On the hellish Spike Island that once served as the biggest prison in the British Empire, ghosts are said to linger from its time as a fortress, smugglers den and as the prison it ended up becoming.
Just off the coast of Cobh in Ireland, Spike Island looms as one of Ireland’s most enigmatic and haunted landmarks. Encompassing over 100 acres and boasting a history that stretches back to the 7th century, this island has witnessed centuries of transformation, from a peaceful monastic community to a formidable fortress of British Forces.
Beneath its serene facade lies a harrowing tale of strategic significance, incarceration, and chilling paranormal encounters.
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From Monastery to Fortress
Saint Mochuda founded a monastery there in the 7th century. In 1779, Spike Island underwent a significant transformation, evolving into a strategic fortress for the British Forces.
The island’s unique location on the edge of Cork Harbour made it an ideal location for this military outpost. Casements were constructed to house guns aimed squarely at the harbor, serving as a formidable deterrent to potential adversaries.
From Fortress to Prison
As the pages of history turned, Spike Island took on a more ominous role. It transitioned into a prison and a holding site for convicts destined for the harsh life of penal colonies abroad. For a few years in the mid 19th century it was probably the biggest prison in the British Empire.
Spike Island Prison: During the British Empire’s height, this was one of the biggest prisons in it. Here there were people waiting to be transported to Australia, IRA fighters as well as other criminals of all sorts and sentences. They all experienced the gruesome facilities the now haunted prison had to offer. //Source: Sameichel/Wikimedia
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During the tumultuous years of the Irish War of Independence, the island served as a detention facility for IRA prisoners until 1921, earning it the ominous nickname of “Ireland’s Alcatraz.”
The Woman in White
While Spike Island’s physical role evolved over the years, its haunting history endured. Today, it stands as a tourist attraction akin to Alcatraz, replete with its own spectral inhabitants. One of the most notorious apparitions is the enigmatic “White Woman” who roams the island, her presence shrouded in mystery and who she was we will probably never know.
The Ghost of the Soldiers
It is said that the haunting goes way back, at least as far back when the island was used as a fortress. The island’s soldiers, on duty in the dead of night, have recounted terrifying encounters with a ghostly officer.
According to them, there is the ghost of a terrifying soldier, still on guard. Along the island’s perimeter walls, a phantom soldier stands guard, his eyes replaced by hollow voids that seem to peer into the abyss with his black holes as eyes.
People have been so frightened at this ghost that they have even opened fire at him, only to realize they are shooting at nothing.
The Haunted Prison and the Ghost of John Mitchel
Within the confines of the gaol cells, where countless inmates once suffered, now simmer with paranormal activity, a testament to the enduring anguish of those who served time behind its cold stone walls they were confined to almost all day and night.
John Mitchel: His activism and criticism of British rule garnered international attention and was convicted for treason.
One of the prisoners thought to haunt the prison is that of John Mitchel that apparently shows up in a white mist, although he did get released from the prison island.
John Mitchel was a prominent figure in Irish nationalism during the 19th century. Born in County Derry in 1815, he became a leading member of the ‘Young Irelander’ and ‘Irish Confederation’ movements. He was a solicitor, political journalist, and an outspoken critic of British rule in Ireland, especially during the Irish famine.
To silence Mitchel and prevent him from becoming a martyr, the British government passed the 1848 Treason Felony Act, which aimed to treat treason as a common crime. Mitchel was arrested and convicted of sedition under this act, receiving a fourteen-year transportation sentence. He was first sent to Spike Island in Ireland for three days before being transferred to Bermuda and eventually Australia in 1850.
During his journey, Mitchel began writing his famous ‘Jail Journal; or ‘Five Years in British Prisons,’ documenting his experiences from Dublin to New York, where he arrived in 1853. The journal, first published in 1854 in New York, exposed the harsh conditions in some prisons, including Spike Island, and garnered international attention.
The fort on Spike Island was renamed Fort Mitchel in his honor in 1951, and some GAA clubs in Ireland and sites in America bear his name.
The Haunted Cell 9
The most haunted cell was cell 9, that was known to be haunted, even when the building operated as a prison, and prisoners refused to stay in it as they never got a night’s sleep because of the haunting. They were either woken up, or flung from their bed.
The Haunted Cells: Many of the cells in the prison on Spike Island is said to be haunted. It is said that the place was even haunted when it was used as a prison. //Source: Kondephy/Wikimedia
Spike Island’s Echoes of the Past
Spike Island’s haunting history, from its monastic beginnings to its turbulent tenure as a military fortress and prison, continues to cast its eerie shadow over this enigmatic landmark. The spectral White Woman, the phantom soldier, and the ghostly officer are but a few of the restless souls who wander its haunted grounds, ensuring that the island’s chilling past remains alive and well, for those daring enough to explore its dark history.
Once a prosperous mill, now the ruins of the Wonderland Ranch and Wall Street Mill in Joshua Tree National Park are said to be haunted by the former workers who died in their search for gold.
Deep within the rugged terrain of Joshua Tree National Park lies the eerie remnants of the Wonderland Ranch and the Wall Street Mill, both steeped in haunting legends and tales of ghostly apparitions of those who were once lured west in search of gold.
Joshua Tree National Park, located in southeastern California, is a vast desert landscape known for its rugged rock formations and iconic Joshua trees. Spanning nearly 800,000 acres, the park encompasses two distinct desert ecosystems: the Mojave and Colorado Deserts. Rich in cultural history, Joshua Tree also preserves evidence of past civilizations, including Native American petroglyphs and remnants of 19th-century gold mining.
The Wall Street Mill
The Wall Street Mill, once a bustling site where gold ore was processed, was abandoned in the 1940s, yet the spirits of its former workers are said to still linger in the area, forever tied to the labor and lives they lost there.
The mill was built by the miner, Bill Keys, who also appears in the ghost story of Johnny Lang and the haunting said to happen around the Lost Horse Mine. Adjacent to the mill, the ruins of the pink walled Wonderland Ranch stands as another testament to Joshua Tree’s haunted past. The ranch, now a decaying structure, was once home to workers and their families.
The mill was a success and in a dispute about who got to access it, Keys shot and killed his neighbor, Worth Bagley. Keys then turned himself in and was convicted of manslaughter. He was sent to San Quentin State Penitentiary for 10 years. After he got out, Keys put up a monument to the murder saying: “Here is where Worth Bagley bit the dust at the hand of W. F. Keys, May 11, 1943.”
Wall Street Mill: Remains of the Wall Street Mill in Joshua Tree National Park
Ghost of the Wall Street Mill
Visitors who dare to explore the Wall Street Mill are often met with an unsettling atmosphere, but who is the one haunting it? The mill was in operation for many years, and although Worth Bagley is the most notable person who died there, could it be more than one?
It is a ghostly way up the trail that is said to have no shade and little to no cell service. Shadowy figures are frequently reported, flitting through the remains of the mill or standing ominously in the periphery of vision. Strange lights, which seem to have no earthly source, flicker and dance among the decaying structures, casting an otherworldly glow that defies explanation. Many hikers speak of a profound sense of unease, as if unseen eyes are watching their every move, a chilling reminder that they are not alone.
Wonderland Ranch: Just the ruins of the walls remains of the Wonderland Ranch in Joshua Tree National Park.
The sound of footsteps, echoing through the empty expanse, sends shivers down the spines of even the most seasoned adventurers. Some have even claimed to hear the distant, mournful clink of machinery, as if the mill is still in operation, grinding away in a spectral echo of its former glory.
In Elche, Spain there is the notorious Calahorra Tower that has long been believed to be haunted by mysterious ghosts. Under the tower there is a hidden passageway were the people that have lived in the tower throughout times have been certain to have been haunted.
From its strategic position on the banks of the Vinalopó River to its remarkable architectural features, the Calahorra Tower has witnessed centuries of triumphs, struggles, and cultural transformations. From the ancient Iberians to the Roman Empire and the Moorish rule, each chapter of history has left its mark on this remarkable structure.
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The first sign of the tower appeared as far back as the 12th century.Its strategic location made it a vital stronghold, guarding the city of Elche against potential invasions. The tower’s construction reflects the military architecture of the period, with its solid stone walls and defensive battlements. As you approach the tower, you can’t help but feel a sense of awe and wonder at the centuries of history it has witnessed.
Torre de le Calahorra: The Tower of La Calahorra rises up at the south of the Roman bridge, the far end from the city centre. It is a fortified gate originally built by the Moors. In the 18th century it was used as a prison and in the 19th century it was a girls school. It currently houses the Museo Vivo de Al-Andaluz.
But the historical significance of Calahorra Tower extends far beyond its military and religious roles. Over the centuries, it has served as a witness to Elche’s cultural transformations. The tower stands as a testament to the blending of different cultures, from the Roman Empire to the Moorish rule and the subsequent Christian reconquest. Each of these periods has left its mark on the architecture and cultural fabric of Elche, and the Calahorra Tower stands as a tangible reminder of this rich tapestry of history.
One of the most striking features of the Calahorra Tower is its rooftop terrace. From here, you can enjoy panoramic views of Elche and the surrounding countryside. It’s easy to imagine the soldiers who once stood guard on these battlements, scanning the horizon for any signs of danger. As you take in the breathtaking views, you can’t help but feel a connection to the past and the people who once called this tower home.
The Tower as a Mysterious Masonic Lodge
One of the strange uses the place has had except from prison, barracks and confinement during the plague is as the headquarter of a Masonic Lodge. The Masonic lodge of the Order of the Grand Orient of Spain is decorated with Egyptian motifs in the tower. It showed life and death as well as for ceremonies and different rituals.
Legends and Mysteries Surrounding Calahorra Tower
No historical landmark would be complete without its fair share of legends and mysteries, and the Calahorra Tower is no exception. Over the centuries, numerous stories have been passed down, adding to the allure and intrigue of this remarkable structure.
One of the most enduring legends surrounding the Calahorra Tower is that it is haunted. According to local folklore, the spirits of past inhabitants still wander its halls, unable to find peace. There is for example a passageway from the dungeons that leads out to the sea and many of those who have stayed there claim to have experienced something paranormal there. The last person who lived in the tower also claimed to have encountered a headless ghost.
Visitors have reported hearing strange noises, feeling cold spots, and even witnessing ghostly apparitions. There are especially talks about hearing footsteps and the sound of children on the second floor.
One of the oldest and deepest stepwells in India, Chand Baori are said to have been built over the course of a night by djinns. Still to this day, the cool and dark place is said to be haunted by something.
In the quiet village of Abhaneri in the eastern Dausa district of Rajasthan, Chand Baori stands as a testament to the architectural ingenuity of ancient India. Built during the 8th and 9th centuries by King Chanda of the Nikumbha Dynasty, this ancient stepwell is one of the deepest and largest in the country, although not always the easiest to find.
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Its haunting beauty and the eerie ambiance is also supposed to be one of the oldest and largest stepwells in the world and have earned it a reputation as one of the most haunted sites in Rajasthan, drawing curious visitors and paranormal enthusiasts alike.
Chand Baori is an architectural marvel, featuring 3,500 narrow steps arranged in a precise geometrical pattern, descending 13 stories deep into the silent depth of the earth. The walls have images like Sheshasayee Vishnu reclining on the serpent Ananta and Mahishasuramardini. On the sides there are shrines to Ganesha. According to legends, there are also tunnels connecting Abhaneri to Dausa.
These stepwells served many purposes as well as getting water, being a place for gatherings of religious and ceremonial activities among others.
The structure’s desolate appearance, combined with the echoes of footsteps reverberating through the empty well, contribute to its haunting reputation. All the way on the bottom the air is about 5-6 degrees cooler than at the surface. The sense of isolation and the shadows cast by the ancient stones create an eerie atmosphere, especially during the evenings or on cloudy days.
Local legends whisper of spirits and djinns that are said to haunt Chand Baori. According to folklore, the stepwell was constructed overnight by spirits, and those who disturb its tranquility risk invoking their wrath.
Visitors and locals alike have reported strange occurrences, from sudden drops in temperature to the feeling of being watched. There are also those who claim that they get a sudden feeling of being nauseous as they descend down the stairs.
The stillness and darkness within the depths of Chand Baori can be unsettling. Some visitors claim to have heard whispers and footsteps echoing in the silent corridors, while others report seeing shadowy figures lurking in the corners of the well.
Introduction to Dracula’s Guest by Bram Stoker: “Dracula’s Guest” is a chilling short story by Bram Stoker, believed to be a deleted chapter from his iconic novel “Dracula.” Set on Walpurgis Night, the eve of May Day, the story follows an unnamed Englishman who finds himself traveling through a remote corner of Munich. As he ventures deeper into the eerie landscape, he encounters unsettling omens and inexplicable occurrences.
When we started for our drive the sun was shining brightly on Munich, and the air was full of the joyousness of early summer. Just as we were about to depart, Herr Delbruck (the maitre d’hotel of the Quatre Saisons, where I was staying) came down bareheaded to the carriage and, after wishing me a pleasant drive, said to the coachman, still holding his hand on the handle of the carriage door, “Remember you are back by nightfall. The sky looks bright but there is a shiver in the north wind that says there may be a sudden storm. But I am sure you will not be late.” Here he smiled and added, “for you know what night it is.”
Johann answered with an emphatic, “Ja, mein Herr,” and, touching his hat, drove off quickly. When we had cleared the town, I said, after signalling to him to stop:
“Tell me, Johann, what is tonight?”
He crossed himself, as he answered laconically: “Walpurgis nacht.” Then he took out his watch, a great, old-fashioned German silver thing as big as a turnip and looked at it, with his eyebrows gathered together and a little impatient shrug of his shoulders. I realized that this was his way of respectfully protesting against the unnecessary delay and sank back in the carriage, merely motioning him to proceed. He started off rapidly, as if to make up for lost time. Every now and then the horses seemed to throw up their heads and sniff the air suspiciously. On such occasions I often looked round in alarm. The road was pretty bleak, for we were traversing a sort of high windswept plateau. As we drove, I saw a road that looked but little used and which seemed to dip through a little winding valley. It looked so inviting that, even at the risk of offending him, I called Johann to stop—and when he had pulled up, I told him I would like to drive down that road. He made all sorts of excuses and frequently crossed himself as he spoke. This somewhat piqued my curiosity, so I asked him various questions. He answered fencingly and repeatedly looked at his watch in protest.
Finally I said, “Well, Johann, I want to go down this road. I shall not ask you to come unless you like; but tell me why you do not like to go, that is all I ask.” For answer he seemed to throw himself off the box, so quickly did he reach the ground. Then he stretched out his hands appealingly to me and implored me not to go. There was just enough of English mixed with the German for me to understand the drift of his talk. He seemed always just about to tell me something—the very idea of which evidently frightened him; but each time he pulled himself up saying, “Walpurgis nacht!”
I tried to argue with him, but it was difficult to argue with a man when I did not know his language. The advantage certainly rested with him, for although he began to speak in English, of a very crude and broken kind, he always got excited and broke into his native tongue—and every time he did so, he looked at his watch. Then the horses became restless and sniffed the air. At this he grew very pale, and, looking around in a frightened way, he suddenly jumped forward, took them by the bridles, and led them on some twenty feet. I followed and asked why he had done this. For an answer he crossed himself, pointed to the spot we had left, and drew his carriage in the direction of the other road, indicating a cross, and said, first in German, then in English, “Buried him—him what killed themselves.”
I remembered the old custom of burying suicides at cross roads: “Ah! I see, a suicide. How interesting!” But for the life of me I could not make out why the horses were frightened.
Whilst we were talking, we heard a sort of sound between a yelp and a bark. It was far away; but the horses got very restless, and it took Johann all his time to quiet them. He was pale and said, “It sounds like a wolf—but yet there are no wolves here now.”
“No?” I said, questioning him. “Isn’t it long since the wolves were so near the city?”
“Long, long,” he answered, “in the spring and summer; but with the snow the wolves have been here not so long.”
Whilst he was petting the horses and trying to quiet them, dark clouds drifted rapidly across the sky. The sunshine passed away, and a breath of cold wind seemed to drift over us. It was only a breath, however, and more of a warning than a fact, for the sun came out brightly again.
Johann looked under his lifted hand at the horizon and said, “The storm of snow, he comes before long time.” Then he looked at his watch again, and, straightway holding his reins firmly—for the horses were still pawing the ground restlessly and shaking their heads—he climbed to his box as though the time had come for proceeding on our journey.
I felt a little obstinate and did not at once get into the carriage.
“Tell me,” I said, “about this place where the road leads,” and I pointed down.
Again he crossed himself and mumbled a prayer before he answered, “It is unholy.”
“What is unholy?” I enquired.
“The village.”
“Then there is a village?”
“No, no. No one lives there hundreds of years.”
My curiosity was piqued, “But you said there was a village.”
“There was.”
“Where is it now?”
Whereupon he burst out into a long story in German and English, so mixed up that I could not quite understand exactly what he said. Roughly I gathered that long ago, hundreds of years, men had died there and been buried in their graves; but sounds were heard under the clay, and when the graves were opened, men and women were found rosy with life and their mouths red with blood. And so, in haste to save their lives (aye, and their souls!—and here he crossed himself) those who were left fled away to other places, where the living lived and the dead were dead and not—not something. He was evidently afraid to speak the last words. As he proceeded with his narration, he grew more and more excited. It seemed as if his imagination had got hold of him, and he ended in a perfect paroxysm of fear—white-faced, perspiring, trembling, and looking round him as if expecting that some dreadful presence would manifest itself there in the bright sunshine on the open plain.
Finally, in an agony of desperation, he cried, “Walpurgis nacht!” and pointed to the carriage for me to get in.
All my English blood rose at this, and standing back I said, “You are afraid, Johann—you are afraid. Go home, I shall return alone, the walk will do me good.” The carriage door was open. I took from the seat my oak walking stick—which I always carry on my holiday excursions—and closed the door, pointing back to Munich, and said, “Go home, Johann—Walpurgis nacht doesn’t concern Englishmen.”
The horses were now more restive than ever, and Johann was trying to hold them in, while excitedly imploring me not to do anything so foolish. I pitied the poor fellow, he was so deeply in earnest; but all the same I could not help laughing. His English was quite gone now. In his anxiety he had forgotten that his only means of making me understand was to talk my language, so he jabbered away in his native German. It began to be a little tedious. After giving the direction, “Home!” I turned to go down the cross road into the valley.
With a despairing gesture, Johann turned his horses towards Munich. I leaned on my stick and looked after him. He went slowly along the road for a while, then there came over the crest of the hill a man tall and thin. I could see so much in the distance. When he drew near the horses, they began to jump and kick about, then to scream with terror. Johann could not hold them in; they bolted down the road, running away madly. I watched them out of sight, then looked for the stranger; but I found that he, too, was gone.
With a light heart I turned down the side road through the deepening valley to which Johann had objected. There was not the slightest reason, that I could see, for his objection; and I daresay I tramped for a couple of hours without thinking of time or distance and certainly without seeing a person or a house. So far as the place was concerned, it was desolation itself. But I did not notice this particularly till, on turning a bend in the road, I came upon a scattered fringe of wood; then I recognized that I had been impressed unconsciously by the desolation of the region through which I had passed.
I sat down to rest myself and began to look around. It struck me that it was considerably colder than it had been at the commencement of my walk—a sort of sighing sound seemed to be around me with, now and then, high overhead, a sort of muffled roar. Looking upwards I noticed that great thick clouds were drafting rapidly across the sky from north to south at a great height. There were signs of a coming storm in some lofty stratum of the air. I was a little chilly, and, thinking that it was the sitting still after the exercise of walking, I resumed my journey.
The ground I passed over was now much more picturesque. There were no striking objects that the eye might single out, but in all there was a charm of beauty. I took little heed of time, and it was only when the deepening twilight forced itself upon me that I began to think of how I should find my way home. The air was cold, and the drifting of clouds high overhead was more marked. They were accompanied by a sort of far away rushing sound, through which seemed to come at intervals that mysterious cry which the driver had said came from a wolf. For a while I hesitated. I had said I would see the deserted village, so on I went and presently came on a wide stretch of open country, shut in by hills all around. Their sides were covered with trees which spread down to the plain, dotting in clumps the gentler slopes and hollows which showed here and there. I followed with my eye the winding of the road and saw that it curved close to one of the densest of these clumps and was lost behind it.
As I looked there came a cold shiver in the air, and the snow began to fall. I thought of the miles and miles of bleak country I had passed, and then hurried on to seek shelter of the wood in front. Darker and darker grew the sky, and faster and heavier fell the snow, till the earth before and around me was a glistening white carpet the further edge of which was lost in misty vagueness. The road was here but crude, and when on the level its boundaries were not so marked as when it passed through the cuttings; and in a little while I found that I must have strayed from it, for I missed underfoot the hard surface, and my feet sank deeper in the grass and moss. Then the wind grew stronger and blew with ever increasing force, till I was fain to run before it. The air became icy-cold, and in spite of my exercise I began to suffer. The snow was now falling so thickly and whirling around me in such rapid eddies that I could hardly keep my eyes open. Every now and then the heavens were torn asunder by vivid lightning, and in the flashes I could see ahead of me a great mass of trees, chiefly yew and cypress all heavily coated with snow.
I was soon amongst the shelter of the trees, and there in comparative silence I could hear the rush of the wind high overhead. Presently the blackness of the storm had become merged in the darkness of the night. By-and-by the storm seemed to be passing away, it now only came in fierce puffs or blasts. At such moments the weird sound of the wolf appeared to be echoed by many similar sounds around me.
Now and again, through the black mass of drifting cloud, came a straggling ray of moonlight which lit up the expanse and showed me that I was at the edge of a dense mass of cypress and yew trees. As the snow had ceased to fall, I walked out from the shelter and began to investigate more closely. It appeared to me that, amongst so many old foundations as I had passed, there might be still standing a house in which, though in ruins, I could find some sort of shelter for a while. As I skirted the edge of the copse, I found that a low wall encircled it, and following this I presently found an opening. Here the cypresses formed an alley leading up to a square mass of some kind of building. Just as I caught sight of this, however, the drifting clouds obscured the moon, and I passed up the path in darkness. The wind must have grown colder, for I felt myself shiver as I walked; but there was hope of shelter, and I groped my way blindly on.
I stopped, for there was a sudden stillness. The storm had passed; and, perhaps in sympathy with nature’s silence, my heart seemed to cease to beat. But this was only momentarily; for suddenly the moonlight broke through the clouds showing me that I was in a graveyard and that the square object before me was a great massive tomb of marble, as white as the snow that lay on and all around it. With the moonlight there came a fierce sigh of the storm which appeared to resume its course with a long, low howl, as of many dogs or wolves. I was awed and shocked, and I felt the cold perceptibly grow upon me till it seemed to grip me by the heart. Then while the flood of moonlight still fell on the marble tomb, the storm gave further evidence of renewing, as though it were returning on its track. Impelled by some sort of fascination, I approached the sepulchre to see what it was and why such a thing stood alone in such a place. I walked around it and read, over the Doric door, in German—
COUNTESS DOLINGEN OF GRATZ IN STYRIA SOUGHT AND FOUND DEATH 1801
On the top of the tomb, seemingly driven through the solid marble—for the structure was composed of a few vast blocks of stone—was a great iron spike or stake. On going to the back I saw, graven in great Russian letters: “The dead travel fast.”
There was something so weird and uncanny about the whole thing that it gave me a turn and made me feel quite faint. I began to wish, for the first time, that I had taken Johann’s advice. Here a thought struck me, which came under almost mysterious circumstances and with a terrible shock. This was Walpurgis Night!
Walpurgis Night was when, according to the belief of millions of people, the devil was abroad—when the graves were opened and the dead came forth and walked. When all evil things of earth and air and water held revel. This very place the driver had specially shunned. This was the depopulated village of centuries ago. This was where the suicide lay; and this was the place where I was alone—unmanned, shivering with cold in a shroud of snow with a wild storm gathering again upon me! It took all my philosophy, all the religion I had been taught, all my courage, not to collapse in a paroxysm of fright.
And now a perfect tornado burst upon me. The ground shook as though thousands of horses thundered across it; and this time the storm bore on its icy wings, not snow, but great hailstones which drove with such violence that they might have come from the thongs of Balearic slingers—hailstones that beat down leaf and branch and made the shelter of the cypresses of no more avail than though their stems were standing corn. At the first I had rushed to the nearest tree; but I was soon fain to leave it and seek the only spot that seemed to afford refuge, the deep Doric doorway of the marble tomb. There, crouching against the massive bronze door, I gained a certain amount of protection from the beating of the hailstones, for now they only drove against me as they ricochetted from the ground and the side of the marble.
As I leaned against the door, it moved slightly and opened inwards. The shelter of even a tomb was welcome in that pitiless tempest and I was about to enter it when there came a flash of forked lightning that lit up the whole expanse of the heavens. In the instant, as I am a living man, I saw, as my my eyes turned into the darkness of the tomb, a beautiful woman with rounded cheeks and red lips, seemingly sleeping on a bier. As the thunder broke overhead, I was grasped as by the hand of a giant and hurled out into the storm. The whole thing was so sudden that, before I could realize the shock, moral as well as physical, I found the hailstones beating me down. At the same time I had a strange, dominating feeling that I was not alone. I looked towards the tomb. Just then there came another blinding flash which seemed to strike the iron stake that surmounted the tomb and to pour through to the earth, blasting and crumbling the marble, as in a burst of flame. The dead woman rose for a moment of agony while she was lapped in the flame, and her bitter scream of pain was drowned in the thundercrash. The last thing I heard was this mingling of dreadful sound, as again I was seized in the giant grasp and dragged away, while the hailstones beat on me and the air around seemed reverberant with the howling of wolves. The last sight that I remembered was a vague, white, moving mass, as if all the graves around me had sent out the phantoms of their sheeted dead, and that they were closing in on me through the white cloudiness of the driving hail.
Gradually there came a sort of vague beginning of consciousness, then a sense of weariness that was dreadful. For a time I remembered nothing, but slowly my senses returned. My feet seemed positively racked with pain, yet I could not move them. They seemed to be numbed. There was an icy feeling at the back of my neck and all down my spine, and my ears, like my feet, were dead yet in torment; but there was in my breast a sense of warmth which was by comparison delicious. It was as a nightmare—a physical nightmare, if one may use such an expression; for some heavy weight on my chest made it difficult for me to breathe.
This period of semilethargy seemed to remain a long time, and as it faded away I must have slept or swooned. Then came a sort of loathing, like the first stage of seasickness, and a wild desire to be free of something—I knew not what. A vast stillness enveloped me, as though all the world were asleep or dead—only broken by the low panting as of some animal close to me. I felt a warm rasping at my throat, then came a consciousness of the awful truth which chilled me to the heart and sent the blood surging up through my brain. Some great animal was lying on me and now licking my throat. I feared to stir, for some instinct of prudence bade me lie still; but the brute seemed to realize that there was now some change in me, for it raised its head. Through my eyelashes I saw above me the two great flaming eyes of a gigantic wolf. Its sharp white teeth gleamed in the gaping red mouth, and I could feel its hot breath fierce and acrid upon me.
For another spell of time I remembered no more. Then I became conscious of a low growl, followed by a yelp, renewed again and again. Then seemingly very far away, I heard a “Holloa! holloa!” as of many voices calling in unison. Cautiously I raised my head and looked in the direction whence the sound came, but the cemetery blocked my view. The wolf still continued to yelp in a strange way, and a red glare began to move round the grove of cypresses, as though following the sound. As the voices drew closer, the wolf yelped faster and louder. I feared to make either sound or motion. Nearer came the red glow over the white pall which stretched into the darkness around me. Then all at once from beyond the trees there came at a trot a troop of horsemen bearing torches. The wolf rose from my breast and made for the cemetery. I saw one of the horsemen (soldiers by their caps and their long military cloaks) raise his carbine and take aim. A companion knocked up his arm, and I heard the ball whiz over my head. He had evidently taken my body for that of the wolf. Another sighted the animal as it slunk away, and a shot followed. Then, at a gallop, the troop rode forward—some towards me, others following the wolf as it disappeared amongst the snow-clad cypresses.
As they drew nearer I tried to move but was powerless, although I could see and hear all that went on around me. Two or three of the soldiers jumped from their horses and knelt beside me. One of them raised my head and placed his hand over my heart.
“Good news, comrades!” he cried. “His heart still beats!”
Then some brandy was poured down my throat; it put vigor into me, and I was able to open my eyes fully and look around. Lights and shadows were moving among the trees, and I heard men call to one another. They drew together, uttering frightened exclamations; and the lights flashed as the others came pouring out of the cemetery pell-mell, like men possessed. When the further ones came close to us, those who were around me asked them eagerly, “Well, have you found him?”
The reply rang out hurriedly, “No! no! Come away quick-quick! This is no place to stay, and on this of all nights!”
“What was it?” was the question, asked in all manner of keys. The answer came variously and all indefinitely as though the men were moved by some common impulse to speak yet were restrained by some common fear from giving their thoughts.
“It—it—indeed!” gibbered one, whose wits had plainly given out for the moment.
“A wolf—and yet not a wolf!” another put in shudderingly.
“No use trying for him without the sacred bullet,” a third remarked in a more ordinary manner.
“Serve us right for coming out on this night! Truly we have earned our thousand marks!” were the ejaculations of a fourth.
“There was blood on the broken marble,” another said after a pause, “the lightning never brought that there. And for him—is he safe? Look at his throat! See comrades, the wolf has been lying on him and keeping his blood warm.”
The officer looked at my throat and replied, “He is all right, the skin is not pierced. What does it all mean? We should never have found him but for the yelping of the wolf.”
“What became of it?” asked the man who was holding up my head and who seemed the least panic-stricken of the party, for his hands were steady and without tremor. On his sleeve was the chevron of a petty officer.
“It went home,” answered the man, whose long face was pallid and who actually shook with terror as he glanced around him fearfully. “There are graves enough there in which it may lie. Come, comrades—come quickly! Let us leave this cursed spot.”
The officer raised me to a sitting posture, as he uttered a word of command; then several men placed me upon a horse. He sprang to the saddle behind me, took me in his arms, gave the word to advance; and, turning our faces away from the cypresses, we rode away in swift military order.
As yet my tongue refused its office, and I was perforce silent. I must have fallen asleep; for the next thing I remembered was finding myself standing up, supported by a soldier on each side of me. It was almost broad daylight, and to the north a red streak of sunlight was reflected like a path of blood over the waste of snow. The officer was telling the men to say nothing of what they had seen, except that they found an English stranger, guarded by a large dog.
“Dog! that was no dog,” cut in the man who had exhibited such fear. “I think I know a wolf when I see one.”
The young officer answered calmly, “I said a dog.”
“Dog!” reiterated the other ironically. It was evident that his courage was rising with the sun; and, pointing to me, he said, “Look at his throat. Is that the work of a dog, master?”
Instinctively I raised my hand to my throat, and as I touched it I cried out in pain. The men crowded round to look, some stooping down from their saddles; and again there came the calm voice of the young officer, “A dog, as I said. If aught else were said we should only be laughed at.”
I was then mounted behind a trooper, and we rode on into the suburbs of Munich. Here we came across a stray carriage into which I was lifted, and it was driven off to the Quatre Saisons—the young officer accompanying me, whilst a trooper followed with his horse, and the others rode off to their barracks.
When we arrived, Herr Delbruck rushed so quickly down the steps to meet me, that it was apparent he had been watching within. Taking me by both hands he solicitously led me in. The officer saluted me and was turning to withdraw, when I recognized his purpose and insisted that he should come to my rooms. Over a glass of wine I warmly thanked him and his brave comrades for saving me. He replied simply that he was more than glad, and that Herr Delbruck had at the first taken steps to make all the searching party pleased; at which ambiguous utterance the maitre d’hotel smiled, while the officer plead duty and withdrew.
“But Herr Delbruck,” I enquired, “how and why was it that the soldiers searched for me?”
He shrugged his shoulders, as if in depreciation of his own deed, as he replied, “I was so fortunate as to obtain leave from the commander of the regiment in which I serve, to ask for volunteers.”
“But how did you know I was lost?” I asked.
“The driver came hither with the remains of his carriage, which had been upset when the horses ran away.”
“But surely you would not send a search party of soldiers merely on this account?”
“Oh, no!” he answered, “but even before the coachman arrived, I had this telegram from the Boyar whose guest you are,” and he took from his pocket a telegram which he handed to me, and I read:
Bistritz. Be careful of my guest—his safety is most precious to me. Should aught happen to him, or if he be missed, spare nothing to find him and ensure his safety. He is English and therefore adventurous. There are often dangers from snow and wolves and night. Lose not a moment if you suspect harm to him. I answer your zeal with my fortune. —Dracula.
As I held the telegram in my hand, the room seemed to whirl around me, and if the attentive maitre d’hotel had not caught me, I think I should have fallen. There was something so strange in all this, something so weird and impossible to imagine, that there grew on me a sense of my being in some way the sport of opposite forces—the mere vague idea of which seemed in a way to paralyze me. I was certainly under some form of mysterious protection. From a distant country had come, in the very nick of time, a message that took me out of the danger of the snow sleep and the jaws of the wolf.
What really happened around the Pollingsried Chapel, and its supposed plague cemetery? Is there really a curse around the area? As far as the ringing of the bells can be heard?
Searching for its name, the utburd ghost from Norwegian folklore haunts the forests, waters and houses its parents left them to die. For the most part, they remained in folk tales, but sometimes, the stories about the dead children got real life consequences.
Perhaps one of the most well known figures from Irish mythology is the Banshee, the omen of death, wailing as death comes to a house. But where does she come from? And what does she want from the dead?
Before meeting a vampire in Transylvania, a short story places Jonathan Harket facing the undead outside of Munich. Could it have a connection to the village that according to legend, vanished suddenly in the middle ages.
One of the dark entities on the emerald island, there is the Death Coach who comes to collect the souls of the dead. Pulled by headless horses, the Cóiste Bodhar stops at nothing before its mission is complete, and misfortune happens upon those getting in its way.
In 1687, the ghost of a murdered child started to testify against its mother in northern Norway and people took it seriously. Today, the Utburd of Skåvoll or the Nille-case is remembered as the ghost story that condemned a woman to her death.
Have a look at some of the most haunted places in Dublin, from the mysteries of the Hellfire Club, churches where you can supposedly summon the devil and the dead lingering in the dusty libraries and colleges.
After strange knocking and poltergeist activity made the people at Erstad Farm believe it was haunted. And when they asked the ghost what it wanted, it unraveled the lives of more than one person forever.
Was there an iberian vampire before the European vampire panic in Eastern Europe? Who was really Conde Estruch, the vampire of Catalonia, and what happened to the witches of Llers Castle the count was said to use as his lair.
Join a haunted pub crawl through Dublin’s ancient streets for ghosts and a pint of Guinness. From plotting revolutionaries to somber writers, these pubs and bars are said to be a place where some of the patrons have been lingering for a long time.
In 1852, the alleged psychic Erika Larsdatter Bogen, arrived at Børholmen, a small island in western Norway. She claimed that she had found the ghost and corpse of the dead child, and she named the mother who allegedly buried it. But what was the truth?
Amidst the green hills is the red Fernhills Royal Palace Hotel which are said to be haunted by people that have stayed there. There are many legends, and there are even rumors that the hotel had to close down for a while because of the paranormal activity going on.
In the southern state of Tamil Nadu, India, lies the Fernhills Royal Palace Hotel, a luxurious resort that boasts picturesque views of the lush Nilgiri Mountains covered in blue Kurunji flowers in Ooty town, known as “Queen of Hill Stations” in the country.
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Many have reported strange sightings and supernatural occurrences within the Swiss styled hotel’s walls, leading to its reputation as one of India’s most mysterious and haunted destinations.
Fernhills Royal Palace Hotel: The old hotel is thought to be haunted. This rumor gre popular especially after a horror movie was set there and when the crew claimed to have experienced strange things during filming. // Source
The Haunting of Fernhills Royal Palace Hotel
The most famous ghost story retold from the hotel comes from a Bollywood production. In 2002, the Bollywood dance choreographer Saroj Khan traveled to Ooty to shoot the movie, Raaz. She and her troupe checked into the Fernhills Royal Palace Hotel and expected a relaxing night. During the night however, they were kept awake by the people upstairs where it sounded like they were rearranging the furniture, making such a ruckus that they couldn’t sleep.
They called the receptionist, but there was no answer, like the phone was dead. They endured the night with all the moving upstairs without making any more fuss, and the next day they complained about it to the receptionist.
The receptionist was confused and said: But there is no floor upstairs, and even took the time to show them from the outside when they all became confused. Indeed, there was no room above them. But what then, had kept them up all night?
The History of Fernhills Royal Palace Hotel
But let’s have a look at the hotel’s history to understand where the haunted rumors could come from. The Fern Hill Hotel, formerly known as the Palace Hotel, was built in 1844 as the summer residence of the Maharaja of Mysore. The Swiss Chalet gives it an alpine look where it sits in the lush greenery of cardamom and tea plantations.
The hotel was also initially used as a summer retreat for British officials during the British Raj era and their families as an escape from the heat from the humid plains of the Madras Presidency to the much cooler climate.
Read more: Check out all of the Haunted Hotels around the world
It was later converted into a hotel in the 1920s and was renamed the Fern Hill Hotel. The hotel has since undergone several renovations and is now a luxurious resort that attracts visitors from all over the world.
Ghost Sightings and Paranormal Activity
Over the years, many strange events have been reported at the Fernhills Royal Palace Hotel. Guests and staff members have reported hearing unexplained noises, seeing ghostly apparitions, and feeling a presence in their rooms.
There are several theories behind the haunting at the Fernhills Royal Palace Hotel. Some believe that the hotel was built on land that was once a burial ground, which has caused the spirits of the dead to haunt the hotel.
Others believe that the haunting are a result of the hotel’s dark history, which includes the deaths of several guests and staff members. One rumor of a particular woman who committed suicide at the hotel has been widely spread as well.
The Controversy Surrounding Fern Hill Hotel
Despite its haunted reputation, there are some who believe that the haunting at the Fernhills Royal Palace Hotel are nothing more than a hoax. Some skeptics have pointed out that the hotel has a financial incentive to promote its haunted reputation, as it attracts visitors and increases revenue.
As for the filming of the movie Raaz and what the dance troupe experienced during their night, it is worth noting that the movie is actually a supernatural horror movie, and that the stories of the haunted room upstairs that didn’t exist was all rumored to be a part of the movie promotion.
For a long time the hotel closed down in March 2018. The official reason is that they closed down for renovation. Many claimed it was because of the haunted rumors that had started to accumulate around the hotel and the many incidents of paranormal activity. It has reopened again now however, the question is, with or without ghosts?
On the trails leading up to the abandoned Lost Horse Mine in Joshua Tree National Park, people talk about a ghost said to haunt the place, the spirit of a miner who died starving as he was looking for his lost gold.
Tucked away in the rugged expanse of Joshua Tree National Park, the Lost Horse Mine stands as a relic of a bygone era of gun slinging cowboys, horse thieves, gold fever, where over 300 mining claims once dotted the landscape.
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Joshua Tree National Park, located in southeastern California, is a vast desert landscape known for its rugged rock formations and iconic Joshua trees. Spanning nearly 800,000 acres, the park encompasses two distinct desert ecosystems: the Mojave and Colorado Deserts. Rich in cultural history, Joshua Tree also preserves evidence of past civilizations, including Native American petroglyphs and remnants of 19th-century gold mining.
Joshua Tree National Park: The desert national park in California has more than one ghost story said to haunt it. One of them is the story about an old miner said to still be looking for his lost gold.
The Lost Horse Mine
Perched on a peak of the San Bernardino Mountains among the cacti, yucca and wildflowers, this historic gold mine lies between Lost Horse Valley to the west and Pleasant Valley to the east, about 15 miles north of the City of Indio in Riverside County.
The Lost Horse Mine Trail winds through the harsh, arid terrain of the Mojave Desert, leading adventurers to the dilapidated remnants of what was once a bustling gold mine. The Lost Horse Mine was one of the few successful mines in the San Bernardino Mountains from 1894 to 1931 when it shut down for good. This was because of the climate of hot summers, lack of water and wood sources as well as being so far from everything made transportation and operating a mine challenging.
Lost Horse Mine: One of the haunted places in the Joshua Tree National Park is by the abandoned Lost Horse Mines that ended the partnership in quarrels and eventually poverty and death.
The man who started it was a man named Johnny Lang together with his three partners. The name the Lost Horse comes from a story from 1890 when Johnny Lang met two outlaws that threatened him after stealing his horses.
Legend of the Lost Gold
Johnny Lang: Could the old miner be the thing haunting the trails leading up tp his old Lost Horse Mine, still looking for his gold?
However, the journey is not just a step back in time but also a brush with the supernatural. According to local lore, the mine is haunted by the ghost of a miner who met a tragic end in a horrific accident. His restless spirit is said to wander the area, forever searching for his lost gold. Who was this miner? Although not all sources of the ghost story state his name, the story of Johnny Lang and his ending surely is a haunting one.
After the Lost Horse Mine ceased operations, Johnny Lang returned to the site around 1923. According to stories, Lang had stashed away stolen amalgam at the mill site, which he couldn’t retrieve when he was driven away from the mill. When he returned, he hoped to find it but continued prospecting without much success.
Occasionally, he sold “pure gold bullion” to local homesteader Bill Keys. Perhaps he really did find some of it? But it can’t have been much, if any at all as the state of him in his final days were dire. Bill Keys’ son, Willis, recalled seeing a malnourished Lang visit their ranch one day, running his fingers across the teeth of a meat saw, searching for any signs of fresh meat. It was also said he walked everywhere because he had eaten his horse.
In January 1925, Lang left a note on his cabin door, stating he was going for supplies. Bill Keys found his body two months later, with only a small piece of bacon wrapped in wax paper in his possession. Lang was buried where he was found, but stories of his hidden gold persisted and he didn’t get the chance to rest in peace. Some believed a map to his stash was buried with him, leading to his body being dug up twice. On the second time his skull was stolen, but the gold is still said to be lost.
Lang’s Lost Gold Still Haunting the Lost Horse Mine
As you hike the trail, the scorching desert heat might suddenly be pierced by an inexplicable cold breeze, sending shivers down your spine. This chilling sensation is often reported by those who dare to tread this path, a stark contrast to the typical desert climate.
Strange noises, too, plague the area. Some hikers swear they hear the unmistakable sound of pickaxes striking rock, an eerie echo of the Lost Horse Mine’s bustling past, despite the surrounding silence. Could it be the ghost of Johnny Lang looking for his gold?
Unexplained movements and shadowy figures are common sightings among those who brave the trail at dusk or dawn. It’s as if the spectral miner is not content with solitude and seeks to make his presence known to all who venture near his domain.
A servant working at Skryne Castle was brutally murdered by a rejected suitor. Now her haunted screams are said to be heard in the castle as she is forever replaying her final frightened moments.
Amidst the Irish countryside and within a stone’s throw of the legendary Hill of Tara stands the imposing Skryne Castle. This three-storey, 12th-century structure has borne witness to centuries of history and has its own share of spine-tingling ghost stories that have become entwined with its ancient stones.
Read More: Check out all of the ghost stories from Ireland
The castle was built sometime around 1172-1175 by the knight Adam de Feipo who was granted the land by Henry II of England. Eight centuries later, the estate is still held by the direct descendants, the Dunsany.
Today, Skryne Castle offers visitors the opportunity to immerse themselves in the past, as it is available for rent on a self-catering basis. However, beneath its tranquil facade, the castle harbors eerie tales of its spectral inhabitants.
The Legend of Lilith Palmerston
One of the most well-documented ghostly tales associated with Skryne Castle revolves around the tragic figure of Lilith Palmerston. She was working as a maid in the castle in 1740.
A neighboring landowner and widower, Phelim Sellers, harbored affection for Lilith, but when she spurned his advances, his infatuation took a dark turn. Sellers, driven by his desires, attempted to assault Lilith. However, her cries for help reached the ears of quick-thinking servants who intervened and rescued her from her assailant’s clutches.
Lilith’s Fateful Demise
Darker rumors circulate, suggesting that Sellers may have been involved in the earlier death of his own wife. Fearing further advances from Sellers, Lilith plans to escape to Dublin. Learning of her plans, Sellers confronted her once more, but this time, Lilith was alone and defenseless.
Legend has it that Sellers forced foxgloves down Lilith’s throat and killed her. Realizing the gravity of his crime, Sellers fled the scene. However, justice would catch up with him, and he was eventually apprehended, tried, and met his fate at the gallows for the murder of Lilith Palmerston.
Lilith’s Haunting Presence
Today, Skryne Castle is said to be haunted by the spirit of Lilith Palmerston. She appears as a spectral lady in white, her ethereal form fleeing the castle while clutching her throat, forever reliving the horror of her final moments.
The anguished screams of Lilith have been known to echo through the castle’s halls, serving as a haunting reminder of her tragic end.
Read More: Check out all of the Haunted Castles from around the world
Inexplicable footsteps reverberate throughout the property, evoking the presence of Lilith or perhaps that of her vengeful attacker, Phelim Sellers. Witnesses have also described encountering an enigmatic overweight male figure donned in attire reminiscent of the 18th century.
The Nun, the Tall Man, and the Hound
Skryne Castle’s ghosts don’t end with Lilith. Some visitors have reported sightings of a spectral nun, her silent presence disappearing mysteriously upon being spotted.
A tall man, often accompanied by a ghostly hunting hound, was rumored to roam the castle grounds. However, these apparitions have grown elusive in recent times and not much about the two ghosts being reported on is known.
Skryne Castle’s Enduring Legacy of Hauntings
Skryne Castle, with its rich history and spectral inhabitants, offers a unique window into Ireland’s past. From the tragic tale of Lilith Palmerston to the enigmatic apparitions that continue to captivate the imagination, the castle’s stone walls seem to hold the echoes of centuries gone by.
For those who seek a blend of history and the supernatural, Skryne Castle stands as a testament to the enduring legacy of Ireland’s haunted past, where the past and the paranormal intersect in spectral harmony.
The old prison, Fort Jefferson in the Dry Tortugas National Park is thought to be haunted by someone who was imprisoned there. Most fingers point to Dr. Samuel Mudd, imprisoned as a co-conspirator of the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.
In the turquoise expanse of the Gulf of Mexico, where the sun-drenched waters meet the vast sky, lies a cluster of islands known as the Dry Tortugas named after the turtles by the first European who caught turtles there when he discovered it in 1513. Dry Tortugas National Park, located about 70 miles west of Key West, Florida. The park, accessible only by boat or seaplane, comprises seven small islands and the surrounding coral reefs and waters.
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While these pristine isles may boast stunning coral reefs and sun-soaked beaches, they harbor secrets that transcend the beauty of their natural surroundings. Pirates used to loom on these shores, around the island, remains of the many shipwrecks of those crossing the dangerous waters, giving the park a haunted rumor as well as for its beauty. Among the haunted stories, Fort Jefferson stands as a silent sentinel, bearing witness to a tumultuous past that echoes through the ages.
Dry Tortugas Islands: The small island is made into a national park with its old fort and prison surrounding it. It is said to be haunted by ghosts of prisoners who stayed there.
The Haunted Fort Jefferson
Its centerpiece of the Dry Tortugas is the rust red Fort Jefferson, a massive but unfinished coastal fortress constructed in 1825. Fort Jefferson was envisioned as a bastion of strength, a deterrent against the looming threat of Caribbean piracy that plagued the waters. It remained as a prison until it was abandoned in 1874.
As part of the larger Key West forts and coral reef complex, Fort Jefferson earned its place as a National Park due to its historical significance and the stories etched into its weathered walls.
However, the ghosts that linger within Fort Jefferson’s confines are not confined to the realm of swashbuckling corsairs. Whispers of spectral apparitions traverse the corridors, evoking the haunting tales of prisoners who succumbed to the ravages of yellow fever during their incarceration. The wailing spirits of those who met a grim fate within the fortress are said to linger, their ethereal presence manifesting in chilling whispers and fleeting shadows.
Although there are not many details around the supposed haunting other than myths and hearsay, there is one person that is talked about most when discussing who could be haunting the fort.
Fort Jefferson: The island of Dry Tortugas holds the old prison and fort, Fort Jefferson, thought to be haunted.
The Ghost of Dr. Samuel Mudd
But who is haunting the fort to this day. Among the spectral denizens of Fort Jefferson, one figure stands out—Dr. Samuel Mudd. While not a pirate by any means, Mudd was ensnared in the web of conspiracy surrounding the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln and he was the doctor who treated John Wilkes Booth after he was hurt during the assassination.
A co-conspirator of the infamous John Wilkes Booth, Mudd found himself imprisoned within the walls of Fort Jefferson with three others said to be co-conspirators. Although what his part in the plat was, if any, is very unclear. It was here, on these remote islands, he was set to serve his time before he was pardoned after he averted a viral outbreak of yellow fever in 1869 and took over the duties of the prison doctor who succumbed to it.
Dr. Samuel Mudd: One of the prisoners thought to be haunting the prison is Dr. Samuel Mudd who was sent to prison after being believed to be involved in the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.
Legend has it that the ghost of Samuel Mudd roams the halls and ramparts of Fort Jefferson, a specter bound to the place of his confinement. Although he was pardoned and released from prison, his conviction was never overturned, even though he and his family tried many times. To this day, the conviction remains a controversy.
He died in Maryland of pneumonia, and was buried on firm ground, far from the island where he was imprisoned. Still, the legend about him haunting the fort remains. Whether it be a manifestation of remorse or a yearning for justice, the ethereal presence of Mudd adds another layer to the ghostly tapestry woven into the fort’s history.
As the sun sets over the Dry Tortugas and shadows dance upon the timeworn stones of Fort Jefferson, the ghosts of the past come alive, revealing tales of intrigue, tragedy, and the enduring echoes of history. Could someone, or something be haunting the place?
Ghost stations, ghost passengers and ghosts on the platform. The metro line in Barcelona has been thought to be haunted almost as soon as it opened. And no other station is said to be more haunted than the Rocafort Metro Station.
This hidden gem of the city’s underground transport system holds a chilling history that will send shivers down your spine. From ghostly apparitions to unexplained phenomena, the mysteries surrounding Rocafort Metro Station have captivated the curious and the brave for years.
Read more: Check out all of our ghost stories from Spain
Today, the metro in Barcelona is one of the most efficient ways of traveling around in the city. The metro has gone through many changes since the first trains started running. There are today many of the old lines and stations that have been abandoned and closed off where only the huge rats and nests of cockroaches live. It is said, though, that you can get a glimpse of them when passing by through the windows in the dark tunnels. And it is said the same with the ghosts said to haunt the metro.
The Haunted Metro Lines: In Barcelona there is not only one of the stations that are said to be haunted. But most reports about the supposed hauntings comes from Rocafort Station on Line 1.
The Cursed Line: Rocafort Metro Station
One of the most haunted metro lines, perhaps even the most haunted location in Barcelona, is the Line 1 to Rocafort and Rocafort Metro Station that opened in 1926. This old metro station on the red line in Barcelona is said to be cursed, as many suicides happened there.
During the construction of Rocafort Metro Station, a mudslide occurred, resulting in the deaths of 11 workers when there was a collapse at Urgel station. This tragic event set the stage for the supernatural happenings that would follow. The station also served as a refuge during the Civil War, adding to its dark history. The combination of these events has created an atmosphere that is ripe for paranormal activity.
A Series of Suicides on the Metro Station
At one time, there were as many as four suicides in a month in the 1970s. The history of tragedy surrounding this station dates back to its conception.
Nobody wants to work in the place, especially at night. For a period of time there was a string of suicides at the station in a very short period of time. In one month it is said that four people took their own lives on the rails.
On the TV monitors, static people that don’t appear in real life are walking along the platform, even long after the last train had passed and the station was closed down. They weren’t found on any of the other stations and look like they have just disappeared into the dark underground tunnels.
The Hauntings of Rocafort Metro Station
The haunting stories surrounding Rocafort Metro Station are numerous and spine-chilling. The staff working at night claim to see ghosts walking on the platform as well as along the tracks. People have reported capturing recordings of these ghosts on the station’s surveillance cameras, adding a layer of eerie evidence to the stories.
The Urban Legends of the Underground: As with many other metro station worldwide, the tale of the murdered passenger is also told in Barcelona. According to the legend, a young student was heading home on the train and the train was empty except an older woman and two men carrying a woman between them. The older woman told the student to get off at the next stop, and when they exited, she told that the woman between the two men were in fact dead. A similar story is also told about The Disappearance of Bus 330 in Beijing.
One particular sighting that has left a lasting impression is when a medium saw that of a child playing with a ball on the platform. The chilling aspect is that the station had a child who tragically died a couple of years ago when the ball fell onto the tracks, and the child went after it. This encounter raises questions about the nature of these apparitions and their connection to the tragedies that have occurred at Rocafort Metro Station.
Another group of ghosts hanging in their afterlife at the station are blind people. The place is also said to be haunted by blind people, as many of them were trying to reach the office for the Spanish blind people Society (Once) and fell on the tracks and were run over. Since then, the station has been adapted for the blind.
Other Supposedly Haunted Metro Stations in Barcelona
While Rocafort Metro Station may be the most infamous, it is not the only haunted station in Barcelona. There are several other stations that are rumored to have their fair share of ghostly encounters. Gaudi station never opened and is today bricked up. You can barely see the station as you pass through with the train. but people still say that they can see people waiting for the subway with an absent look on their face, waiting for a train that will never come.
Ghost Stations: One of the ghost stations you can see on your way to the current Sagrada Familia station. It is said that ghosts are sitting there at the abandoned station as if they are waiting for a train.
Correo Ferran, and Travessera Correos are among the stations where paranormal activity has been reported. Each of these stations has its own unique history and legends, contributing to the rich tapestry of haunted tales within Barcelona’s metro system.
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.
