my throat and—darkness.
Have you ever wakened to a bright, sunny afternoon and heard yourself pronounced dead? They spoke in low, hushed tones. How unfortunate. Young fellow only thirty, dying so far away from his homeland. No family. Good thing he was well-set in life. This sudden anemia was most extraordinary; fellow showed no signs of it previously. All he had really needed was rest. If he had recovered, that lovely Eve Orcaczy might have made both their lives happier, richer. Sad ending to what might have been an idyll. Good of her to claim the body. She said she was going to inter it in the family vault in Konigstein Mountain in Transylvania.
I heard them distinctly. I wanted to shout that I wasn’t dead; I wanted to wake up from this horrible nightmare. I was as alive as they. I knew I had to get out of there, some way; to get away from Eve, whom I now feared. They left to make arrangements.
The lassitude crept through me without warning; I dozed in spite of myself. And I dreamed again. I was a cat running, leaping through windows, loping over the countryside, stopping for no one. I panted with my exertions. Towns and cities flew by; I had to get someplace and quickly. Then the dream ended.
“Tod,” she said, “Get up, my dear.” I heard Her and I hated Her. Hated Her while I was drawn to Her. There was a white mist before my eyes. I reached up to brush it away. It was not a mist; it was a cloth. I shivered.
“I must wake up,” I whispered hoarsely, “I must! I’m going mad!”
There was a creaking sound and daylight descended upon me. When I saw where I was, I covered my face with my hands and sobbed. I tried to pray, but the words froze on my lips. I was sitting in a coffin in a mausoleum! I had been buried alive!
“What am I?” I shrieked. “Where am I and what have You done? I’m out of my mind; stark, staring mad!”
Eve’s lips parted, showing the even white teeth—those slightly pointed teeth.
“You’re quite sane, my dear,” She said calmly. “You are now one of us; a revenant, even as I, and to live you must feed on the living.”
“It’s not true!” I shouted. “This is all a crazy nightmare, part of my illness! You’re not real! Nothing is real!”
“I’m quite real, Tod. To be trite, I am what I am, and have accepted it calmly, as you shall in time. I have told you of my life. You have been a student of legends. Legends are often—more often than you think—reality. When one has been murdered, if one has lived a so-called wicked life, he is doomed to walk the earth battening on the living. My fate was sealed as I lay in my coffin. But that wasn’t enough. As I lay there, my pet cat, Suma, slunk into the room and leapt over me. That was a double insurance of my life after death. Those whom I mark for my own must, too, live on. Accept it, my dear. You have no other choice.”
“No!” I cried. “I’m an American! Things like this don’t happen to us! It’s only in stories, and then to foreigners!”
She chuckled drily. “I’m afraid these things do happen, and in this case, you’re it, my dear. Make the best of it.”
But I wouldn’t; I refused to—for a while. I would not feast on the blood of the living. Something within me fought. For a time.
Then, the awful hunger began. The tearing pangs of hunger that ordinary food wouldn’t arrest. I fought it as long as I could. I lost.
First it was small animals; animals that I loved. It was my life or theirs. Then there was a little girl; a dear little creature who might have been my child under different circumstances.
After the episode of the little girl, Eve left me. She had no further use for me; she had wanted the child, too, and I had got it. I was now competition to be shunned. I was alone once again alone and thoroughly miserable. I couldn’t understand myself, my motives, so how could I expect someone else to understand?
I only knew what I was; nor could I rationalize on why I had become this way. I could only presume it had happened to others equally as innocent as myself of wrong-doing. In the daytime, when I was like others, I reproached myself; goodness knows I loathed myself and what I had to do in order to “live.” I wished I might really die, for I was tired—so frightfully tired and sick of it all. But I knew of no way to accomplish this, so I had to bear it all, fasting until my voracious, disgusting appetites got the better of me.
I decided there must be some information on my kind, particularly in this area where vampire legends are rife, so I took to haunting reading rooms. It was there I met Maria. She told me, after we knew each other better, that she was doing graduate work in regional superstitions and had decided that her thesis would treat of the history of vampirism. She found it terribly amusing, but at the same time frightening: Didn’t I? I fear I saw nothing laughable about it, but I held my peace. Why, I could have done a thesis for her that would have driven some mild-mannered prof completely out of his mind! I kept my knowledge to myself, though; I didn’t want to scare Maria.
She was like a flash of sunshine in a darkened room. She made each day worth living. For the first time the hunger pangs ceased. Ceased for one week, then two. I was certain I was cured. Perhaps, I thought, the whole thing was just a dream and I am finally awake.
I felt then I had the right to tell her of my love. She looked infinitely sad. She wasn’t certain, she said. She knew she was awfully fond of me, but she was confused. She had just come away from the States, trying to make up her mind about someone dear, whom she didn’t want to hurt, and she wanted a breather. I said I would wait up to and through eternity, if she wished.
Things, went along peacefully then. We would walk for hours together, walk in complete silence and understanding. My strength seemed to be returning more day by day. We went far afield in search of material for her thesis. She would track down the most minute speck of hearsay, to get authenticity.
One day, in our wanderings, I thoughtlessly let myself be led too near my resting place. One of the locals mentioned a “place of horror” nearby and Maria wanted to investigate. I had no choice. We poked amid the still fustiness of the deserted mausoleum I knew so well. She thought it odd that the door was unlocked. I said, yes, wasn’t it. Then she saw the box, that gleaming copper box which Eve had so thoughtfully provided. She stroked it gently, commenting on its beauty, and before I could prevent it or divert her attention, she had lifted the heavy lid exposing the disarranged shroud, the remains of one or two hapless small creatures, the horrible blood-stained satin lining. She screamed and dropped the lid, somehow pinching her finger. She hopped on one foot, as one usually does to fight down sudden pain. Then she was clinging to me, thoroughly frightened.
“What does it mean, Tod?”
I quieted her with the usual platitudes. Then I was kissing that poor, red little finger. Without warning to myself or her, I nipped it affectionately. A warm glow spread through me; there was a taste more delightful than fine old brandy, or vintage wine, and I knew irrevocably that I was not cured; no, nor ever should be! And I knew, too, that I wanted Maria—not just as a man longs for the woman he loves—but to drink of the fountain of her life, that warm, intoxicating fountain, greedily, joyously. She never knew what went through my mind at that moment. If I could have killed myself then, I would have, and with no compunction. But there is more to killing a revenant than that. The Church knows the procedure. I hurried Maria home as fast as I could and told her I had to go away for a week on business. She believed me and said she would miss me. But I didn’t go away. That night I fought a losing battle with myself, and then and every night thereafter, I returned to her, partook of her and slunk away, loathing myself. I knew that I must soon kill the one being I loved above all others, kill, too, her immortal soul, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it.
She began to fade visibly. When I “returned” in a week, she was so ill that a few steps tired her. Her appetite all but vanished. She seemed genuinely glad to see me. She was beset by nightmares, she said. Could I help her get some rest? I took her to a physician who sagely prescribed a change in climate, rest and a diet rich in blood and iron, gave her a prescription for sedatives, and called it a day.
You know how she looked when you saw her. The day was approaching when she would have no more blood, when life as you know it would stop and she would become like me. Somehow I couldn’t take her with me without some warning, but I didn’t know how to do it. You see, since I was an innocent victim myself. I could speak, could warn my intended victim, because although my soul had all but died, there was still a spark that evil hadn’t touched. I knew she would think it a joke if I told her about myself without warning.
Then, happily for me, you came along. I knew you would sense something amiss and I didn’t care. I was almost certain of her love, and I decided to seize the few minutes left me and devil take the hindmost! When you told her to confront me, you gave me the happiest days of my life. For this I thank you sincerely. For what I have done and will ask you to do, forgive me!
Maria asked me directly, as you had known she would. I replied frankly, sparing her nothing. I told her that the fact that this life had been wished on me, as it were, gave me some rights, and that I could tell her how to rid herself of me, if she wished. Then she turned to me, her large, lovely eyes thoughtful.
“Tod, dearest,” she said softly, “I must die some day, really die, so what difference does it make when? I only know that I love you. Why wait until I’m decrepit and alone, with only a few memories to look back on? Why not now, with you, where life doesn’t really stop? With all I’ve read about this, don’t you think I could free myself if I wished?”
I still wonder if she really believed me. We were married three days later. I never told her what her life with me would be like—that one day I would desert her, fearing and hating her rivalry for the very source of my life, and the ghastly chain would continue. I couldn’t. I loved her so, Morris, can you understand that? I couldn’t betray her then and I can’t now.
On the second night of our marriage, she died as you know it, in my arms. I don’t think she knows it yet. But it won’t be long until she does discover it. We were quite alive when you found us; she was in an hypnotic state induced by her condition. She heard and saw nothing. But I knew. And I must keep my faith. I must, and you are the only one who can help me.
If you will show this to a priest, he will gladly accompany you to the place in Konigstein, where we rest during the morning in a new “bed” I had specially constructed for us. I couldn’t bring Maria to that other bed of corruption. A map of how to get there is enclosed. There you will perform the ancient, effective rites, and you will lay us to rest together, as we wish. That is all I ask….
When I had finished reading I stared at nothing, trying to force myself to think. This was “all” he asked. In substance, he wished me to murder the girl I loved. I could refuse; I could ignore his request. I could even doubt the verity of his statements. He might be a madman. But I didn’t doubt. I believed every word, and I knew I would do as he asked.
That she had gone willingly I didn’t doubt. I no longer hated him so much; rather I pitied him, the hapless victim of a horrible chain of circumstance.
I found the priest, a venerable, gentle soul, after much searching. The younger men had looked at me searchingly, laughed and told me to read the Good Book for consolation, and to lay off the bottle. Father Kalman was understanding, with the wisdom of the very old.
“Yes, my son,” he said, “I will go. Many might doubt, but I believe. Lucifer roams the earth in many guises and must be recognized and exorcised.”
It was five o’clock in the morning when we approached the mausoleum. The Good Father explained that the “creatures of darkness” had to be back in their resting places before the cock crew. At night they drew sustenance; during the morning they slept.
There was a gleaming copper casket. Tod had not lied. We approached it warily. In it was nothing but grisly remains, bloodstains and dust. We drew back, fearful. Then we saw the other, newer casket in richest mahogany, almost twice the width of the copper box: Their bridal bed!
They lay together, his arm about her. She wore a gown of palest blue, but oh, that mockery of a gown! Stained it was with fresh blood which had seeped onto it from him. Obviously she had not taken to prowling yet. His mouth was dark, rich with blood, slightly open in a half-smile. His hand pressed her fair head close to his chest. She lay trustingly within the circle of his arm, like a small child. The priest crossed himself. The bodies twitched slightly.
“You know what you must do,” Father Kalman whispered.
I nodded, the pit of my stomach churning madly. I couldn’t do it! Not Maria, the lovely. But I knew I would; I had to. She must not wake again to see that blood-stained gown or to wonder at her husband’s gory lips. She should know rest, eternal rest.
Father Kalman circled the box several times, ringing his small bell, and at one point laid a crucifix upon each of their chests. Their faces writhed and I felt my skin creep.
Then, chanting in a low, firm voice, the priest gave me the signal. Together we drove two long stakes, dipped first in Holy Water, home, piercing their hearts simultaneously.
The bodies leapt forward in the box, straining against the stake, and a horrible, drawn-out wail shattered the stillness of the tomb. The priest dropped to his knees and I clapped my hands over my ears, but the dreadful shriek penetrated. My stomach turned over and I retched. The Good Father followed suit. We were no supermen and our bodies and our very souls revolted against this monstrous thing.
“Let us finish, my son,” the priest said slowly, after a time, his face the color of ashes. “We must bury these dead, that they may sleep in consecrated ground.”
I couldn’t. I had to see her again before it was done. She lay, small and fragile as ever, her face calm, only there was no trace of life now. She was still and white, as only the dead—the truly dead—are. Tod’s arm was flung across her chest, as if to protect her. I made myself move the arm, resting her head upon his shoulder, where it belonged. Then, as I looked, there was just Maria. Tod was gone and only a handful of dust lay piled up around the stake. It was enough. I slammed the lid shut.
Looking back now, I can see it was all for the best. Ria was different—apart from other women. A dreamer, a mystic, too easily influenced by the bizarre and un-normal. I, on the other hand, am practical almost to a fault. Had she married me I might have crushed in her the very thing that drew me to her. In time she might have grown to hate me.
Hunter, on the other hand, was a student. Introspective, given to romanticizing. Susceptible to suggestion. Had I been confronted with an Eve, I should have run like hell. To him, though, she was cloaked in mystery; hence, more desirable. What better choice for him ultimately than Ria? That Ria had to die to achieve her happiness is of no real importance. Life is a transitory thing anyway.
Sometimes, though, when I look at Ria’s picture, it’s hard to be practical. She was everything I shall ever want.
I had never been to Europe before the summer of 1947. I went to find Maria, to marry her. Instead, I found and murdered her, and I will never go back again.
Frozen in all eternity as a stone below the old castle of Duino on the cliffs. It is said to be haunted by the Lady in White, the former lady of the castle, thrown off the cliffs by her jealous husband. Now she returns to the castle to watch over her child she left behind.
Bordering Norway and Sweden, the mysterious Finnskogen forest, with its deep rooted trees holds ghosts, curses and lingering spirits. Like the poltergeist like ghost at Välgunaho farm, who drove its residents away and left it abandoned for over a century.
Now, the former barracks has turned into the National Museum of Ireland. If we are to believe the rumours, the ghosts of war from the former Collins Barracks are said to still linger.
In the old farm for the rich and the powerful in the northern parts of Norway, Løp Gård is said to hold many of their former inhabitants, even in their death.
Was she a Witch or Serial Killer with connection to the Hellfire Club that her legends paint her to be? What was the true story behind Darkey Kelley, said to haunt Dublin as the Green Lady of the Liberties.
After tragedy struck Birthe Svendsdatter, she threw herself from the window and ended up with a limp and a brain injury. Called Halte-Birthe because of her limp, she is said to haunt Fossesholm Manor to this day.
Feeling like a sudden and invisible burden, the life force of wary travellers were long subjected to the terror of the Aufhocker. A creature between the vampire, werewolf and goblin spirits, the legend of the empty road were long haunted by something heavy.
A maid who once worked at the hotel allegedly took her own life at the old Visnes Hotel, deep in the Norwegian fjords. Now it is said she is lingering in the afterlife in the old rooms she once worked in.
An ancient ghost coming from the depths of graves across the nordic countries, the Haugbúi Draugr could be both dangerous and even deadly. Not merely a specter, but the rotten flesh of the dead, the ghosts are remembered as The Walking Dead of the North.
The ghost town of Cahawba is a remnant of southern antebellum life that died with the Civil War. It is said that the former state capital still has some ghosts living in Cahawba Town the rest of the world abandoned.
Along the confluence of the Cahaba and Alabama rivers lies Cahawba, Alabama’s first state capital and one of its most haunted places if we are to believe the legends. Established in 1819 not far from Selma, Cahawba Town thrived as a bustling antebellum river town for years. Today it is a ghost town in what is called Old Cahawba Archaeological Park.
Read More: Check out all ghost stories from the USA
Cahawba Town is listed on many most haunted lists, and they also provide haunted ghost tours around the place. But what are the haunted legends from the ghost town said to be one of the more haunted places in the country?
The History of Cahawba Town
Let’s first have a look at the history of the town and those who lived there. Cahawba Town or Cahaba as it is sometimes spelled, used to be fertile tallgrass prairies before the 1830s. Then, as mentioned, it was the first permanent capital of Alabama from 1820 to 1825 as well as being the country seat of Dallas Country until 1866.
This was during the wealthy antebellum years, based on cotton money, made on the back of slaves. Even though it was wealthy it still had a reputation of not being the best place to live because of the location. The floods were said to be big and happened too often. The very air was thought to be bad, as they believed that miasma in the air caused diseases like malaria, yellow fever and cholera. In reality it was the mosquitoes who carried the diseases.
Cahawba Town: Kirkpatrick mansion on Oak Street, burned in 1935. The two-story brick slave quarters remains intact. // Source: Leigh T Harrell/Wikimedia
By the time the Civil War started, the town had around 2000 residents, where around 64 percent of the population were the black slaves. The Civil War changed everything here though, and during it, the prison known as Castle Morgan held more than 3000 Union soldiers.
Read More: Check out more ghost stories from Haunted Towns
Its prosperity was short-lived, however, as the Civil War and subsequent flooding led to Cahawba Towns abandonment because it lost the businesses and jobs that were associated with it being the county seat. Some say that the story about the flooding was exaggerated, or even a lie seeing that 1925 was a drought year by the media because of the competition of becoming the capital.
The Selma newspapers called ‘The Mecca of the Radical Republican Party,’ after the white residents left and more black communities started to grow in town. Although it became a popular place for the freed slaves after the war for a while, they too soon left for a better place in the Reconstruction Period.
Today, the Cahawba Town is a ghost town, its empty buildings, slave burial grounds, and eerie cemeteries providing a chilling backdrop for tales of the supernatural.
The Legend of Pegues’s Ghost
Christopher Claudius Pegues
Among the many haunted tales of Cahawba Town, the most famous is that of the luminous floating orb known as “Pegues’s Ghost.” Shortly after Colonel C.C. Pegues, who was the head of Alabama’s Fifth Rifle Regiment. He was killed in the Battle of the Seven Pines in Virginia on July 15th in 1862, witnesses reported seeing a mysterious glowing light appearing in the garden maze of his former home and favorite Magnolia trees.
When the news of his death reached the village, a slave boy rang a bell, walking from his house with the funeral notice as well as a black streamers known as ‘weepers’ from his shoulders, a custom now gone.
One evening in 1862 a young couple was walking close to the cedar maze. It was then they saw a white orb floating past them. When they tried to touch it, the ghostly orb vanished into the green, although it appeared again. Because of its timing, the strange orb was named after the colonel.
The maze is now gone, and so is the house that used to be located on a lot that occupied a block between Pine and Chestnut streets. The unexplained phenomenon of the Will’O’the’Wisp like light has captivated locals and visitors alike, with many seeking out the ghostly light that continues to manifest to this day.
The Haunted Cemeteries
But “Pegues’s Ghost” is not the only source of eerie activity in Cahawba Town. The cemeteries of Cahawba are another focal point for ghostly encounters, especially the one known as The New Cemetery.
Eerie whispers, phantom footsteps, and shadowy figures are frequently reported by those who dare to venture into these hallowed grounds after dark. Many believe that the souls of the town’s former residents remain tethered to this place, unable to find peace.
It is especially around the burial grounds for the slaves many of the haunted reports come from. It was created in 1819 and many of the graves are unmarked and without headstones. It is said that the last burial was in 1957.
The abandoned streets and structures have given rise to numerous reports of ghostly apparitions and unexplained sounds. Visitors often speak of feeling a chilling presence while walking through the ruins of the once-grand statehouse and the numerous homes that have long since been vacated. The town’s slave burial ground is particularly noted for its paranormal occurrences, where the anguished spirits of those who suffered in life are said to roam.
An online magazine about the paranormal, haunted and macabre. We collect the ghost stories from all around the world as well as review horror and gothic media.
