Once a symbol of the oppressive British regime in India, the administrative Writers’ Building was the target of a bloody rebel attack said to echo hauntingly long after India’s independence.
Kolkata’s Writers’ Building (মহাকরণ) is a beautiful colonial-era structure that has been the center of power and politics in West Bengal for over 200 years. The red stoned Writers’ Building is a 150 meter long building right by the Lal Dighi and Tank Square.
The building often shortened to just Writers was for the East India Company to house the junior level servants who were then called ‘Writers’ and because of this the building got its name.
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But beyond its grand facade lies a dark and eerie history, one that has left many visitors spooked and intrigued. You see, the Writer’s Building is said to be haunted by the spirits of British colonial officers and Indian freedom fighters who perished within its walls.
The History of the Writers’ Building
The Writer’s Building, located in the heart of Kolkata, was originally built as the office of the East India Company in the late 18th century. It was later occupied by the British colonial government, and during the Indian independence movement, it became a symbol of British power and oppression for the local Indians.
The building has seen many significant events, including the assassination of Sir William Hay Macnaghten, the British envoy to Afghanistan, in 1841. It was also the site of several historic protests and rallies during the Indian freedom struggle, including the Quit India Movement.
Therefore the Writers Building has a reputation of being haunted by both unhappy scribes that worked there as well as people that died during the fight for independence.
Writer’s Building: An iconic building in Kolkata and also thought to be one of the more haunted places in the city. //Source: Jan Bockaert/Wiki
The Shooting in Writers’ Building
On December 8, 1930, Badal Gupta, together with Dinesh Gupta and Benoy Basu was on a mission from the underground revolutionary group Bengal Volunteers against the British rule of India.
Disguised in European attire, infiltrated the Writers’ Building with loaded revolvers and fatally shot Simpson, a police inspector known for treating the Indian and political prisoners horrible.
In response, the police within the building engaged in a brief exchange of gunfire with the three young revolutionaries. The police eventually subdued them, but the trio had no intention of being apprehended. Badal ingested Potassium cyanide, while Benoy and Dinesh used their own revolvers to take their lives.
Badal succumbed on the spot, at just 18 years old during this tragic incident. Benoy survived before dying five days later in the hospital. Dinesh lived only to be hanged the next year.
The trio have later been known as freedom fighters and the Dalhousie Square is named after them with a statue of them outside of the Writers Building.
Haunted Stories Associated with the Building
Bengalis have at least 15 words for ghosts based on the spirit’s caste, marital status, behavior and the fate suffered in the pre-paranormal past. Most of the ghost stories are told from security that are patrolling the building when it’s empty. They say they hear rattling windows when there is no wind, or the sound of typing from machines from locked and empty rooms.
These disturbances have become so disconcerting that none of the security staff will venture there alone at night.
Ever since its attack, it is also believed that the brutal police man, Simpson and possibly the trio that shot him are haunting the building.
The Wounded Ghost
During the 1970s a night guard named Munshiram told about his ghostly experiences in a Calcutta newspaper. He said that while patrolling the first-floor corridor of the first block, he encountered a ghostly white man, dressed in a suit and appearing gravely injured, bending over in agony.
This spectral figure emerged from the Central Despatch Office and was followed by several shadowy entities. Simultaneously, Munshiram heard the haunting sound of heavy boots ascending the staircase. Frightened, he called out to the sentry on block one before fainting.
The Ghost Party
In Munshiram’s recollection, the entire first floor was inhabited by several resident spirits, including another harrowing experience in block three. While on duty in the block’s secured area, he noticed a neon light illuminating a minister’s chamber and distinctly heard music.
Believing an emergency meeting was underway, he entered the room and witnessed men in old fashioned attire engaged in what appeared to be a drunken party. Munshiram’s screams summoned police personnel, but by the time they arrived, the room had reverted to darkness and emptiness.
The Ghost of the Housekeeper
It is also said that a Zamiruddin, that is the head of housekeeping at Writer once saw an armed security guard outside of the toilet in block five. Allegedly where a worker had died of a heart attack.
Another tale from the 70s is from the security guard called Mehboob that was working on the first floor of block four that heard the sound of something falling and when rushing out in the corridor, he found a body dressed in an expensive suit laying there. However, when he called over other people working that night, there was nothing to see except an empty room.
Also when a bust of the three freedom fighters were going to be installed on the first floor in 1967, a man called Roy saw an European man come out from the Chief Minister’s office. Thinking it was someone trying to ruin the event held in their honor, he followed the man who just vanished into thin air.
The Haunted Writers’ Building
The Writer’s Building is a beautiful and historic structure that has been at the center of power and politics in West Bengal for over 200 years. But beyond its grand facade lies a dark and eerie history, one that has left many visitors spooked and intrigued.
Over the years, the Writer’s Building has undergone many renovations and upgrades, but it has managed to retain its colonial charm and grandeur. Today, it houses the offices of the West Bengal government, and its corridors and rooms are filled with the hustle and bustle of bureaucrats and politicians. But despite its modern-day importance, the building’s haunted history continues to fascinate and terrify visitors.
Today a cultural heritage on Chuuk, the Tepwanu Mask, otherwise known as the Devil Mask, helped chase away a ghost that was plaguing the island of Tol in Micronesia during a famine.
In the remote reaches of Micronesia, amidst the azure waters and swaying palms of Chuuk, lies a tale as chilling as the ocean depths themselves. It has been determined by archaeological finds that the lagoon islands of Chuuk have been inhabited for approximately 2,000 years and the legends from these places are old.
Legends refer to the first inhabitants as coming from the nearby islands of Kosrae and slowly spread through the nearby islands. This is one of the stories of desperation, ingenuity, and the eerie power of belief—a story woven into the very fabric of the islands, etched into the memory of its people like ancient glyphs upon weathered stone. This is the legend of the Devil Mask.
Long ago, in the mist-shrouded past of Chuukese history, you will find an island known as Tol, also known as Toleisom. Today it is the largest and most populated island in the Faichuk group in Chuuk State in Micronesia. The native people are Micronesian who fish, raise pigs and poultry, and grow taro, breadfruit, yams, and bananas. It is today a popular place for scuba diving. But its past is a much more haunted one like with the story behind their Tepwanu Mask.
According to local legend, the island of Tol was a place of hardship and struggle, where the relentless grip of famine tightened its hold upon the hearts of its inhabitants. But it wasn’t just hunger that plagued the people of Tol; a malevolent spirit roamed the land, a ghostly specter that preyed upon the meager sustenance of the islanders.
This phantom, was said to be the embodiment of hunger itself—a relentless force that stole food from the mouths of the starving and left nothing but despair in its wake. As the crops withered and the fish grew scarce, the people of Tol found themselves on the brink of despair, their spirits crushed beneath the weight of relentless hunger.
In a desperate bid to rid themselves of the ghostly thief that haunted their nights, the villagers of Tol turned to an ancient tradition passed down through generations—a tradition of masks and magic, of spirits and sorcery.
Gathering together what resources they had, the people of Tol set to work, carving a Devil Mask otherwise known as the Tepwanu mask. Fashioned in the likeness of a devil, its features twisted into a grotesque visage of fear and fury, the Tepwanu mask was a talisman to ward off evil and protect their meager livelihoods.
The Tepwanu Mask Defending Against Ghosts
Chuukese have deep belief in the spiritual, including ghosts and the use of magic. An example of this might be the traditional tepwanu mask, otherwise known as the Devil Mask. It wasn’t generally worn, but put around the home to protect them against evil ghosts and spirits.
When the Devil Mask was finally complete, the people of Tol donned it as one, their faces hidden behind the fearsome Tepwanu mask.
Then, as if summoned by the very essence of their desperation, the ghost appeared. But when it saw the devils that surrounded it, the ghost became afraid. Because of how it saw that the devil surrounded this area, the ghost fled, and never returned.
And though the ghost of Tol may have faded into memory, its legacy lives on in the eerie visage of the Devil Mask—the embodiment of hope in the face of darkness, and a reminder that even the most terrifying of specters can be banished by the power of belief.
At the old Cabra Castle, once known as Cormey Castle, it is said that the ghost of an unfortunate servant girl is haunting it’s hall. She was brutally murdered by the castle owners when they found out she was bearing one of the heirs’ children.
In the heart of Kingscourt, Co. Cavan, stands Cabra Castle—a place where history, beauty, and the supernatural intertwine, casting an enchanting but eerie spell close to the Dún a Rí Forest .
Cabra Castle is given to two castles in this area. One is now only ruins, the other one is turned into a luxury hotel. The centuries-old castle has captured the imagination of travelers and ghost enthusiasts alike, earning a reputation as one of the most haunted hotels in the world, according to a chilling 2010 Trip Advisor ranking.
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Today it is a hotel as it has been since the 90s, but before that it used to be the land of the O’Reilly clan. This was until Oliver Cromwell took control in the 1600s. The original castle from before this time was destroyed and Cabra House was built on top of the ruins. The ruins of the original Cabra House, or Cabra Castle, can be seen on a slight height near the Wishing Well in what is now Dún a’ Rí Forest Park, formerly part of the Cabra Estate.
Cabra Castle: Today the Cabra Castle is a luxury hotel. It is said to be haunted of not only one ghost though. //Source: Colette Gemmell/Wikimedia
The rebuilt castle was then called Cormy Castle and the Foster family lived there when the supposed ghost story is said to have happened. The main building was in ruins, destroyed during the Cromwellian War, however, its adjacent courtyard remained in good repair.
A Tale of Forbidden Love
In the 1780s, the castle’s owners had a son who found his heart entwined with that of a servant girl named Sarah. Who this was is not specified, but it is known that John Tomas Foster was the one that took over the castle in 1795, but died shortly after. Although he is not named in any of the stories, he is the heir around that time. If there ever worked a girl named Sarah during that time, is not found any proof of though.
According to the legend, they managed to keep their relationship a secret for a while, but secrets have a way of unveiling themselves when the truth cannot remain hidden. Sarah’s secret was revealed when she discovered she was with child, a revelation that would prove catastrophic for her and her lover.
A Tragic End
The heir’s family, driven by property and social standing, decreed that Sarah must be silenced. In a macabre turn of events, Sarah was taken from the servants’ quarters of Cabra Castle and dragged into the nearby forest, perhaps the Dún a Rí Forest, where they murdered her and her unborn child.
Legends recount that Sarah met a gruesome end, her lifeless form hanging over a bridge in the dark heart of the forest. But it is said that her spirit did not rest, and the echoes of her tragic tale continue to haunt Cabra Castle to this day.
Sarah’s Bridge: In the Dún a Rí Forest, there is a bridge called Sarah’s Bridge, constructed in 1801, was named in memory of Sarah Mountmorris, who married into the Pratt family. Local legend, on the other hand, tells about a Sarah who had been meeting her boyfriend on the bridge for nearly three decades. One evening, he unexpectedly proposed to her, causing Sarah to fall into the river and drown. To prevent a similar tragedy, side walls were added to the bridge, making it a more secure and less risky place for romantic rendezvous. Therefore it has little to nothing with the Servant Sarah from Cabra Castle.// Source
A Crying Infant in the Night
Visitors to Cabra Castle have reported spine-chilling experiences, where the past and present intersect in eerie ways. In the stillness of the night, some claim to have heard the haunting cries of a baby—an unsettling reminder of the pain and sorrow that once unfolded here.
The courtyard rooms hold their own secrets, with numerous accounts of guests sensing an unexplained “presence” nearby. These encounters have left many with an indelible sense of the uncanny, especially in the courtyard rooms and near the Hanging Tree that is found on the ground. In some version of the story it was from this tree that she was hanged.
The Other Ghost at Cabra Castle
But the ghost of the unfortunate servant girl is not the only ghost said to haunt the old castle. One guest recounted an encounter with a man clad in the uniform of the early 20th century, striding purposefully down a corridor—a figure both mysterious and disconcerting.
Read More: Check out all of the Haunted Castles from around the world
In the dark hours when the veil between worlds seems to waver, others have described hearing the unmistakable sounds of a horse and carriage. These spectral noises, they claim, herald the arrival of a phantom carriage depositing a crying infant at the castle’s steps—a haunting scene that defies explanation.
The Enchantingly Haunted Cabra Castle
The ending of Cabra Castle ghostly tale is as enigmatic as the spirits that wander its halls. While the tragic story of the servant girl’s murder leaves a lingering sense of sorrow and injustice, there is a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness.
Read More: Check out all of the Haunted Hotels around the world
Cabra Castle remains an enchanting yet haunted place, captivating those who dare to visit. Its rich history, mingled with the supernatural, creates an otherworldly experience that leaves an indelible mark on all who wander its storied grounds.
While the tale of the servant girl’s murder remains a haunting reminder of the injustices of the past, Cabra Castle, forever enigmatic and hauntingly beautiful, beckons to those who seek an experience beyond the ordinary. Step into its storied halls, and let the echoes of the past whisper their secrets to you.
Ford Village has no railroad station, being on the other side of the river from Porter’s Falls, and accessible only by the ford which gives it its name, and a ferry line.
The ferry-boat was waiting when Rebecca Flint got off the train with her bag and lunch basket. When she and her small trunk were safely embarked she sat stiff and straight and calm in the ferry-boat as it shot swiftly and smoothly across stream. There was a horse attached to a light country wagon on board, and he pawed the deck uneasily. His owner stood near, with a wary eye upon him, although he was chewing, with as dully reflective an expression as a cow. Beside Rebecca sat a woman of about her own age, who kept looking at her with furtive curiosity; her husband, short and stout and saturnine, stood near her. Rebecca paid no attention to either of them. She was tall and spare and pale, the type of a spinster, yet with rudimentary lines and expressions of matronhood. She all unconsciously held her shawl, rolled up in a canvas bag, on her left hip, as if it had been a child. She wore a settled frown of dissent at life, but it was the frown of a mother who regarded life as a froward child, rather than as an overwhelming fate.
The other woman continued staring at her; she was mildly stupid, except for an over-developed curiosity which made her at times sharp beyond belief. Her eyes glittered, red spots came on her flaccid cheeks; she kept opening her mouth to speak, making little abortive motions. Finally she could endure it no longer; she nudged Rebecca boldly.
“A pleasant day,” said she.
Rebecca looked at her and nodded coldly.
“Yes, very,” she assented.
“Have you come far?”
“I have come from Michigan.”
“Oh!” said the woman, with awe. “It’s a long way,” she remarked presently.
“Yes, it is,” replied Rebecca, conclusively.
Still the other woman was not daunted; there was something which she determined to know, possibly roused thereto by a vague sense of incongruity in the other’s appearance. “It’s a long ways to come and leave a family,” she remarked with painful slyness.
“I ain’t got any family to leave,” returned Rebecca shortly.
“Then you ain’t—”
“No, I ain’t.”
“Oh!” said the woman.
Rebecca looked straight ahead at the race of the river.
It was a long ferry. Finally Rebecca herself waxed unexpectedly loquacious. She turned to the other woman and inquired if she knew John Dent’s widow who lived in Ford Village. “Her husband died about three years ago,” said she, by way of detail.
The woman started violently. She turned pale, then she flushed; she cast a strange glance at her husband, who was regarding both women with a sort of stolid keenness.
“Yes, I guess I do,” faltered the woman finally.
“Well, his first wife was my sister,” said Rebecca with the air of one imparting important intelligence.
“Was she?” responded the other woman feebly. She glanced at her husband with an expression of doubt and terror, and he shook his head forbiddingly.
“I’m going to see her, and take my niece Agnes home with me,” said Rebecca.
Then the woman gave such a violent start that she noticed it.
“What is the matter?” she asked.
“Nothin’, I guess,” replied the woman, with eyes on her husband, who was slowly shaking his head, like a Chinese toy.
“Is my niece sick?” asked Rebecca with quick suspicion.
“No, she ain’t sick,” replied the woman with alacrity, then she caught her breath with a gasp.
“When did you see her?”
“Let me see; I ain’t seen her for some little time,” replied the woman. Then she caught her breath again.
“She ought to have grown up real pretty, if she takes after my sister. She was a real pretty woman,” Rebecca said wistfully.
“Yes, I guess she did grow up pretty,” replied the woman in a trembling voice.
“What kind of a woman is the second wife?”
The woman glanced at her husband’s warning face. She continued to gaze at him while she replied in a choking voice to Rebecca:
“I—guess she’s a nice woman,” she replied. “I—don’t know, I—guess so. I—don’t see much of her.”
“I felt kind of hurt that John married again so quick,” said Rebecca; “but I suppose he wanted his house kept, and Agnes wanted care. I wasn’t so situated that I could take her when her mother died. I had my own mother to care for, and I was school-teaching. Now mother has gone, and my uncle died six months ago and left me quite a little property, and I’ve given up my school, and I’ve come for Agnes. I guess she’ll be glad to go with me, though I suppose her stepmother is a good woman, and has always done for her.”
The man’s warning shake at his wife was fairly portentous.
“I guess so,” said she.
“John always wrote that she was a beautiful woman,” said Rebecca.
Then the ferry-boat grated on the shore.
John Dent’s widow had sent a horse and wagon to meet her sister-in-law. When the woman and her husband went down the road, on which Rebecca in the wagon with her trunk soon passed them, she said reproachfully:
“Seems as if I’d ought to have told her, Thomas.”
“Let her find it out herself,” replied the man. “Don’t you go to burnin’ your fingers in other folks’ puddin’, Maria.”
“Do you s’pose she’ll see anything?” asked the woman with a spasmodic shudder and a terrified roll of her eyes.
“See!” returned her husband with stolid scorn. “Better be sure there’s anything to see.”
“Oh, Thomas, they say—”
“Lord, ain’t you found out that what they say is mostly lies?”
“But if it should be true, and she’s a nervous woman, she might be scared enough to lose her wits,” said his wife, staring uneasily after Rebecca’s erect figure in the wagon disappearing over the crest of the hilly road.
“Wits that so easy upset ain’t worth much,” declared the man. “You keep out of it, Maria.”
Rebecca in the meantime rode on in the wagon, beside a flaxen-headed boy, who looked, to her understanding, not very bright. She asked him a question, and he paid no attention. She repeated it, and he responded with a bewildered and incoherent grunt. Then she let him alone, after making sure that he knew how to drive straight.
They had traveled about half a mile, passed the village square, and gone a short distance beyond, when the boy drew up with a sudden Whoa! before a very prosperous-looking house. It had been one of the aboriginal cottages of the vicinity, small and white, with a roof extending on one side over a piazza, and a tiny “L” jutting out in the rear, on the right hand. Now the cottage was transformed by dormer windows, a bay window on the piazzaless side, a carved railing down the front steps, and a modern hard-wood door.
“Is this John Dent’s house?” asked Rebecca.
The boy was as sparing of speech as a philosopher. His only response was in flinging the reins over the horse’s back, stretching out one foot to the shaft, and leaping out of the wagon, then going around to the rear for the trunk. Rebecca got out and went toward the house. Its white paint had a new gloss; its blinds were an immaculate apple green; the lawn was trimmed as smooth as velvet, and it was dotted with scrupulous groups of hydrangeas and cannas.
“I always understood that John Dent was well-to-do,” Rebecca reflected comfortably. “I guess Agnes will have considerable. I’ve got enough, but it will come in handy for her schooling. She can have advantages.”
The boy dragged the trunk up the fine gravel-walk, but before he reached the steps leading up to the piazza, for the house stood on a terrace, the front door opened and a fair, frizzled head of a very large and handsome woman appeared. She held up her black silk skirt, disclosing voluminous ruffles of starched embroidery, and waited for Rebecca. She smiled placidly, her pink, double-chinned face widened and dimpled, but her blue eyes were wary and calculating. She extended her hand as Rebecca climbed the steps.
“This is Miss Flint, I suppose,” said she.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Rebecca, noticing with bewilderment a curious expression compounded of fear and defiance on the other’s face.
“Your letter only arrived this morning,” said Mrs. Dent, in a steady voice. Her great face was a uniform pink, and her china-blue eyes were at once aggressive and veiled with secrecy.
“Yes, I hardly thought you’d get my letter,” replied Rebecca. “I felt as if I could not wait to hear from you before I came. I supposed you would be so situated that you could have me a little while without putting you out too much, from what John used to write me about his circumstances, and when I had that money so unexpected I felt as if I must come for Agnes. I suppose you will be willing to give her up. You know she’s my own blood, and of course she’s no relation to you, though you must have got attached to her. I know from her picture what a sweet girl she must be, and John always said she looked like her own mother, and Grace was a beautiful woman, if she was my sister.”
Rebecca stopped and stared at the other woman in amazement and alarm. The great handsome blonde creature stood speechless, livid, gasping, with her hand to her heart, her lips parted in a horrible caricature of a smile.
“Are you sick!” cried Rebecca, drawing near. “Don’t you want me to get you some water!”
Then Mrs. Dent recovered herself with a great effort. “It is nothing,” she said. “I am subject to—spells. I am over it now. Won’t you come in, Miss Flint?”
As she spoke, the beautiful deep-rose colour suffused her face, her blue eyes met her visitor’s with the opaqueness of turquoise—with a revelation of blue, but a concealment of all behind.
Rebecca followed her hostess in, and the boy, who had waited quiescently, climbed the steps with the trunk. But before they entered the door a strange thing happened. On the upper terrace close to the piazza-post, grew a great rose-bush, and on it, late in the season though it was, one small red, perfect rose.
Rebecca looked at it, and the other woman extended her hand with a quick gesture. “Don’t you pick that rose!” she brusquely cried.
Rebecca drew herself up with stiff dignity.
“I ain’t in the habit of picking other folks’ roses without leave,” said she.
As Rebecca spoke she started violently, and lost sight of her resentment, for something singular happened. Suddenly the rose-bush was agitated violently as if by a gust of wind, yet it was a remarkably still day. Not a leaf of the hydrangea standing on the terrace close to the rose trembled.
“What on earth—” began Rebecca, then she stopped with a gasp at the sight of the other woman’s face. Although a face, it gave somehow the impression of a desperately clutched hand of secrecy.
“Come in!” said she in a harsh voice, which seemed to come forth from her chest with no intervention of the organs of speech. “Come into the house. I’m getting cold out here.”
“What makes that rose-bush blow so when their isn’t any wind?” asked Rebecca, trembling with vague horror, yet resolute.
“I don’t see as it is blowing,” returned the woman calmly. And as she spoke, indeed, the bush was quiet.
“It was blowing,” declared Rebecca.
“It isn’t now,” said Mrs. Dent. “I can’t try to account for everything that blows out-of-doors. I have too much to do.”
She spoke scornfully and confidently, with defiant, unflinching eyes, first on the bush, then on Rebecca, and led the way into the house.
“It looked queer,” persisted Rebecca, but she followed, and also the boy with the trunk.
Rebecca entered an interior, prosperous, even elegant, according to her simple ideas. There were Brussels carpets, lace curtains, and plenty of brilliant upholstery and polished wood.
“You’re real nicely situated,” remarked Rebecca, after she had become a little accustomed to her new surroundings and the two women were seated at the tea-table.
Mrs. Dent stared with a hard complacency from behind her silver-plated service. “Yes, I be,” said she.
“You got all the things new?” said Rebecca hesitatingly, with a jealous memory of her dead sister’s bridal furnishings.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Dent; “I was never one to want dead folks’ things, and I had money enough of my own, so I wasn’t beholden to John. I had the old duds put up at auction. They didn’t bring much.”
“I suppose you saved some for Agnes. She’ll want some of her poor mother’s things when she is grown up,” said Rebecca with some indignation.
The defiant stare of Mrs. Dent’s blue eyes waxed more intense. “There’s a few things up garret,” said she.
“She’ll be likely to value them,” remarked Rebecca. As she spoke she glanced at the window. “Isn’t it most time for her to be coming home?” she asked.
“Most time,” answered Mrs. Dent carelessly; “but when she gets over to Addie Slocum’s she never knows when to come home.”
“Is Addie Slocum her intimate friend?”
“Intimate as any.”
“Maybe we can have her come out to see Agnes when she’s living with me,” said Rebecca wistfully. “I suppose she’ll be likely to be homesick at first.”
“Most likely,” answered Mrs. Dent.
“Does she call you mother?” Rebecca asked.
“No, she calls me Aunt Emeline,” replied the other woman shortly. “When did you say you were going home?”
“In about a week, I thought, if she can be ready to go so soon,” answered Rebecca with a surprised look.
She reflected that she would not remain a day longer than she could help after such an inhospitable look and question.
“Oh, as far as that goes,” said Mrs. Dent, “it wouldn’t make any difference about her being ready. You could go home whenever you felt that you must, and she could come afterward.”
“Alone?”
“Why not? She’s a big girl now, and you don’t have to change cars.”
“My niece will go home when I do, and not travel alone; and if I can’t wait here for her, in the house that used to be her mother’s and my sister’s home, I’ll go and board somewhere,” returned Rebecca with warmth.
“Oh, you can stay here as long as you want to. You’re welcome,” said Mrs. Dent.
Then Rebecca started. “There she is!” she declared in a trembling, exultant voice. Nobody knew how she longed to see the girl.
“She isn’t as late as I thought she’d be,” said Mrs. Dent, and again that curious, subtle change passed over her face, and again it settled into that stony impassiveness.
Rebecca stared at the door, waiting for it to open. “Where is she?” she asked presently.
“I guess she’s stopped to take off her hat in the entry,” suggested Mrs. Dent.
Rebecca waited. “Why don’t she come? It can’t take her all this time to take off her hat.”
For answer Mrs. Dent rose with a stiff jerk and threw open the door.
“Agnes!” she called. “Agnes!” Then she turned and eyed Rebecca. “She ain’t there.”
“I saw her pass the window,” said Rebecca in bewilderment.
“You must have been mistaken.”
“I know I did,” persisted Rebecca.
“You couldn’t have.”
“I did. I saw first a shadow go over the ceiling, then I saw her in the glass there”—she pointed to a mirror over the sideboard opposite—”and then the shadow passed the window.”
“How did she look in the glass?”
“Little and light-haired, with the light hair kind of tossing over her forehead.”
“You couldn’t have seen her.”
“Was that like Agnes?”
“Like enough; but of course you didn’t see her. You’ve been thinking so much about her that you thought you did.”
“You thought YOU did.”
“I thought I saw a shadow pass the window, but I must have been mistaken. She didn’t come in, or we would have seen her before now. I knew it was too early for her to get home from Addie Slocum’s, anyhow.”
When Rebecca went to bed Agnes had not returned. Rebecca had resolved that she would not retire until the girl came, but she was very tired, and she reasoned with herself that she was foolish. Besides, Mrs. Dent suggested that Agnes might go to the church social with Addie Slocum. When Rebecca suggested that she be sent for and told that her aunt had come, Mrs. Dent laughed meaningly.
“I guess you’ll find out that a young girl ain’t so ready to leave a sociable, where there’s boys, to see her aunt,” said she.
“She’s too young,” said Rebecca incredulously and indignantly.
“She’s sixteen,” replied Mrs. Dent; “and she’s always been great for the boys.”
“She’s going to school four years after I get her before she thinks of boys,” declared Rebecca.
“We’ll see,” laughed the other woman.
After Rebecca went to bed, she lay awake a long time listening for the sound of girlish laughter and a boy’s voice under her window; then she fell asleep.
The next morning she was down early. Mrs. Dent, who kept no servants, was busily preparing breakfast.
“Don’t Agnes help you about breakfast?” asked Rebecca.
“No, I let her lay,” replied Mrs. Dent shortly.
“What time did she get home last night?”
“She didn’t get home.”
“What?”
“She didn’t get home. She stayed with Addie. She often does.”
“Without sending you word?”
“Oh, she knew I wouldn’t worry.”
“When will she be home?”
“Oh, I guess she’ll be along pretty soon.”
Rebecca was uneasy, but she tried to conceal it, for she knew of no good reason for uneasiness. What was there to occasion alarm in the fact of one young girl staying overnight with another? She could not eat much breakfast. Afterward she went out on the little piazza, although her hostess strove furtively to stop her.
“Why don’t you go out back of the house? It’s real pretty—a view over the river,” she said.
“I guess I’ll go out here,” replied Rebecca. She had a purpose: to watch for the absent girl.
Presently Rebecca came hustling into the house through the sitting-room, into the kitchen where Mrs. Dent was cooking.
“That rose-bush!” she gasped.
Mrs. Dent turned and faced her.
“What of it?”
“It’s a-blowing.”
“What of it?”
“There isn’t a mite of wind this morning.”
Mrs. Dent turned with an inimitable toss of her fair head. “If you think I can spend my time puzzling over such nonsense as—” she began, but Rebecca interrupted her with a cry and a rush to the door.
“There she is now!” she cried. She flung the door wide open, and curiously enough a breeze came in and her own gray hair tossed, and a paper blew off the table to the floor with a loud rustle, but there was nobody in sight.
“There’s nobody here,” Rebecca said.
She looked blankly at the other woman, who brought her rolling-pin down on a slab of pie-crust with a thud.
“I didn’t hear anybody,” she said calmly.
“I SAW SOMEBODY PASS THAT WINDOW!”
“You were mistaken again.”
“I KNOW I saw somebody.”
“You couldn’t have. Please shut that door.”
Rebecca shut the door. She sat down beside the window and looked out on the autumnal yard, with its little curve of footpath to the kitchen door.
“What smells so strong of roses in this room?” she said presently. She sniffed hard.
“I don’t smell anything but these nutmegs.”
“It is not nutmeg.”
“I don’t smell anything else.”
“Where do you suppose Agnes is?”
“Oh, perhaps she has gone over the ferry to Porter’s Falls with Addie. She often does. Addie’s got an aunt over there, and Addie’s got a cousin, a real pretty boy.”
“You suppose she’s gone over there?”
“Mebbe. I shouldn’t wonder.”
“When should she be home?”
“Oh, not before afternoon.”
Rebecca waited with all the patience she could muster. She kept reassuring herself, telling herself that it was all natural, that the other woman could not help it, but she made up her mind that if Agnes did not return that afternoon she should be sent for.
When it was four o’clock she started up with resolution. She had been furtively watching the onyx clock on the sitting-room mantel; she had timed herself. She had said that if Agnes was not home by that time she should demand that she be sent for. She rose and stood before Mrs. Dent, who looked up coolly from her embroidery.
“I’ve waited just as long as I’m going to,” she said. “I’ve come ‘way from Michigan to see my own sister’s daughter and take her home with me. I’ve been here ever since yesterday—twenty-four hours—and I haven’t seen her. Now I’m going to. I want her sent for.”
Mrs. Dent folded her embroidery and rose.
“Well, I don’t blame you,” she said. “It is high time she came home. I’ll go right over and get her myself.”
Rebecca heaved a sigh of relief. She hardly knew what she had suspected or feared, but she knew that her position had been one of antagonism if not accusation, and she was sensible of relief.
“I wish you would,” she said gratefully, and went back to her chair, while Mrs. Dent got her shawl and her little white head-tie. “I wouldn’t trouble you, but I do feel as if I couldn’t wait any longer to see her,” she remarked apologetically.
“Oh, it ain’t any trouble at all,” said Mrs. Dent as she went out. “I don’t blame you; you have waited long enough.”
Rebecca sat at the window watching breathlessly until Mrs. Dent came stepping through the yard alone. She ran to the door and saw, hardly noticing it this time, that the rose-bush was again violently agitated, yet with no wind evident elsewhere.
“Where is she?” she cried.
Mrs. Dent laughed with stiff lips as she came up the steps over the terrace. “Girls will be girls,” said she. “She’s gone with Addie to Lincoln. Addie’s got an uncle who’s conductor on the train, and lives there, and he got ’em passes, and they’re goin’ to stay to Addie’s Aunt Margaret’s a few days. Mrs. Slocum said Agnes didn’t have time to come over and ask me before the train went, but she took it on herself to say it would be all right, and—”
“Why hadn’t she been over to tell you?” Rebecca was angry, though not suspicious. She even saw no reason for her anger.
“Oh, she was putting up grapes. She was coming over just as soon as she got the black off her hands. She heard I had company, and her hands were a sight. She was holding them over sulphur matches.”
“You say she’s going to stay a few days?” repeated Rebecca dazedly.
“Yes; till Thursday, Mrs. Slocum said.”
“How far is Lincoln from here?”
“About fifty miles. It’ll be a real treat to her. Mrs. Slocum’s sister is a real nice woman.”
“It is goin’ to make it pretty late about my goin’ home.”
“If you don’t feel as if you could wait, I’ll get her ready and send her on just as soon as I can,” Mrs. Dent said sweetly.
“I’m going to wait,” said Rebecca grimly.
The two women sat down again, and Mrs. Dent took up her embroidery.
“Is there any sewing I can do for her?” Rebecca asked finally in a desperate way. “If I can get her sewing along some—”
Mrs. Dent arose with alacrity and fetched a mass of white from the closet. “Here,” she said, “if you want to sew the lace on this nightgown. I was going to put her to it, but she’ll be glad enough to get rid of it. She ought to have this and one more before she goes. I don’t like to send her away without some good underclothing.”
Rebecca snatched at the little white garment and sewed feverishly.
That night she wakened from a deep sleep a little after midnight and lay a minute trying to collect her faculties and explain to herself what she was listening to. At last she discovered that it was the then popular strains of “The Maiden’s Prayer” floating up through the floor from the piano in the sitting-room below. She jumped up, threw a shawl over her nightgown, and hurried downstairs trembling. There was nobody in the sitting-room; the piano was silent. She ran to Mrs. Dent’s bedroom and called hysterically:
“Emeline! Emeline!”
“What is it?” asked Mrs. Dent’s voice from the bed. The voice was stern, but had a note of consciousness in it.
“Who—who was that playing ‘The Maiden’s Prayer’ in the sitting-room, on the piano?”
“I didn’t hear anybody.”
“There was some one.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“I tell you there was some one. But—THERE AIN’T ANYBODY THERE.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“I did—somebody playing ‘The Maiden’s Prayer’ on the piano. Has Agnes got home? I WANT TO KNOW.”
“Of course Agnes hasn’t got home,” answered Mrs. Dent with rising inflection. “Be you gone crazy over that girl? The last boat from Porter’s Falls was in before we went to bed. Of course she ain’t come.”
“I heard—”
“You were dreaming.”
“I wasn’t; I was broad awake.”
Rebecca went back to her chamber and kept her lamp burning all night.
The next morning her eyes upon Mrs. Dent were wary and blazing with suppressed excitement. She kept opening her mouth as if to speak, then frowning, and setting her lips hard. After breakfast she went upstairs, and came down presently with her coat and bonnet.
“Now, Emeline,” she said, “I want to know where the Slocums live.”
Mrs. Dent gave a strange, long, half-lidded glance at her. She was finishing her coffee.
“Why?” she asked.
“I’m going over there and find out if they have heard anything from her daughter and Agnes since they went away. I don’t like what I heard last night.”
“You must have been dreaming.”
“It don’t make any odds whether I was or not. Does she play ‘The Maiden’s Prayer’ on the piano? I want to know.”
“What if she does? She plays it a little, I believe. I don’t know. She don’t half play it, anyhow; she ain’t got an ear.”
“That wasn’t half played last night. I don’t like such things happening. I ain’t superstitious, but I don’t like it. I’m going. Where do the Slocums live?”
“You go down the road over the bridge past the old grist mill, then you turn to the left; it’s the only house for half a mile. You can’t miss it. It has a barn with a ship in full sail on the cupola.”
“Well, I’m going. I don’t feel easy.”
About two hours later Rebecca returned. There were red spots on her cheeks. She looked wild. “I’ve been there,” she said, “and there isn’t a soul at home. Something HAS happened.”
“What has happened?”
“I don’t know. Something. I had a warning last night. There wasn’t a soul there. They’ve been sent for to Lincoln.”
“Did you see anybody to ask?” asked Mrs. Dent with thinly concealed anxiety.
“I asked the woman that lives on the turn of the road. She’s stone deaf. I suppose you know. She listened while I screamed at her to know where the Slocums were, and then she said, ‘Mrs. Smith don’t live here.’ I didn’t see anybody on the road, and that’s the only house. What do you suppose it means?”
“I don’t suppose it means much of anything,” replied Mrs. Dent coolly. “Mr. Slocum is conductor on the railroad, and he’d be away anyway, and Mrs. Slocum often goes early when he does, to spend the day with her sister in Porter’s Falls. She’d be more likely to go away than Addie.”
“And you don’t think anything has happened?” Rebecca asked with diminishing distrust before the reasonableness of it.
“Land, no!”
Rebecca went upstairs to lay aside her coat and bonnet. But she came hurrying back with them still on.
“Who’s been in my room?” she gasped. Her face was pale as ashes.
Mrs. Dent also paled as she regarded her.
“What do you mean?” she asked slowly.
“I found when I went upstairs that—little nightgown of—Agnes’s on—the bed, laid out. It was—LAID OUT. The sleeves were folded across the bosom, and there was that little red rose between them. Emeline, what is it? Emeline, what’s the matter? Oh!”
Mrs. Dent was struggling for breath in great, choking gasps. She clung to the back of a chair. Rebecca, trembling herself so she could scarcely keep on her feet, got her some water.
As soon as she recovered herself Mrs. Dent regarded her with eyes full of the strangest mixture of fear and horror and hostility.
“What do you mean talking so?” she said in a hard voice.
“It IS THERE.”
“Nonsense. You threw it down and it fell that way.”
“It was folded in my bureau drawer.”
“It couldn’t have been.”
“Who picked that red rose?”
“Look on the bush,” Mrs. Dent replied shortly.
Rebecca looked at her; her mouth gaped. She hurried out of the room. When she came back her eyes seemed to protrude. (She had in the meantime hastened upstairs, and come down with tottering steps, clinging to the banisters.)
“Now I want to know what all this means?” she demanded.
“What what means?”
“The rose is on the bush, and it’s gone from the bed in my room! Is this house haunted, or what?”
“I don’t know anything about a house being haunted. I don’t believe in such things. Be you crazy?” Mrs. Dent spoke with gathering force. The colour flashed back to her cheeks.
“No,” said Rebecca shortly. “I ain’t crazy yet, but I shall be if this keeps on much longer. I’m going to find out where that girl is before night.”
Mrs. Dent eyed her.
“What be you going to do?”
“I’m going to Lincoln.”
A faint triumphant smile overspread Mrs. Dent’s large face.
“You can’t,” said she; “there ain’t any train.”
“No train?”
“No; there ain’t any afternoon train from the Falls to Lincoln.”
“Then I’m going over to the Slocums’ again to-night.”
However, Rebecca did not go; such a rain came up as deterred even her resolution, and she had only her best dresses with her. Then in the evening came the letter from the Michigan village which she had left nearly a week ago. It was from her cousin, a single woman, who had come to keep her house while she was away. It was a pleasant unexciting letter enough, all the first of it, and related mostly how she missed Rebecca; how she hoped she was having pleasant weather and kept her health; and how her friend, Mrs. Greenaway, had come to stay with her since she had felt lonesome the first night in the house; how she hoped Rebecca would have no objections to this, although nothing had been said about it, since she had not realized that she might be nervous alone. The cousin was painfully conscientious, hence the letter. Rebecca smiled in spite of her disturbed mind as she read it, then her eye caught the postscript. That was in a different hand, purporting to be written by the friend, Mrs. Hannah Greenaway, informing her that the cousin had fallen down the cellar stairs and broken her hip, and was in a dangerous condition, and begging Rebecca to return at once, as she herself was rheumatic and unable to nurse her properly, and no one else could be obtained.
Rebecca looked at Mrs. Dent, who had come to her room with the letter quite late; it was half-past nine, and she had gone upstairs for the night.
“Where did this come from?” she asked.
“Mr. Amblecrom brought it,” she replied.
“Who’s he?”
“The postmaster. He often brings the letters that come on the late mail. He knows I ain’t anybody to send. He brought yours about your coming. He said he and his wife came over on the ferry-boat with you.”
“I remember him,” Rebecca replied shortly. “There’s bad news in this letter.”
Mrs. Dent’s face took on an expression of serious inquiry.
“Yes, my Cousin Harriet has fallen down the cellar stairs—they were always dangerous—and she’s broken her hip, and I’ve got to take the first train home to-morrow.”
“You don’t say so. I’m dreadfully sorry.”
“No, you ain’t sorry!” said Rebecca, with a look as if she leaped. “You’re glad. I don’t know why, but you’re glad. You’ve wanted to get rid of me for some reason ever since I came. I don’t know why. You’re a strange woman. Now you’ve got your way, and I hope you’re satisfied.”
“How you talk.”
Mrs. Dent spoke in a faintly injured voice, but there was a light in her eyes.
“I talk the way it is. Well, I’m going to-morrow morning, and I want you, just as soon as Agnes Dent comes home, to send her out to me. Don’t you wait for anything. You pack what clothes she’s got, and don’t wait even to mend them, and you buy her ticket. I’ll leave the money, and you send her along. She don’t have to change cars. You start her off, when she gets home, on the next train!”
“Very well,” replied the other woman. She had an expression of covert amusement.
“Mind you do it.”
“Very well, Rebecca.”
Rebecca started on her journey the next morning. When she arrived, two days later, she found her cousin in perfect health. She found, moreover, that the friend had not written the postscript in the cousin’s letter. Rebecca would have returned to Ford Village the next morning, but the fatigue and nervous strain had been too much for her. She was not able to move from her bed. She had a species of low fever induced by anxiety and fatigue. But she could write, and she did, to the Slocums, and she received no answer. She also wrote to Mrs. Dent; she even sent numerous telegrams, with no response. Finally she wrote to the postmaster, and an answer arrived by the first possible mail. The letter was short, curt, and to the purpose. Mr. Amblecrom, the postmaster, was a man of few words, and especially wary as to his expressions in a letter.
“Dear madam,” he wrote, “your favour rec’ed. No Slocums in Ford’s Village. All dead. Addie ten years ago, her mother two years later, her father five. House vacant. Mrs. John Dent said to have neglected stepdaughter. Girl was sick. Medicine not given. Talk of taking action. Not enough evidence. House said to be haunted. Strange sights and sounds. Your niece, Agnes Dent, died a year ago, about this time.
Centuries after the vampire panic starting with the death of Petar Blagojević, another vampire was said to haunt the Serbian village, Kisiljevo. Who was Ruža Vlajna and what happened to her?
Said to be the mass burial place for the dead Irish Independence rebels from 1798, the Croppie’s Acre in Dublin is said to be haunted by their lingering souls.
Once a green paradise, the legend says the fairies protected the people of Val Gerina valley in the Swiss alps. Driven by greed to impress a woman however, the son meant to continue the tradition and friendship with the fairies, brought it all down.
Haunted by its former Fellows, Trinity College in Dublin is said to be filled with eerie spirits where even the bell tolls after dark when the shadows take over campus.
A true story morphed into a fairytale, the life and death of the French Countess Marie Louise St. Simon-Montleart has become the stuff of legends. Buried in the forest close to Wildegg Castle in Switzerland, it is said she is haunting the castle and the forest, her sanctuary.
Crossing through the Jura Mountains in Switzerland, an urban legend about the ghost of a lady in white is said to have haunted the Belchen Tunnel and was widely known and written about in the 80s. Question is, is she still haunting the tunnel?
After falling to his death trying to escape the debtor’s prison, The Marshalsea Barracks in Dublin, it is said the ghost of Pat Doyle is haunting the remaining walls of the ruins.
Planted to mark the mass grave of plague victims, the Linden Tree in the Aargau valley in Switzerland has become a famous landmark. In the night though, it is said that the ghosts buried underneath it crawls from the ground to haunt as a warning for any oncoming tragedies.
A rebel and freedom fighter for Irish independence is said to haunt his favorite pub, The Brazen Head in Dublin, where it is said he plotted his fight against the English.
The black cat in European folklore is shrouded in mystery and magical lore. From the old parts of Bern, ghost stories of ghostly black cats linger in the shadows, reminding about the old fear the feline specter used to hold over people.
Mirroring the famous Dance Macabre mural that used to hang on the walls near the Predigerkirche in Basel, it is said that plague victims were buried in the patch of grass outside of the church. Legend has it that when the city needs it, the dead will rise from it in a macabre procession, as a warning of an oncoming disaster.
After a horrible explosion on the road that left a staggering amount of people dead, drivers passing this stretch of road have told tales about strange sightings of frozen ghosts. According to them, they all see the ghosts, frozen in time as if reliving the final moments before the disaster took their life on Catalonia’s Haunted Road.
Spain is home to some of the most haunted roads in the world. From ghostly hitchhikers to phantom vehicles, these roads can be extremely dangerous at night. Many people have reported strange occurrences while driving on these roads, including sightings of ghosts and other supernatural entities.
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People have claimed there is a section of the road at Sant Carles de la Rapita where plenty of drivers have claimed to have seen people, men, women and children watching, not moving a muscle towards the place where the accident happened.
The History of Catalonia’s Haunted road
The road between Tarragona and Castellon in Catalonia has a long history of being one of the most dangerous and haunted roads in Spain that goes in a straight line passing in front of the campsite of Los Alfaques.
On July 11 in 1978 there was a terrible accident on the road between Tarragona and Castellon in Castalonia when a tanker truck carrying 25 tons of propylene. It was carrying way more than it should and the cistern didn’t have any pressure relief system.
Read more: Check out all of our ghost stories from Haunted Roads all around the world.
While driving, this ended in an accident that caused an enormous fireball that ended up killing 243 people staying at the camp.
The car split in two and the whole camp area was filled with the fireball and burning liquid with a temperature of more than 2000 celsius.
The accident only added to the road’s notoriety. Many people have reported strange occurrences on the road, including sightings of ghostly apparitions and phantom vehicles.
One of the most well-known legends surrounding Catalonia’s haunted road is that of the Frozen Ghosts. According to the legend, the ghosts of the victims of the 1978 accident haunt the road, frozen in time and unable to move on to the afterlife.
Many people have reported seeing ghostly apparitions on the road, including figures standing motionless on the side of the road. Some have even claimed that they have seen the faces of the victims in the mist that often shrouds the road at night.
First-hand accounts of Encountering the Frozen Ghosts
Some have claimed to have seen ghostly apparitions standing motionless on the side of the road, while others have reported seeing the faces of the victims in the mist that often shrouds the road at night.
There have been many retellings of the horrible accident that happened, and the paranormal phenomena was highlighted when the reporter Javier Perez Campos published his book Los ecos de la tragedia about what happened, and the strange stories that came after.
It asks the question, can ghosts be frozen in time, forever replaying the last seconds before disaster struck and forever put a dent in the straight stretch of haunted road.
In central India you will find the haunted railway station called Sohagpur Station. Rumor has it that the station is haunted by the blood curdling screams echoing over the tracks.
Amidst the sprawling landscapes of Madhya Pradesh in central India, Sohagpur Station is a small stop on the route through the area, its shadowed platforms and deserted corridors bearing witness to a chilling tale of mystery and despair.
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Sohagpur is a town mostly known for its large export of Betel nuts, and luch scenic nature landscapes in the surrounding area. The little railway station with two platforms is known for being one of the most haunted railway stations in the country.
Sohagpur Station: This train station in central India is thought to be haunted by the desperate cries from a woman. Who is this supposed ghost that are said to linger by the railway tracks? // Source
The Haunting of Sohagpur Station
Legend has it that Sohagpur Station is haunted by the ghost of a woman. Not much is known about this woman, who she is or when the haunting started. Not even her appearance is much discussed in the stories, rather, her screams.
According to local lore, the woman’s anguished screams are said to echo through the deserted platforms, her voice filled with pain and agony, terrifying the passengers.
But it is not just the woman’s cries that haunt the station. Many travelers have reported hearing other unsettling noises echoing through the empty halls—strange whispers that seem to emanate from the darkness, and eerie footsteps that echo through the deserted corridors like the ghostly remnants of a long-forgotten past.
The Battle of Antietam was one of the bloodiest battles during the American Civil War and has been made into a memorial place called Antietam National Battlefield. Ever since that bloody day it has been said to have been haunted by the ghosts of the fallen soldiers. There are many spots said to be haunted, but none more than the Bloody Lane.
In the quiet expanse of Antietam National Battlefield in Maryland lies a chilling tale etched in the blood-soaked soil of history—the haunting specter of Bloody Lane.
The Antietam National Battlefield is on fields on the Appalachian foothills and is a protected area under the National Park Service along the Antietam Creek in Sharpsburg, and commemorates the Battle of Antietam during the American Civil War.
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Today the Antietam National Battlefield is a great place for a hike in the nature as well as learning a bit about the Civil War. It is also said to be one of the most haunted places in western Maryland with countless of spirits said to linger.
Aftermath of the War: Confederate horses lay dead and artillery caissons destroyed on the Antietam battlefield. Taken September 1862 but published in 1911.
The Battle of Antietam
The Battle of Antietam, fought on September 17, 1862, near Sharpsburg, Maryland, marked a pivotal moment in the American Civil War. It stands as the single bloodiest day in American history, with casualties numbering over 22,000. The clash between Union and Confederate forces along Antietam Creek resulted in intense fighting across fields, woods, and hills, leaving a landscape scarred by the horrors of war.
Despite the staggering loss of life, the battle fought on Antietam National Battlefield ended in a tactical stalemate, with neither side achieving a decisive victory. However, it provided President Abraham Lincoln with the opportunity to issue the Emancipation Proclamation, altering the course of the war by shifting its focus toward the abolition of slavery.
After the battle though there was a 3-mile line of bodies waiting to be buried and the sunken road known as Bloody Lane stands as a somber reminder of the lives lost.
The Bodys on Bloody Lane: Confederate dead at Bloody Lane, looking east from the north bank. It was aboslute carnage after the battle ended, many still buried in unmarked graves. // Source Civil War Images. Plate of Gardner’s Photographic Sketch Book of the War, Vol. 1, Philp & Solomons, Publishers, Washington, DC (1866). This image is cropped from the copy published by the Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division
Today you can still walk along the trail now only known as Bloody Lane where 5.500 men were killed during under 4 hours, and this as well as the surrounding area of Antietam National Battlefield is said it is haunted by the soldiers that died that day.
The Haunted Bloody Lane
Witnesses have recounted eerie tales of phantom gunfire that pierce the stillness of the air, and the smell of gunpowder hangs in the air as if the echoes of battle persist in the afterlife on Antietam National Battlefield.
Shouts and distant singing reverberate through time, an otherworldly chorus that commemorates the sacrifice made by those who fought on that fateful day. Most people claim to have heard something sounding like a chant, sounding like a Christmas Carol.
Coincidentally, the area by the observation tower overlooking the Bloody Lane was the 69th of New York, nicknamed the Irish Brigade that had a battle cry in Gaelic, sounding very much like the Christmas Song, Deck The Halls, although what they were really chanting was Faugh-a-Balaugh, meaning clear the way.
Some have even reported apparitions clad in Confederate uniforms, thinking first it was just another reenactment of it, only to witness their sudden disappearance, leaving behind a haunting emptiness.
A Night on the Bloody Lane
There is also a ghost story said to have happened to a group of re-enactors that decided to camp out in Bloody Lane. Their plan was to spend the night in the exact spot they had found a photo showing a pile of bodies from the battle.
During the night, one by one of the re-enactors chose to leave the spot, claiming that something wasn’t right. They got a strange feeling of uneasiness.
Of them just laughed, set on spending the entire night by himself then as all of his friends had already given up. They had all gathered around the cars discussing what had happened when they heard a horrible scream coming from the field.
It was the last friend, terrified and in shock after spending time by himself and experiencing something unexplained. According to him, he had laid down in the field when he started to hear strange sounds. It was like whispers or moans by his ears and rustling of the grass. First he thought nothing of it, but then he saw a human arm coming up from blood-soaked earth, pressing down on his chest, holding him there until he started to scream and fight his way back to his friends.
Burnside Bridge of Unmarked Graves
The hauntings extend beyond Bloody Lane to other sites within Antietam National Battlefield as well. Burnside Bridge, otherwise known as Rohrback Bridge before the war, is another poignant location on these hallowed grounds.
This was the place where General Ambrose Burnside pushed the Confederates back and where many of the fallen soldiers received a quick burial in unmarked graves around the bridge. Although today many are re-buried in the Antietam National Cemetery among other places.
Burnside Bridge: Before the war it was called Rohrback Bridge. Now it is simply remembered because of the war and its haunted rumors. Still picture from the bridge between circa 1860 and circa 1865
The area around Antietam National Battlefield is said to harbor mysterious blue balls of light that dance through the air, evoking the spirits of those who found their final rest beneath its arches. Phantom drumbeats echo through the ages, a ghostly cadence that hints at the unseen soldiers who once marched to the rhythm of war.
The Pry House Field Hospital
On the battlefield you will also find the Pry House and Piper House that are also said to be haunted from the war.
The Pry House is an old farmhouse in bricks and has now been turned into a museum of field museums. It was mostly used for storage until it almost burned down in 1976. When the fire was burning the firefighters claimed to have seen a woman in one of the windows on the second floor, after the entire floor had collapsed.
It was during the restoration of the old building though that most of the ghost stories from The Pry House came from, but also here, the same woman made an appearance.
Also here you will hear the sound of footsteps from no one in the stairs as well as seeing the ghost of a woman wearing a long old fashioned dress coming down the staircase.
The woman is thought to be Fannie Richardson, the wife of one of the generals that died in the same room on the second floor which she has been spotted on. She had come the long way down from Michigan to care for him, but his life was not to be saved.
Piper House Farm
The Piper House is found in the midst of Antietam National Battlefield and was the headquarters of Confederate General Longstreet and the barn out back was used as a hospital. There were actual fights inside of the house as well, and after it ended, they had to get out three dead soldiers under the piano.
When the farmer, Henry Piper returned to the farm, he found it standing, yes, but bloody and filled with dead people. He filed a claim for damages, but as he had no certificate of loyalty, he never received compensation.
This house is also said to have strange things happening inside of it, and people have complained about seeing strange figures and hearing mysterious noises.
St. Paul Episcopal Church
Moving from the Antietam National Battlefield itself and into the small town of Sharpsburg, you will find the St. Paul Episcopal Church that was used as a Confederate hospital after the battle ended as well as the nearby homes.
Not a peaceful place though as reports of screaming from the dying and injured are heard. The church tower is also said to have flickering lights that no one can explain.
There is also a house west of Mt. Airy, a town where a lot of the injured were taken. According to the local legend, the floorboards in the house are still stained with blood that are impossible to remove, even when sanded down.
The Haunted Antietam National Battlefield
The Antietam National Battlefield was the location for one of the bloodiest battles in the American Civil War, sure, but also one of the most haunted? Over the years the ghost stories from the different spots that played their part in the battle seem to accumulate.
And as long as the history is preserved and retold, perhaps so will the ghost stories.
After darkness falls on Delhi Cantt in the city, the ghosts are said to appear. Several of the locals have reported about the ghost of a woman wearing a white sari approaching cars, asking for lifts. Where she is going is unclear, but if you tell her no, it is said she will chase you.
The part of Delhi called Delhi Cantonment or simply Delhi Cantt is located in the heart of New Delhi, is a bustling hub of activity during the day. The Delhi Cantt houses a lot of the defense and army housing and schools.
It is said that this part of Delhi is the safest area. However, as the sun sets and the night falls, a different kind of activity takes over – the eerie and ghostly kind.
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With all of these army forces you would think that Delhi Cantt would be a peaceful one. But according to the local word of mouth it is anything but. The area of over 10 000 acres close to Dhaula Kaun is notorious for its spooky legends, with tales of supernatural occurrences and sightings of apparitions and unexplained phenomena.
The Woman in White Saree
According to the legend, there is a middle aged woman wearing a white sari that is said to haunt the area of Delhi Cantt. She is said to have gray hair, and some sources even point out that she apparently has hairy arms.
Why she is said to wear a white saree though, is uncertain, however, many ghost stories involve a woman in white saree. In India and especially in Hinduism, the color white is also the color of mourning, and many widows have traditionally worn them. The white saree is also said to represent purity, innocence as well as spirituality. This with the fact that most modern ghosts globally are wearing white, makes this trope especially common.
The Ghostly Tales of Delhi Cantt
Back to this particular ghost story, there are some variations of the reports and sightings. Some claim she comes out from the lush and green areas, some say she is just wandering the roads, most reports pinpoint her to between 1 and 4 am.
She is said to be walking along the roads and asks for a lift when night falls over the neighborhood. Apparently many of the call centers in the area advised their employees never to stop their car and give anyone a lift.
If you deny her a lift, it is said that she is following the car and even matching its speed, so you can’t outrun her.
It is said that she is the ghost of a lady that was killed on the route when she was going someplace. Perhaps on the road in a car accident, or perhaps in the green forestry people claim she comes from. To where we don’t know, but apparently she is still trying to get there.
The once grand seat for the chiefs of the Pohnpei in Micronesia, is now abandoned and feared. The floating city of Nan Madol is thought to be haunted by spirits and locals believe you will die if you spend the night there.
In the heart of the vast Pacific Ocean lies the enigmatic island of Pohnpei, part of Micronesia, home to one of the most mysterious and haunting places on Earth: Nan Madol also used to be called “Reef of Heaven”. This ancient city, built upon a series of artificial islets connected by a network of canals, has long been shrouded in legends and whispered tales of the supernatural.
The place has inspired many and is even said to have been the inspiration of H.P Lovecraft’s city of R’lyeh from his Cthulhu Mythos.
The city found on Temwen and Pohnpei Island was called the Eighth Wonder of the World when the European explorer came across it and was compared to the lost island of Atlantis and many thought it was the lost continent of Lemuria and Mu. It used to be near impossible to get to because of how remote it was, but now, people are starting to research more about this strange place.
Nan Madol and the Haunting: The ruins of the ancient and supposed haunted city of Nan Madol in Pohnpei from 2001 with its canals by the ruins along the canal. // Source: Flickr
The Legend of its Creation
Research says that human activity can date back to the first or second century, but the megalith structures were built in the 12th and 13th. There are no written records at the Pohnpeians operated without one, so there is no recorded history that tells us exactly how the city came about.
It is uncertain how the giant stone foundation of Nan Madol came about, but the local legend is that they were flown in by the use of black magic or that it was giants that placed the rocks there. What we do know that the black rocks is around 750 000 metric tons and was more work than with the Egyptian pyramids according to some reports.
The Mystery of the Rocks: One of the enduring mysteries they haven’t quite been able to figure out how to get there. Local lore say it was giants that brought them, or that the founding fathers of the city brought the rocks back to the city on dragons. // Source: Flickr
According to local lore, Nan Madol was not constructed by mortal hands, but rather by sorcery. There once came two twins from the mythical Western Katau or Kanamwayso that came in a large canoe in search for a place to build an altar.
The island was inhabitable, so the twin brothers, Olishipa and Olosohpa were sorcerers. They started to worship, Nahnisohn Sapw, the goddess of agriculture they wanted to build the altar in honor of. They then brought the basalt rock back to the island on the back of a flying dragon and then created the Saudeleur dynasty.
It is said that the dynasty was destroyed when Isokelekel invaded and moved in. But the lack of food and being so remote made his ancestors leave, eventually leaving the city to be reclaimed by the lagoon and its palms.
The City of Nan Madol
In the middle of nowhere, one might wonder why such a grand city was built here. Some of the walls are over 25 feet tall and 17 feet thick and the ruins are spread across 92 artificial islands. Nan Madol was the capital of the Saudeleur Dynasty until 1628, which consisted of a series of artificially constructed islets off Temwen’s southern coast. The ruins include tombs, baths, and temples and was clearly meant for the elite of Polynesia with the city itself perhaps not inhabited by more than a thousand at most.
As with most of the abandoned cities, the question remains: Why? The eventual fate of the Nan Madol civilization remains a haunting mystery for many to say for sure. Theories range from natural disasters to the island being engulfed by the encroaching sea, leaving its advanced society lost to time.
The name Nam Madol means “the space between”, something researchers remain unsure of its root. Perhaps more accurate is the translation “within the intervals” and refers to the canals the ruins are built upon. Worse perhaps is that people often also call it “ghost city” and that the local Pohnpei people refuse to get near it as it is said to be extremely haunted.
Haunted Rumors in the City
As Nan Madol rose from the ocean, so too did stories of its cursed nature. Locals whispered of strange happenings within its crumbling walls – of voices heard in the dead of night, of shadows that moved with a will of their own, and of unsuspecting travelers who vanished without a trace upon entering its labyrinthine passages.
The very foundations of the city is a type of magnetic rock, and when you bring a compass close to them, they spin and spin, losing all sense of direction.
The locals are said to be terrified of the island because of some strange glowing orbs they claim to have seen there. According to popular superstition, if you spend the night on the island, they will die.
Why you might ask, but there are more questions than answers of this place. The island used to be a burial site for the chiefs in the area and was also the location for important religious rituals. So the way the island is both spiritual and religious important goes way back.
The Haunted Island and City
Many brave souls sought to unravel the mysteries of Nan Madol, only to meet a fate worse than death, like when German governor Berg opened what was believed was Isokelekels tomb on the island. He died of a sunstroke, reinforcing the local superstition about the place.
It is said that Isokelekel saw his reflection in the water and decided to kill himself as he was getting so old. According to one gory legend, he decided to tie his penis off the top of a palm tree. His penis was cut off and he bled to death. After his death it is believed he was buried in a big mortuary on the island and perhaps he himself is haunting the area.
Even to this day, Nan Madol remains a place of mystery and dread, its secrets locked away beneath the waves, waiting for those foolish enough to seek them out. And as the winds howl through its crumbling ruins and the waters of the Pacific churn with an otherworldly energy, the whispered legends of its creation and the haunted rumors that surround it serve as a chilling reminder of the darkness that lurks within us all.
Haunting the Marsh’s Library in Dublin is the Archbishop, who is still rummaging through the books on the shelves, in search for a letter that never reached him in his lifetime.
Marsh’s Library is a sanctuary of knowledge, revered as Ireland’s oldest free public library right behind Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. The building is one of the few in Dublin that is still used for its original purpose, and even today you can see the cages they used to lock readers inside to stop them from stealing the precious books.
Books in Cages: Books once was much more expensive than today, and to prevent theft, the library had these cages for people to sit in and read. It now has over 25,000 rare texts and 300 manuscripts in its collection. Nearly all of these can be accessed online.
Over the years, many famous literary figures like Jonathan Swift, James Joyce, and Bram Stoker have used this library to research their works.
Bram Stoker, the literary genius behind the iconic 1897 Gothic novel “Dracula,” found inspiration within the library’s walls according to local lore as he spent much of his time in Dublin. As he delved into its literary treasures, he may have unknowingly drawn from the ethereal aura that enveloped Marsh’s Library.
Read More: Check out all of the ghost stories from Ireland
While its shelves bear the weight of countless times, they also harbor a more spectral presence—the ghost of Archbishop Narcissus Marsh that is said to haunt the library.
Born in 1638 and passing away in 1713, Archbishop Narcissus Marsh, the founder of Marsh’s Library in 1707, left an indelible mark on Dublin’s literary heritage. Yet, even in death, his story took a mysterious turn.
A Niece’s Elopement
Narcissus Marsh, Archbishop of Armagh
The eerie tale begins with the Archbishop’s young niece, whom he had lovingly raised. She fell in love and secretly married the curate of Chapelizod village when she was 19 years old. Instead of telling her uncle, she decided to elope and run away with him.
Incidentally the Chapelizod Village within Dublin has more than one tragic love story. The etymology of the village indicates an association with Princess Iseult or Isolde from the Arthurian legend of Tristan and Isolde that suffered their own Romeo and Juliette ending. The village derives its name from a chapel consecrated in her honor.
The niece decided to leave behind a cryptic note, concealed within one of the library’s countless volumes where she explained it all and asked her uncle for forgiveness. But she hid the note too well and the Archbishop never found it, something that drove him back from the afterlife in search for the answers he never got.
The Restless Search in Marsh’s Library
It is said that Archbishop Marsh’s ghost roams the hallowed halls of his beloved library to this very day. His spectral presence is eternally on the hunt for that elusive note, rummaging through the books. In death, as in life, he searches for answers and perhaps a way to reconcile with the past.
It is also said that walking from the first gallery to the second one, you can feel the temperature drop, even on the hottest of days.
The Ghost of Jonathan Swift
The Archbishop is not the only resident of the Marsh’s Library as a ghost though. Jonathan Swift, the author of Gulliver’s Travels for instance is also said to pay the library a haunted visit once in a while as well.
Both he and his girlfriend, Stella, are buried next door in the Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Esther Johnson as her real name was, could also been his secret wife and is rumoured to have married died some years before him. After she died in 1728, he made death mask of her and him and asked to be buried next to her.
Over a century later they were dug up again and it was hugely controversial. William Wilde who was the father of poet Oscar Wilde joined a team to exhume the bodies for examination in 1835.
They made casts of both Swift’s and Stella’s skulls as part of the study. Although it was seen as a very unchristian thing to do, the library preserved the skull and the one belonging to Stella is in one of the cages at the back of the library.
It is said that Swift comes to visit the Marsh’s Library to see Stella, as his skull is still in the cathedral.
Dublin’s Haunted Treasure
As the moon cast an ethereal glow through the stained glass windows, Archbishop Narcissus Marsh continued his restless search within the hallowed halls of Marsh’s Library. For centuries, he had combed through the shelves, hoping to find the elusive letter from his niece that had evaded him in life and death.
And so, Marsh’s Library remained a sanctuary of knowledge, where the living and the departed coexisted. A place where history, literature, and the supernatural converged, forever preserving the legacy of Dublin’s haunted treasure in the heart of the city.
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.
