Moon Mausoleum
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.
Each December, when the nights grow long and the spirit of Christmas fills the air, Bern’s holiday phantoms awaken. These tales from lore and legends, remind us that even amidst celebration, the spirits of bygone eras linger.
Each December, when the nights grow long and the spirit of Christmas fills the air, Bern’s holiday phantoms awaken. These tales from lore and legends, remind us that even amidst celebration, the spirits of bygone eras linger.
As twinkling lights line the ancient streets and snow dusts the rooftops of Bern during Advent season, the scent of mulled wine, gingerbread and candied almonds wafts through the town. The Old City seems like a winter postcard brought to life with its church spires and lit up windows in the cold winter nights.
Read More: Check out all ghost stories from Switzerland
But behind its festive charm and glowing Christmas markets, December brings with it more than warmth and wonder as it invites the return of Bern’s holiday phantoms, whose stories swirl like mist around the Aare River.
These ghost stories were collected by Hedwig Correvon in the book Ghost Stories from Bern in 1919 and are all set in the haunted darkness of Christmas times.
On quiet, moonlit nights near the Nydeggbrücke, those with the rare gift of second sight may glimpse something truly otherworldly. Seven small lights rise from the river’s dark waters and begin to swirl and twirl, chasing one another in joyful abandon above the gentle current. These are no ordinary flames; they are the spirits of the Beguines, young women once cloistered in the monastery at Klösterlistutz against their will.
Beguines: Although they are called Beguines, were they really this? The Beguines were Christian lay religious orders that were active in Western Europe, particularly in the Low Countries, in the 13th–16th centuries. Their members lived in semi-monastic communities but did not take formal religious vows. Although they promised not to marry “as long as they lived as Beguines”, to quote an early Rule of Life, they were free to leave at any time. Beguines were part of a larger spiritual revival movement of the 13th century that stressed imitation of Jesus’ life through voluntary poverty, care of the poor and sick, and religious devotion.
According to legend, their restless souls are granted a fleeting moment of freedom each Christmas to dance above the river they were once forbidden to cross. As the clock at Nydegg Church strikes midnight, their ghostly game ends in a soft sigh before they vanish, leaving only ripples on the water and a chill in the air.
In the deep silence between Christmas and New Year’s, when the moon glows brightest, a solitary figure can be seen walking along the banks near the Studerstein, a park in the old town. Dressed in a long wig, knee breeches, and polished buckled shoes, the ghost of a man emerges from an old pavilion, tapping his silver-capped cane along his familiar path. He never speaks. One worker who once dared to call after him was met not with a reply, but with an inexplicable downpour from a clear sky and a deafening crash behind him. Like echoes of the phantom’s grief, or a warning not to disturb his solemn procession.
In a narrow house deep within Bern’s Old Town, Christmas brings a soft creak of old doors and the hush of unseen footsteps. The apparition is of a young peasant woman, dressed in centuries-old garb with a sulfur-yellow hat tucked under her arm. She is the homesick ghost, returning each holy season to the childhood home she once knew, although the story doesn’t mention what house it was. .
She drifts from room to room, pausing before mirrors to arrange her hair as if preparing for a celebration that will never come. Residents have learned not to interrupt. When her quiet journey is complete, the doors close behind her, and she vanishes until the next Christmas, drawn again by memories of warmth long gone.
This ghost story takes the haunted christmas all the way to hell and the Aare River, lush with ghost stories.
The Christmas tree lights in the ferryman’s room at Ramseyerloch had already burned out. Ramseyerloch was an old mooring place to the 18th century court prison, but has been used for much longer. Then the ferryman’s wife noticed a dark shadow on the other side of the Aare, waving its arms as if calling the boatman across. At this time? At this hour? Immediately afterward, a shout was heard, three or four times.
With a heavy heart, the ferryman untied his boat and sailed across. He saw that a thick black cloth wrapped his head. He explained that he certainly wouldn’t ferry him across like that. The journeyman jumped into the boat and pressed the oars into the ferryman’s hand. The tide began to surge as the boat passed over them. House-high waves seemed about to tear down the houses. And the boat danced as if it were about to capsize at any moment and sink into the abyss. The ferryman’s hair stood on end. He had never made such a journey before. The cloaked man stood motionless at the bow. Then the ferryman threw his stick at him: “You are to blame for all this!”
A flame hissed. The smell of sulfur began to fill the air. The ferryman’s wife watched the events from the window in horror. She saw a tiny light dance above a high wave for a while. Suddenly, it disappeared in the spray.
Shortly before Christmas a long time ago, a young parish assistant arrived in Bern after a day’s hike. Since it was evening and he could not continue his journey to the Oberland until the next day, he was quartered in a small room in the cathedral, whose window faced the platform. The full white light of the moon shone through the window bars.
Around midnight, the sleeper felt as if something were happening outside. He rose and pressed his face to the window bars. There he saw four clergymen in their vestments walking with a serious, measured step beneath the trees on the platform. Four nuns followed them at a distance. Serious questions must have been occupying the clergy, for from time to time they paused, some gesticulating vigorously, others with their hands clasped behind their backs in thought. Not a leaf on the tree stirred, and not a stone stirred beneath the feet of the walkers. Not a sound was heard either.
As they passed the cathedral window, one of the clergymen turned his head and saw the young man watching them. Suddenly, eight tiny flames hissed up. A bluish cloud moved in front of the moon. But when it disappeared, the platform lay as it had been before. The moon covered the turrets and spires of the cathedral with silver; silver wove itself over the leaves of the trees. But there was not the slightest trace of those who had just walked here.
In Bern, where ancient cobblestones remember every footstep and every whisper lingers in the cold air, Christmas is not only a season of light but of shadows as well. Long before Christmas became the season of the merry, something darker brewed.
Einsamer Spaziergang | Märchenstiftung
https://www.maerchenstiftung.ch/maerchendatenbank/11831/heimweh
Aareüberfahrt | Märchenstiftung
https://www.maerchenstiftung.ch/maerchendatenbank/11841/auf-der-plattform
3 Comments »