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.
Back at a time when the hills of Münsterberg were called Spittelsprung in the really old parts of Basel in Switzerland, it was also said a monk was haunting the streets. Gliding in and out of the houses frightening the children, he took no notice of the world of the living, always deep in his prayers. The question is, prayer for what?
Back at a time when the hills of Münsterberg were called Spittelsprung in the really old parts of Basel in Switzerland, it was also said a monk was haunting the streets. Gliding in and out of the houses frightening the children, he took no notice of the world of the living, always deep in his prayers. The question is, prayer for what?
In the tangled web of Basel’s medieval streets, history lies thick as mist, and nowhere more so than on the Münsterberg, the quiet hill crowned by the grand sandstone edifice of Basel Münster. The old town rises and falls with small hills, each carrying the weight of centuries.
The Münsterberg is the most storied of them, its cobbled alleys flanked by 18th-century palaces, austere official buildings, and the venerable Naturhistorisches Museum. Yet long before these elegant façades graced the streets, this hill bore another name: Spittelsprung.
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In the days when death came swiftly and often, a hospital and almshouse once stood here. A place where the sick and dying clung to what comfort the Church could offer, and where sins were whispered to unseen ears in dimly lit corners.
And it is from this time that one of Basel’s most quietly unnerving hauntings is said to have begun.
According to accounts passed down through generations, a spectral monk used to make his mournful rounds upon the Münsterberg back when it was called Spittelsburg. It is told that on certain nights, when the wind sighs low through the narrow alleys and the bell of the cathedral tolls its midnight note, he appears without warning in one of the houses along the hill.
It was said that the pale glow of a flickering lamp or hearth reveals his dark robes and tonsured head as he silently crosses the living room floor, eyes never lifting from the pages of his ancient breviary. His lips move in soundless prayer, and the room fills with a sense of something ancient and sorrowful.
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Children, watching from behind chairs or half-open doors, would scream at the sight of him, but the ghostly monk didn’t seem to even notice them, never pausing in his devotions or lifting his head from his books. It was only when an adult stepped forward to confront him, hand outstretched or voice raised in command, that the figure would vanish like smoke caught in a draft, leaving nothing but the lingering scent of old candle wax and dust.
Why this monk’s restless soul should remain is lost to time. Was he a healer who succumbed to one of the plagues that ravaged Basel? A sinner seeking penance? Or perhaps a witness to unspoken horrors within the hospital walls?
He was certainly not the only monk that used to haunt the city of Basel. On Herbergsgasse there used to be a poorhouse that used to be haunted by one as well. At least back in 1626 where fire crackling in the stove could be heard when there was no fire seen. A monk in a dark robe appeared with a small dog in his arms in the rooms several times and the farmers who stayed overnight at the inn to pay their rent to the landlords were said to have been paralyzed when they laid in their beds, watching the monk glide through their rooms.
The street, now called Münsterberg, seems tranquil in daylight, its medieval square echoing with little but the footsteps of museum-goers and students. But come nightfall, when the ancient stones remember their past, the air can turn heavy. Locals whisper that in certain houses, a shape still moves by lamplight, and prayers too old for memory still pass through unseen lips.
Spuk und Geister im alten Basel
