"The Whispers of Room 11B"
The air was thick with the scent of salt and seaweed when I first arrived at Havencliff Manor, a crumbling seaside boarding house perched atop the jagged cliffs of Cornwall. The building was old—its walls cracked, its wooden floors warped, and its windows fogged with grime. The landlord, a wiry, sun-weathered man named Mr. Hargrove, had looked me over with a peculiar mix of caution and pity when I signed the lease.
“Room 11B, eh?” he muttered, scratching his bristly chin. “You seem the quiet type. That room’s seen its fair share of peculiar folks.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, intrigued.
“Let’s just say it’s got a reputation,” he replied cryptically, handing me the tarnished brass key. “Be mindful, miss. Don’t go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
I brushed off his warning, chalking it up to local superstition or his attempt to unsettle a newcomer. I had chosen Havencliff Manor precisely for its isolation. I needed solitude—space to escape the judgmental stares and murmured gossip I’d endured at university. My obsession with the occult had branded me an outsider, someone to be avoided or, worse, ridiculed. This place, with its desolation and constant winds howling through the cracks, felt like the perfect sanctuary.
Room 11B was small but functional, with a narrow bed pushed against one wall, a battered desk beneath a single window overlooking the turbulent ocean, and a wardrobe whose doors never quite shut properly. The room had an odd smell—a mix of salt, damp wood, and something faintly metallic. It was far from luxurious, but it was mine.
For weeks, I kept to myself, slipping into the comfortable rhythm of solitary study. By day, I combed through my collection of ancient texts, decoding cryptic languages and practicing rituals from bygone eras. By night, I burned herbs—sage, mugwort, and juniper—chanting softly as their smoke curled toward the ceiling. The sounds of the sea crashing against the cliffs became a backdrop to my work, a rhythmic pulse that seemed to echo through the house. Occasionally, I noticed shadows moving in the corners of my vision, but whenever I turned to look, there was nothing there.
It wasn’t long before I began to feel a presence. At first, it was subtle—a faint sense that I wasn’t alone. Then, one night, as I was lighting a candle, I heard a whisper. It was so soft that I thought it might be the wind slipping through the cracks in the window, but it grew louder, insistent. I froze, listening.
“Do you hear it?”
The words sent a chill down my spine. I spun around, heart pounding, but the room was empty. Shaking it off as my imagination, I forced myself to focus. I didn’t tell anyone—not that I had anyone to tell.
The whispers grew more frequent after that. They came late at night, in the hours when the rest of the house seemed to hold its breath. Sometimes they were clear—words spoken in a language I couldn’t understand. Other times, they were fragmented, like half-remembered thoughts drifting on the edge of sleep. I started leaving the candle burning by my bedside, but its flickering light only deepened the shadows on the walls.
Then came the storm. The wind screamed outside, rattling the windows as rain lashed against the glass. I sat at my desk, poring over a grimoire—a rare, centuries-old text I had acquired at great expense. Its brittle pages detailed an ancient ritual, one that promised to reveal hidden truths about the veil between worlds. The instructions were clear but ominous: precise chants, specific items—a brass bowl, a sprig of yew, a lock of hair.
Something about the ritual called to me. It felt as though I’d been waiting my entire life to discover it. Against my better judgment, I decided to perform it. I prepared the room carefully, drawing symbols on the floor with chalk and arranging the items as described. As I began the chant, the air thickened, growing so heavy that each breath felt like a struggle. The candlelight flickered violently, casting writhing shadows on the walls.
Halfway through the incantation, a deafening knock reverberated through the house, shaking the very foundation. It sounded as though someone—or something—was pounding on every door, every wall, at once. My heart raced, but I forced myself to continue, my voice trembling as I spoke the final words.
The moment the chant ended, the knocking stopped. Silence descended, thick and suffocating. The air around me felt charged, as though the room itself was holding its breath. Then I saw it—a faint glow in the corner of the room. The symbols I had drawn earlier were shimmering faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. I stared, unable to move, as the glow grew brighter.
The next thing I knew, I was on the floor, gasping for air. My head throbbed, and the room was freezing. The chalk symbols on the floor had vanished, but the walls—oh, the walls—were covered in jagged, blood-red markings. They were unlike anything I had ever seen, their shapes chaotic yet deliberate, as though they held a meaning just out of reach.
I tried to scrub them away, but the marks wouldn’t budge. The harder I tried, the more it felt as though they were watching me, their jagged lines shifting imperceptibly when I wasn’t looking.
The days that followed were a blur of sleepless nights and growing paranoia. My health deteriorated rapidly. I couldn’t eat; I couldn’t focus. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the symbols, glowing faintly in the dark. The whispers returned, louder now, more insistent. I began hearing them even during the day, their voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus.
On the final night, I was awoken by a loud, frantic banging. It was coming from inside my room. My heart pounded as I sat up, clutching the blanket to my chest. The banging grew louder, more desperate. The walls seemed to vibrate with each blow.
I stumbled to the mirror and froze. My reflection stared back at me, but it wasn’t mine. The face was gaunt, the skin pale and stretched, and the eyes—those weren’t my eyes. They were dark, endless voids. Behind the reflection, the symbols on the walls glowed faintly, pulsating like they were alive.
I don’t remember much after that. The neighbors said they heard me screaming—a piercing, otherworldly sound that stopped abruptly. When they finally broke down the door, they found me in the corner, my lifeless eyes wide open, staring at nothing.
The room reeked of salt and decay, and the walls were covered in more symbols, their lines glowing faintly even as the investigators snapped their photographs. They ruled out foul play. “An unexplained medical event,” they called it, though they couldn’t explain the markings.
The landlord sealed the room after that. Havencliff Manor stands empty now, its windows boarded up. But some nights, when the wind carries the scent of the sea, you might still hear it: a soft chant, a faint whisper, and the distant sound of waves crashing against the cliffs.
"The Haunting of Everpine Avenue"
Nestled in the heart of the Pacific Northwest lies the sleepy town of Everpine, where towering pines stretch endlessly toward the sky and a damp mist lingers year-round. Just outside the town’s edge, a narrow, meandering stretch of asphalt known as Everpine Avenue winds through a dense forest. Locals often share whispered warnings about the road, not just for its sharp curves but for the legend tied to it—a story that every resident seems to know but few dare to confirm.
The Rainy Encounter
It was a cold November evening when I found myself driving down Everpine Avenue, heading home after an exhausting day at a university lecture series in Portland. My mind was numb from hours of academic discussions, and the steady drum of rain on my windshield was hypnotic. The forest seemed alive with shadows as my car’s headlights sliced through the thick fog that rolled in from the nearby mountains.
As I approached a particularly sharp curve, my headlights illuminated a figure by the roadside. A young woman stood there, soaked to the bone, her dark hair plastered against her pale face. She wore a simple blue dress, which clung to her slender frame like a wet sheet. She seemed out of place—a lone figure in the middle of nowhere, miles from any house or business.
Instinctively, I slowed down and pulled over, rolling down my passenger window. “Hey, are you alright?” I called out, my voice competing with the steady patter of rain.
She nodded slowly, her teeth chattering. “I... I need a ride,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Can you take me home?”
Something about her struck me as odd. Her expression was almost detached, like she wasn’t entirely present. But her trembling lips and the distant look in her eyes tugged at my sense of compassion. Against my better judgment, I unlocked the passenger door.
She climbed in silently, clutching herself as though trying to conserve the last bit of warmth she had left. “Where to?” I asked as I pulled back onto the slick road. She hesitated before mumbling an address I recognized—a small neighborhood on the edge of town.
Uneasy Silence
The ride was tense. I attempted to make conversation, but her responses were short, almost robotic. “What were you doing out there?” I asked, glancing at her briefly.
“Just walking,” she murmured. Her voice was so faint I could barely hear her over the rain.
She shivered violently, and I instinctively reached into the backseat for the spare hoodie I kept there. “Here,” I said, handing it to her. She accepted it with a faint smile, pulling it tightly around herself.
Something felt... off. The air in the car seemed colder, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched, even though her gaze was fixed out the window.
The House
We finally arrived at the address she’d given me—a modest, single-story house at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. Its porch light was off, and the windows were dark, but it looked lived in.
“We’re here,” I said, turning to face her. But the passenger seat was empty. My hoodie lay neatly folded where she had sat.
A chill ran down my spine as I scanned the street. There was no sign of her. I stepped out of the car, the rain instantly soaking through my jacket, and approached the house. Maybe she had slipped out quietly? Maybe I hadn’t noticed?
I knocked on the door, the sound echoing unnaturally in the still night. After a long pause, an older man answered, his face lined with years of worry and sorrow.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice cautious but kind.
“I just gave a young woman a ride here,” I explained, my voice shaking. “She was soaked, wearing a blue dress. She said this was her home.”
The man’s expression froze, his eyes filling with a mix of shock and sadness. “You must be mistaken,” he said quietly. “My daughter, Lily, died five years ago. She was hit by a car while walking along Everpine Avenue... in the rain.”
I felt my knees go weak. “I... I saw her,” I stammered. “She was in my car.”
The man shook his head slowly, then pointed to a framed photograph on a nearby table. I stepped closer, my breath hitching. It was her—the same young woman I had picked up. Her bright smile in the photo was a haunting contrast to the lifeless expression she’d worn tonight.
Unanswered Questions
I stumbled back to my car, my mind racing. The hoodie I had lent her was now missing, though I hadn’t noticed it disappear. The next morning, driven by an insatiable need for answers, I returned to Everpine Avenue, hoping to find some trace of her.
Instead, I found the hoodie draped neatly over a gravestone in the town cemetery. The name carved into the weathered stone sent a shiver through me: Lily Harper. A single, dry rose rested beside the hoodie, untouched by the previous night’s rain.
I reported the incident to the local police, who confirmed the story of Lily’s death. They revealed that others had seen her too, describing eerily similar encounters. She always asked for a ride home, only to vanish before reaching her destination.
Lingering Spirits
To this day, I can’t drive down Everpine Avenue without glancing at the roadside, half-expecting to see her standing there again. The locals say her spirit lingers, searching endlessly for the home she’ll never reach. I don’t know if I believe in ghosts, but I’ll never forget the chilling emptiness of that passenger seat—or the cold, undeniable truth of her story.
"Whispers of Crandall House"
I never wanted to spend the night in Crandall House. But when you're a grad student writing your thesis on American ghost lore, fieldwork is inevitable. My professor, an old-school academic with a flair for the dramatic, insisted I immerse myself in the places I wrote about. "You can't understand a haunting from a book," she’d said, handing me the keys to the estate.
Crandall House stood at the edge of Savannah’s historic district, hidden behind moss-draped oaks and a crumbling wrought-iron gate. It was a sprawling Georgian mansion, its white columns stained with time and its windows dark, like watching eyes. Local legend claimed it was built on the foundations of a former plantation house that burned to the ground under mysterious circumstances. Over the years, it served as a hospital during the Civil War, an orphanage, and later, a boarding house. Death, they said, had left its mark.
Room 12B, on the second floor, was the epicenter of the lore. Guests reported unexplainable cold drafts, the sensation of being watched, and, most chilling of all, a shadowy figure that materialized at the foot of the bed. In the 1920s, a woman staying in the room reportedly went mad, scribbling indecipherable symbols on the walls before vanishing one stormy night. The room had been locked ever since, used only for storage.
But tonight, it would be mine.
I arrived at dusk, the house bathed in an amber glow from the setting sun. The caretaker, a wiry man named Mr. Lyle, handed me a rusted key and a single flashlight. “You’re braver than most,” he muttered, avoiding my eyes. “Just…don’t stay too long.”
The air inside the house was heavy, filled with the scent of old wood and mildew. As I climbed the creaking staircase, every step seemed to echo louder than the last. Room 12B was at the end of a narrow hallway. The door was massive, its paint peeling like ancient bark. I hesitated before unlocking it, the key turning with an unsettling click.
The room was stark and cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones. Dust covered every surface, and the wallpaper—once floral—had faded to a sickly yellow, peeling in long strips. In the center stood a four-poster bed, its canopy tattered and sagging. A cracked mirror hung crookedly on the wall, and an old wooden dresser leaned as if exhausted by time.
I unpacked quickly, setting up my camera and audio recorder. My plan was simple: document the night and leave at first light. I told myself I didn’t believe in ghosts. It was just a story—a case study for my thesis.
But as the hours ticked by, doubt crept in.
At midnight, the first strange occurrence happened. I was sitting on the bed, reviewing my notes, when the temperature dropped suddenly. My breath clouded in the air, and the flashlight flickered before dying completely. The room plunged into darkness, save for the faint moonlight filtering through the tattered curtains.
Then, I heard it: a soft, rhythmic tapping, like fingernails on glass. It came from the cracked mirror. My pulse quickened as I approached, the tapping growing louder with each step. In the reflection, the room behind me seemed...different. The wallpaper appeared new, the bed pristine, and the dresser unbroken. But what caught my breath was the figure.
A woman stood at the foot of the bed, her back to me. She wore a long, dark gown, her hair falling in heavy curls down her back. I turned sharply, but the room was empty. When I looked back at the mirror, she was facing me.
Her eyes were hollow, her mouth a silent scream.
I stumbled backward, knocking over the camera. The noise seemed to break the spell, and the mirror returned to its cracked, lifeless state. My heart pounded as I fumbled to pick up the camera, muttering under my breath. “Just the imagination,” I whispered. “Stress, fatigue...”
But the night wasn’t done with me.
The scratching started around 3 a.m. It came from the walls, moving in slow, deliberate patterns. I shone the flashlight on the peeling wallpaper, half expecting to see rats, but there was nothing. Just the sound, closer now. I pressed my ear to the wall, and what I heard chilled me to my core.
A voice, faint but distinct, whispered, “Get out.”
The scratching intensified, and suddenly, the wallpaper began to peel on its own, curling away to reveal symbols beneath. They were jagged, unfamiliar, carved deep into the plaster. My camera recorded everything, the symbols glowing faintly in the dim light.
I grabbed my bag, ready to flee, but the door wouldn’t budge. The air grew heavier, pressing against my chest. The shadow appeared then, stretching from the corner of the room like an oil slick. It rose, taking form—tall, featureless, and malevolent.
Paralyzed, I watched as it advanced, its presence overwhelming. The whispers grew louder, a cacophony of voices screaming, pleading, laughing. My knees buckled, and I fell to the floor. Desperate, I closed my eyes and shouted, “Leave me alone!”
And just like that, it stopped.
When I opened my eyes, the room was empty. The symbols on the wall were gone, the air warm again. Trembling, I gathered my things and fled. Mr. Lyle was waiting by the front door, his face pale.
“You saw her, didn’t you?” he asked quietly. I nodded, unable to speak.
As I drove away, the house loomed in my rearview mirror, its windows dark and empty. But I knew better. Something had watched me. And as much as I wanted to leave it behind, part of me knew it wouldn’t let me go so easily.
I never returned to Crandall House, but its story became the centerpiece of my thesis. To this day, I still hear whispers in the night, faint and distant, calling me back.