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.
Once, the city of Bern was filled with nuns working and living inside of the city walls. According to ghost stories though, some of them remained, even after the Reformation that closed their convents down. And those stories tell about them being guilty of terrible things with terrible ends.
Once, the city of Bern was filled with nuns working and living inside of the city walls. According to ghost stories though, some of them remained, even after the Reformation that closed their convents down. And those stories tell about them being guilty of terrible things with terrible ends.
In the winding alleys and cloistered ruins of Bern, ghosts drift beneath the vaulted ceilings of forgotten convents. Long before the Protestant Reformation swept through Bern in the early 16th century, the city throbbed with the sacred heartbeat of Catholic ritual. Monasteries, nunneries, and chapels dotted the cityscape, and pious women in black habits tended to the sick, the poor, and the orphaned. Some were devout and willing. Others were not.
Read More: Check out all ghost stories from Switzerland
By November 1523, the tides had turned. Under pressure from reformist leaders, the Bernese city council ordered that the words of the Bible be preached directly—without the filter of Rome. Within months, the convents were abandoned. The once-sacred cloisters stood silent. But silence is not absence. And in Bern, some souls remained behind… trapped.
One of the ghost stories that were told about the Bernese nuns was one left behind, still inside of her old convent walls, and it is said that even in death, her face cries out.
It was an ordinary day when a man, strolling past a decaying monastery wall near the heart of Bern, caught sight of something horrifying. The story doesn’t really specify which building this happened in. It is also a story that is said to have happened before 1919, as it was printed in a collection of ghost stories that year.
Behind a narrow, crumbling window he claimed to have seen a face. Pale, pleading, trapped. He rushed into the building, but the room was empty. The very spot where she had stared down was bare stone and shadow. No sound. No warmth. No sign of life.
Haunted by the vision, he returned the next night. That’s when he heard it. A cacophony from beyond the walls: roars, thuds, the pounding of fists or perhaps hooves. Amidst the fury, a woman’s voice wept and moaned, begging for deliverance. He screamed for help. Together with another man, he began tapping along the walls until one section gave a hollow response. Stone by stone, they tore it open.
And there she was.
A skeleton, upright, impossibly intact, as though caught in her final scream. Her black robes hung in rags from brittle bones. A rosary was knotted in her clenched, skeletal hands. Her skull tilted ever so slightly toward the light, toward freedom that was denied.
She had been walled up alive. Whether for punishment, penance, or cruelty, no one knows. But her agony never left the stone.
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. This is from the collected ghost stories by Hedwig Correvon.
These are no ordinary flames; they are the spirits of the Beguines, young women once cloistered in the monastery at Klösterlistutz against their will. 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 and as they vanish, they are leaving only ripples on the water and a chill in the air.
There are also those claiming that a group of nuns have been haunting the area around the old cityhall at Rathaus for ages. Towards Schipfe, there is an iron door to the town halls, said to be so rusty that no one can open it. This is at least how it was described in 1919 in a collection of ghost stories from Bern.
At night, it opened however and a group of nuns dressed in all black comes out, walking to the fountain. It is said that without saying anything they start to throw the small and dead bodies of children they have drowned in the well.
Just beyond the medieval city’s old west gate lies Bubenbergraine, possibly an old name and most likely referring to the area now known as Bubenbergplatz in Bern. The Bubenbergplatz is a plaza in the Old City of Bern, the medieval city center. It is part of the area outside the third city walls. This is where the Holy Spirit Convent once stood, a place of quiet devotion, cloistered halls, and whispered transgressions. Though the convent was dissolved in the Reformation, not all its residents departed.
For over a century, a sleek, spectral black cat has haunted a house built on those same grounds. By day it hides in old cupboards or among the pergolas that once shielded nuns from worldly eyes. But at night, it stalks doorways and dreams.
One man, returning late, found the feline watching him. When he tried to shoo it, the cat’s eyes flashed like twin embers. Its body swelled to monstrous proportions. The man fell on the spot, unconscious. He died days later in inexplicable agony.
“The faithless nun beat him,” the old Bernese muttered. She had betrayed her vows in life—perhaps with men, perhaps with ambition. Whatever her sins, her punishment is eternal. She walks now in feline guise, dooming any who mock her presence.
She is not the only one.
Not all ghosts haunting the area called Bubenbergrain in the collection of ghost stories from Bern from 1919 were nuns though. Some spirits haunt out of guilt. Others out of pleasure.
On quiet, silver-drenched nights in Bubenbergrain, a woman appears on the terrace of her former home. Her face is still beautiful, adorned with the yellow Schwefelhütchen cap once worn by Bernese noblewomen. Moonlight glints on the gold chains of her ancient costume.
She stands at the very spot where she once mixed the poison meant for her husband and son, both of whom had discovered her betrayal when she had an affair. Both of whom now lie in Bernese soil. Though the years have passed, her spirit lingers. Those who have seen her say she never moves, never speaks, only watches.
These are not sweet legends to comfort children. They are warning signs carved into Bern’s foundation. Once, these streets rang with the chants of nuns, the bells of convent towers, the echo of whispered prayers. But beneath those hymns lay darker stories of forced vows, secret lovers, silent punishments. And when the Reformation scattered the living, the dead stayed behind.
Ghostly cats now wander where piety once walked. Eyes shine from beneath doorsteps. Shadows rustle across crumbling convent walls. Some say they hear weeping at night from the stones of the Heiliggeistkirche, once the chapel of the Holy Spirit Convent. Others avoid Bubenbergraine entirely after sundown.
If you walk Bern’s Old Town, take heed. What looks like a cat may not be. What seems like a whisper may be a cry. And what appears to be a ruin may, in truth, still house the cloistered sins of centuries.
Märchenstiftung – Die eingemauerte Nonne (The Walled-Up Nun)
Märchenstiftung – Die treulose Nonne (The Faithless Nun)
Märchenstiftung – Die Giftmischerin (The Poisoner)
Wikipedia – Heiliggeistkirche (Bern)
P. Keckeis & M. Waibel, Legends of Switzerland, Bern, Zurich, 1986.
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