Halloween. The night of glowing jack-o’-lanterns, spooky houses, and candy everywhere. But beyond the fun costumes and pumpkin treats, there are scary Halloween stories that Are true—stories so real and chilling, they stick with you long after the trick-or-treaters have gone home.
And the crazy part? These aren’t made-up tales. These are real experiences. Real fear.
Not the kind of fear from a movie, where you know the jump is coming. I mean the kind that makes your skin crawl, makes you check over your shoulder, or hesitate before stepping into a dark room. That’s the kind of fear these true stories carry.
Scary Halloween Stories that Are True
Think Halloween is just about candy and costumes? Think again. These are real stories—true chills that will make you check over your shoulder, lock your doors, and wonder what is really lurking in the shadows tonight.
1. The Abandoned Asylum Visit
I will never forget that Halloween night.
It started as a dare. Me and four friends decided to explore the old asylum on the outskirts of town.
Nobody had been inside for decades. Broken windows, rusted gates, peeling paint. Locals called it haunted. We laughed it off.
We parked our cars a few streets away and walked. Leaves crunched under our boots. The air was colder than usual.
“Come on,” Mark said, pointing at the main entrance. “This is going to be epic.”
I laughed, though my stomach tightened. Something about the building felt… wrong.
We pushed the front doors open. Hinges groaned. A gust of cold air hit us. The smell of mold and rust was thick.
Our flashlights barely cut through the darkness. The lobby was huge, empty, silent. Broken chairs. Peeling wallpaper. Cobwebs like curtains.
I could almost hear echoes of footsteps from decades ago.
“Okay, seriously, this is creepy,” Sarah whispered.
We joked it was just the wind. But I didn’t believe it.
The hallways were endless. Doors hung open. Old wheelchairs tipped over. Stains on the floors. Broken equipment.
We laughed nervously. Every creak, every thump made us jump.
Then we heard the footsteps.
Heavy. Slow. Deliberate. Coming from above. Not ours.
We froze.
“Did you hear that?” Mark whispered.
I nodded. My throat tight.
“Probably the building settling,” I said, though I didn’t believe it.
The footsteps moved down the hall above us. Shadows flickered on the ceiling.
“Guys… we should go,” I said.
“Not yet,” Sarah said. “Let’s see what’s up there.”
I felt my stomach drop. The air was colder. A smell of decay filled my nose.
We crept to the staircase. The steps groaned under our weight. Each creak echoed.
At the top, a long corridor stretched into darkness. Flashlight beams barely reached the end.
And then we heard whispers.
Soft. Faint. Calling our names.
“Sam…” a voice said. Not my friend Sam. A voice from the shadows.
I froze.
Another voice called: “Mark…”
Sarah grabbed my arm. “We need to leave. Now.”
We turned. The staircase seemed blocked by shadows.
Panic set in.
We ran. Screaming. The doors slammed behind us.
Outside, the night air felt warm. But the whispers followed us, faint but real.
Mark dropped his camera. I picked it up later.
The photo showed a pale face staring from a hallway. Eyes black and empty. Mouth open in a silent scream.
We never went back.
We had thought exploring would be fun. A story to laugh about later.
But inside, it was alive.
Each hallway seemed to shift. Doors that were open before slammed shut. Windows reflected shadows that moved against the laws of physics.
I remember stepping into a room filled with old hospital beds. Sheets stained yellow. Rusted IV poles leaning at impossible angles.
The air felt thick, heavy. Like it pressed against my lungs.
We heard something moving behind a locked door. Something dragging along the floor.
Mark tried the handle. It didn’t budge.
We heard whispers. Soft, unintelligible words.
“Who’s there?” I called. My voice sounded small, weak.
No answer. Just a whisper. A shuffle. A faint scraping sound.
Sarah’s flashlight flickered.
A shadow moved across the room, faster than anything human.
We backed toward the door. The handle rattled. We screamed.
The thing was gone. Or maybe we imagined it.
I don’t know.
We moved to another corridor. Long, narrow, walls covered in peeling paint.
Footsteps echoed again. Not ours. Not any of ours.
The temperature dropped suddenly. Frost formed on the window panes, even though it wasn’t that cold outside.
I could see my breath.
Then, in the corner of my eye, a figure appeared.
Tall. Thin. Black clothes. No face. Just darkness where the face should have been.
It didn’t move. But it followed us with its presence.
I could feel it.
We reached a room full of old filing cabinets. Patient files. Some handwritten. Dates from decades ago.
I pulled one open. Names, ages, diagnoses. Some of them children.
I felt a chill run down my spine.
A piece of paper fluttered from one file. Words written in blood—or what looked like it: “LEAVE NOW.”
Mark laughed nervously. “Yeah, right. This is just some kid messing with us.”
I didn’t laugh.
We turned to leave, and the hallway stretched longer. Longer than before.
Doors we had passed earlier were gone. Windows reflected things that weren’t there.
We screamed. Ran. Tried the stairs.
A hand brushed my shoulder. Cold. Dead cold.
I spun. Nothing.
The whispers grew louder. Names. Our names.
I grabbed Sarah’s hand. We bolted.
The doors slammed behind us again.
Outside, we gasped for air. The night felt normal. Ordinary.
But the whispers didn’t stop.
Even as we ran to our cars. Even as we sped down the road.
Weeks later, I looked at the photos we took.
One photo stood out.
A pale figure in the hallway. Head tilted. Eyes hollow. Mouth open in a silent scream.
No one else saw it.
I never went back.
Mark didn’t either.
Sarah refuses to talk about it.
Even now, years later, I can feel it sometimes. A presence in the corner of a dark room. A whisper when the wind blows.
The asylum is gone now. Demolished.
But some things aren’t gone.
Some things follow you home.
It was Halloween. We were reckless. Young. Curious.
We thought it would be a fun story.
It became a memory I can never shake.
A lesson.
Some places are not meant to be explored.
Some whispers are not meant to be heard.
And some faces are not meant to be seen.
I can still hear them sometimes.
Calling my name.
Mark. Sarah. Me.
It reminds me.
Halloween is not just candy. Not just costumes.
It is about the things you cannot see.
And sometimes, they are real.
2. The Doll That Moved
I still remember the day I found her.
It was a rainy Saturday. I had nothing better to do than wander through the small thrift shops near my apartment. The air smelled like wet cardboard and old books. Dust coated everything. The kind of dust that makes your nose itch and your eyes water.
That’s when I saw her.
A porcelain doll, sitting on the bottom shelf of a rickety bookcase.
She had curly black hair, tied in two little pigtails. Her glassy green eyes seemed almost alive. Her pink dress was faded with age, but carefully stitched. Even her tiny shoes were intact, scuffed but neat.
She stared at me.
I don’t know why I bought her. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was something else. Something I didn’t understand.
Her name, written on a small tag pinned to her dress, was Clara.
I brought her home and placed her on a shelf in my bedroom.
At first, nothing happened.
I told myself I was being ridiculous.
But that night, I thought I heard a giggle.
Soft. Faint. Almost a whisper.
I froze.
I told myself it was the wind. The rain tapping the windows. Anything but her.
I went back to bed.
The next morning, the doll was not where I had left her.
She was on the floor.
I hadn’t touched her. My apartment was locked. I live alone.
I picked her up. Tried to rationalize it. Maybe my mind was playing tricks. Maybe I had set her down without remembering.
But something in her eyes had changed. They seemed darker. Watching me. Judging me.
I set her back on the shelf. Tried to forget about it. Pretended nothing had happened.
Over the next few days, strange things escalated.
She began to appear in different rooms.
One morning, I woke to find her sitting on the bathroom sink, staring at the mirror.
Another morning, she was in the kitchen, perched on the counter, hands folded neatly in her lap.
I had never moved her.
I had locked every door. I had locked the windows.
And yet… she moved.
One night, I woke up to the sound of soft footsteps in my bedroom.
I sat up, heart hammering.
The doll was sitting on my chest.
Her glassy eyes staring into mine.
I screamed.
I don’t remember much after that.
The next few weeks were a blur.
Everywhere I put her, she would appear somewhere else.
On the couch. On the dining table. On the floor beside my bed.
Sometimes, I would wake up and find her standing upright, facing me.
Her hair looked slightly different. Her eyes seemed alive.
Sometimes, I swore her lips moved. Whispered things I couldn’t understand.
I tried ignoring it. Pretended I was imagining things.
But each night, the footsteps grew louder. The giggles closer.
I tried moving her to the closet. Locked it.
For a few nights, it seemed to work.
I slept better. Felt some relief.
Until one morning, the closet door was open.
And she was sitting on the floor. Smiling. Watching me.
I could feel it. She was alive. I don’t know how else to describe it.
I tried talking to her.
“Clara… please. Stop.”
Nothing.
She just stared.
I tried throwing her away.
I put her in the trash outside. Watched the garbage truck take her.
I thought it was over.
But that night, I heard giggling in my apartment.
I ran to the living room. She was there.
On the couch.
Watching me.
I screamed again.
I researched.
I looked for stories of haunted dolls. Ancient dolls. Dolls that moved.
I found warnings. Stories from people who had similar experiences.
Some dolls… they were never really toys.
They held memories. Spirits. Something that could not rest.
I began to fear that she had followed me. Into my life. My home.
I moved her to the basement once. Thought it would solve the problem.
The basement was dark, damp, and full of old boxes.
I left her there for days.
One morning, I went to check.
She was gone.
I searched everywhere. The basement was empty.
I returned to my apartment.
And there she was.
Sitting on the windowsill, staring at me.
I stopped sleeping.
I started leaving lights on.
I didn’t open doors unless I had to.
Sometimes, I would hear the faint sound of footsteps following me. Always soft. Always behind me.
I stopped inviting friends over.
I stopped answering the phone.
The presence in my home was too strong.
One night, I finally decided to end it.
I took her to the river.
I burned her.
Watched the porcelain melt and crack. The flames consumed her hair and dress. The ashes scattered in the wind.
For a moment, I felt relief.
For a week, everything was quiet.
But the feeling never left me.
Shadows in the corner of the room. A faint giggle when no one was there.
I would see her in dreams. Eyes glowing. Smiling. Watching.
I stopped buying dolls.
Stopped going to thrift shops. Antique stores made me nervous.
Even Halloween night felt different.
Months later, my friend came over.
We were talking, laughing, trying to forget.
Then she gasped.
“There’s a doll… in the corner. Watching us.”
I froze.
The corner was empty.
But the feeling was there.
Her presence. Waiting. Silent. Patient.
I don’t know how she did it. How she moved. How she followed.
I don’t want to know.
I’ve lived in three different apartments since then.
Sometimes, I feel her.
A giggle behind me. A shadow at the edge of my vision.
I swear I see green eyes in the corner of my room when it’s dark.
I don’t talk about it. I try not to think about it.
Some lessons are learned the hard way.
Never take something home just because it seems harmless.
Never ignore the warning signs.
Some toys are not toys.
Some things are alive.
Some things never let go.
Halloween is the worst.
I never sleep well.
I never look at dolls the same way.
And sometimes, when the wind rattles the windows, I hear her laugh.
Soft. Faint. Waiting.
For me.
For you.
For anyone who dares bring her home.
3. The Halloween House That Knew Your Name
I still remember that Halloween like it happened yesterday.
I was ten years old, dressed as a little witch, complete with a pointy hat that kept slipping over my eyes. My parents had given me strict instructions to stay on the main streets. But, of course, kids like me have an innate talent for ignoring instructions.
The neighborhood was lively. Kids ran from house to house, bags already half-full with candy. Adults laughed behind carved pumpkins and twinkling lights. Everything felt normal. Safe. Fun.
Until I reached the house at the end of the street.
It was old. Victorian style. Two stories, darkened windows, a porch sagging in the middle. Most people avoided it. Rumor had it the family who lived there had disappeared decades ago. I’d walked past it before, but that night… something drew me closer.
The porch light flickered. A faint melody floated from inside. Almost like a music box. But warped. Wrong.
I stopped. Heart thumping.
Then I heard it.
A voice. Whispering my full name.
I froze.
“Emily…” it said. Not my friends. Not my family. Just me.
My legs wanted to run, but I couldn’t move.
I stepped closer. The porch creaked under my weight. I knocked lightly.
No answer.
Another whisper. “Emily… come in.”
The door creaked. Opened slightly. Just enough for me to peek inside.
I saw a chalkboard in the dim light. My name was scrawled on it. Big, messy letters.
I gasped.
It wasn’t there before. I had walked past that house countless times. I’d never seen it. Never noticed it.
The air smelled old. Dusty. Slightly sweet, like decayed flowers.
I wanted to run, but my feet stayed rooted.
I turned around, thinking my friends might be nearby.
No one. Empty street. Silence except for that warped melody.
I took a step toward the door.
It opened further. Slowly.
Inside, the house was dark but visible. Moonlight filtered through the broken curtains, casting stripes on the floorboards.
The air was heavy. Thick. Almost suffocating.
I heard whispers again. Soft. Calling me. My name over and over.
I wanted to run. My instincts screamed at me to leave.
But curiosity… something I’ve always had… made me take another step.
The hallway stretched long and narrow. Walls covered with faded wallpaper peeling in places. Broken furniture scattered. A staircase at the end creaked as if someone had just walked up it.
“Hello?” I whispered.
No answer. Just the melody. The whispers.
I noticed photographs on the walls. Old black-and-white photos of children. Some smiling. Some… not. Some faces were scratched out. My stomach churned.
One photo caught my attention.
A little girl in a Halloween costume. A witch. Hat slightly crooked. Green eyes. And then I realized… it was me.
My heart stopped.
How could that be? I hadn’t been in this house before.
A whisper. “Emily…”
I spun around. Nothing.
I ran. Tried to find the door I came through.
The hallway had changed. Longer. Narrower. Shadows stretched across the walls.
Every room I passed looked like mine. My bedroom. My living room. Even my school. But twisted. Wrong. Distorted.
I felt a hand brush my shoulder.
I screamed and spun.
Nothing.
I started running down the hallway. My little witch shoes clicking on the floorboards.
The door I had entered through wasn’t there. Only more hallway.
A voice behind me. Whispering. “Emily… come here…”
I tripped. Fell forward.
A shadowy figure appeared at the end of the hall. Tall. Silent. Watching.
I scrambled backward. Heart hammering.
I thought I saw movement in the corner of my eye. Another figure. Another.
I was surrounded by shadows. By whispers.
I saw a staircase. Ran toward it.
The steps groaned under my weight.
At the top, the hallway twisted impossibly. Doors opened to rooms that should not exist. My name was written on walls. “Emily… Emily…” in what looked like chalk.
I heard soft laughter. Childlike. But not innocent.
I wanted to scream. My voice stuck in my throat.
I saw a room at the end. A music box. Spinning. Playing the warped melody.
I stepped closer. And froze.
Inside the music box were tiny dolls. Dressed in costumes. Each one looked exactly like me.
I stumbled backward, almost falling down the stairs.
I ran blindly, trying to find an exit.
The house seemed alive. Corridors shifted. Doors appeared where none were before. Windows reflected nothing outside. Only me. Only shadows.
I felt eyes on me. Hundreds. Watching. Judging. Waiting.
I tripped again. My hands landed on the chalkboard.
And then I saw it.
A message written just for me: “You can’t leave.”
I screamed.
I ran. I didn’t look back.
Somehow, I found the front door. Opened it.
The street was normal. Halloween decorations. Kids running. Laughter. Music.
No shadows. No whispers.
I ran home. Shaking.
I didn’t tell anyone. They would have thought I was crazy.
But I knew what I saw. I knew what I felt.
For years afterward, I avoided that street.
Even as a teenager, I would walk on the other side of the road.
Sometimes, I thought I heard whispers when the wind blew. My name. Softly. Calling me.
Sometimes, I dreamt of that house.
And when I did, I could hear the music box. The dolls spinning. The voices.
Years later, I returned.
The house was gone. Torn down. A new building in its place.
I felt relief.
But the whispers never fully left me.
Some nights, when I walk alone, I swear I hear my name.
I don’t go out on Halloween anymore.
Some things are not meant to be known.
Some houses are not meant to be entered.
And some whispers… are real.
Halloween is supposed to be fun. Candy. Costumes. Laughter.
But that night taught me a lesson.
Curiosity can be dangerous.
Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed.
Some houses remember you.
And some houses… know your name.
4. The Cemetery That Led You Nowhere
I’ve always liked old cemeteries.
Not in a creepy way.
In a historian’s way.
I’m a history student. Old stones, fading names, forgotten dates—they tell stories textbooks can’t. You can stand there and almost feel the past brushing against you.
That’s why, on Halloween night, I grabbed my camera and went to the oldest cemetery in town
Everyone said it was haunted. I told myself that was nonsense. Just folklore. Just local color.
The gates were iron, rusted, heavy. They squealed when I pushed them open. The cold air smelled like damp leaves and iron.
Inside, the moonlight caught on crooked headstones. Some were cracked, some had moss crawling up their faces. Names worn to nothing.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
I tightened my coat and started walking.
I was supposed to be photographing headstones for a class project. Documenting 19th‑century burial practices. Nothing spooky about that.
At first, it went fine.
Click. Another photo.
Click. Another inscription.
But then I started to notice the paths.
They twisted in ways I didn’t remember.
I’d been here before, in daylight. The cemetery wasn’t that big. Just a few acres. But that night, the paths seemed endless.
The deeper I went, the colder it got.
And then, that feeling.
You know it.
The feeling of eyes on your back.
I turned. Nothing. Only gravestones and crooked trees.
I told myself it was nerves. Halloween nerves.
I walked farther.
The path forked. I didn’t remember a fork. I chose left.
The graves here were older. 1800s. Names I’d never seen before. Symbols I didn’t recognize.
I knelt to photograph one particularly ornate stone.
That’s when I heard it.
A sound. Soft. Faint.
Like a chant.
A rhythm. Slow. Repeating.
In a language I didn’t recognize.
I froze.
I listened harder.
It was definitely chanting.
Not loud. Not angry. Just… present.
Somewhere ahead. Or maybe behind.
I couldn’t tell.
I stood up. My hands shook. The camera strap dug into my neck.
“Hello?” I called out.
No answer. Just the chant.
It seemed to echo from everywhere at once.
I walked faster. My boots crunched the gravel.
Another fork.
I chose right this time.
The chanting grew louder.
My breath came quicker. My heart pounded.
I looked at my watch. Only 9:30. I’d been inside maybe half an hour.
It felt like hours.
Gravestones leaned at strange angles, like they were watching.
My flashlight flickered.
The trees overhead creaked. Branches twisted like arms.
I kept moving.
Then—footsteps behind me.
Soft. Slow. Deliberate.
I spun around.
Nothing.
“Who’s there?” My voice cracked.
The chant stopped.
Silence.
Then a whisper.
I couldn’t make out the words.
But it felt like my name.
Panic set in.
I started running.
Paths blurred. Left, right, left again. I didn’t care. I just wanted out.
The iron gates had to be somewhere.
But the cemetery went on and on.
Graves I didn’t recognize. Symbols I couldn’t read.
My flashlight died.
Darkness swallowed everything.
I stumbled, caught myself on a headstone. It was cold. Slick.
My breath puffed in clouds.
The chant started again. Louder. Closer.
I could almost make out words now. A harsh, rolling language. Ancient.
Shadows moved between the stones. Pale shapes. Slipping just out of sight.
I raised my camera, hands shaking. Snapped a photo blindly. The flash lit up the graves for a heartbeat.
No one there.
When the light faded, I could swear a pale figure stood farther back.
I blinked. Gone.
I started muttering to myself. “It’s fine, it’s fine, just get out, just get out.”
I ran again.
Branches clawed at my coat. Roots snagged my boots.
The chanting rose, a dozen voices, a hundred.
I screamed.
And then—an opening.
I saw the gates.
Rusty. Familiar.
I sprinted.
Didn’t look back.
Didn’t breathe until I was on the sidewalk outside, bent double, gasping.
The night air felt warm compared to inside.
Behind me, the cemetery was silent.
No chanting. No footsteps.
Just rows of stones under the moon.
I walked home on trembling legs.
I didn’t look at the photos until the next morning.
Most were blurry. My hands had been shaking.
But one made my blood run cold.
Between two gravestones stood a pale figure.
Tall. Thin. Staring straight at the camera.
Eyes like black pits.
Mouth open in a silent scream.
I tried showing it to a friend.
They laughed. Said it was a trick of the light.
I deleted it.
But it stayed burned into my mind.
Weeks passed.
I still felt watched.
Sometimes, at night, I’d hear faint chanting when I closed my eyes.
Sometimes, I’d dream of the cemetery. Walking the paths. Lost again.
Always, the figure stood waiting.
Always, it stared.
I stopped going to cemeteries.
Stopped taking photos of graves.
My professor asked why. I told him I’d finished the project.
I lied.
I couldn’t go back.
Halloween comes every year.
I keep my curtains closed.
I don’t go out at night.
I don’t walk past the cemetery.
Because I know what’s there.
Watching.
Waiting.
For me.
Some places are history.
Some places are hungry.
And some places lead you in so deep… you’re lucky to get out.
Even now, if I close my eyes, I can hear the chant.
Low. Faint. Just beyond hearing.
I know what it means now.
It’s a warning.
A welcome.
A curse.
That night, the cemetery led me nowhere.
But nowhere followed me home.
5. The Stranger in the Window
I was home alone that Halloween.
It was supposed to be relaxing. I had the kitchen all to myself, baking cookies for a small gathering with friends later that evening. The smell of sugar and chocolate filled the house. Warmth radiated from the oven, comforting in the chill of late October.
I hummed a tune, stirring the dough. The house was quiet. Peaceful. Just the kind of night I liked.
I had lights on in the kitchen, dim elsewhere. Shadows stretched in corners, long and thin, but I didn’t think much of them. I was alone, yes, but safe.
Or so I thought.
I rolled out the cookie dough, the wooden rolling pin pressing rhythmically. I glanced at the clock. Almost eight. My friends would be arriving soon.
I smiled to myself. Halloween, warm cookies, no stress. Perfect.
And then I looked up.
Something froze me mid-motion.
A face.
Staring at me through the living room window.
I could see it clearly. Not blurry. Not some trick of the light. A face. Pale. Eyes wide. Mouth closed. Just watching.
I didn’t scream. I couldn’t. My heart hammered.
The face didn’t move. Didn’t knock. Didn’t signal. Just… watched.
I backed up slowly. Trying not to make a sound.
“Hello?” I whispered. My voice shook.
Nothing.
The face stayed.
I glanced around the kitchen. The doors were locked. The back door too. I live in a quiet neighborhood. Safe.
My mind raced. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe a trick of the light. Maybe… something else.
I grabbed my phone, dialing 911 with trembling hands.
The operator asked what was happening. I pointed toward the window.
And then… the face was gone.
I looked closer. Nothing outside. The lawn empty. Not a single person.
I ran to the window, heart pounding.
No footprints. No signs of forced entry. Only wet streaks on the glass. Smudges, as if someone had pressed their hands against it from outside.
I felt sick.
Neighbors later said they hadn’t seen anyone near my house. No one walking down the street. Not a single stranger.
And yet, the evidence was there.
I tried to convince myself it was a trick of reflection. Streetlights, maybe a mannequin from a nearby store… anything.
I locked all doors again. Drew the curtains. Tried to shake it off.
I went back to the kitchen, tried to finish baking.
But every noise made me jump. The refrigerator hum sounded like footsteps. The wind rattling the trees sounded like someone breathing.
I couldn’t focus.
I heard it next. A faint tapping.
Not the window. Not the doors. Something inside.
I froze.
Footsteps? No. Hard to tell. Soft. Tentative.
I told myself to calm down. Maybe the house was settling. Maybe I was imagining things.
I didn’t imagine the wet handprints on the window though. Those were real.
I called a friend to come over.
They arrived fifteen minutes later, joking about Halloween scares.
“Relax,” they said. “It’s probably just someone playing a prank. Or a trick of the light.”
I led them to the window.
We both stared.
Nothing.
But the glass was still wet. Streaks clearly visible, running down the surface.
We couldn’t explain it.
I thought maybe I’d locked the doors incorrectly. Checked each one. Secure.
I went through the house. Every window, every entrance. Nothing.
No signs of forced entry.
No footprints.
No disturbances.
Nothing.
Except for the streaks and my rising terror.
Later, I decided to clean the kitchen. Tried to focus on the cookies.
But the feeling wouldn’t leave me.
Eyes. Watching. Waiting.
I glanced toward the living room. Nothing.
And then I saw movement at the corner of my eye.
A shadow? A trick of light?
I froze.
The next few nights were worse.
I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that face. Pale. Wide eyes. Silent. Waiting.
I installed cameras. Motion sensors.
Nothing. No movement detected.
And yet… sometimes, when I walked past the living room window, I could swear I felt someone behind the glass. Watching.
The glass would sometimes be wet in streaks. Fresh, as if someone had pressed their hands there moments ago.
I avoided the living room. Kept the curtains drawn.
Halloween came and went. Friends knocked on the door, laughing. I smiled. Pretended. Inside, I was haunted.
Weeks later, I finally dared to look at the living room at night with all lights off.
Nothing.
But I could feel it.
Presence. Close. Silent. Patient.
I still see that face sometimes, in the shadows.
I sold that house months later.
Moved far away.
Even now, years later, I check windows when I’m alone.
I never bake alone in the dark.
I never leave curtains open.
Some Halloween nights, when the wind is just right, I swear I hear a soft breathing against the glass.
And I see pale eyes staring.
Watching. Waiting.
The police never explained it.
Neighbors never saw anything.
I don’t know who—or what—it was.
But I know one thing.
Some faces aren’t meant to be seen.
Some windows aren’t meant to be looked through.
And sometimes, no matter how secure you think you are… someone, or something, is watching.
6. The Vanishing Car
It was Halloween night, and I had just finished my shift at the diner.
The streets were crowded with kids in costumes, parents laughing, and the occasional dog in a ridiculous outfit. The air smelled of autumn leaves and burnt sugar from the caramel apples being sold at the corner stand.
I was tired. Bone-tired. But I needed to get home.
I walked to the parking lot where I had left my car.
And that’s when I noticed something strange.
My car was gone.
Not moved. Not hidden behind another vehicle. Gone.
I blinked.
At first, I thought I’d misremembered where I parked. Maybe I left it on the street. I retraced my steps, heart pounding.
But the lot was empty. No car in sight.
A cold shiver ran down my spine.
I checked my phone. Battery okay. GPS? No signal. Figures. Figures, of course.
I tried calling my roommate. No answer.
I walked to the main street, hoping someone would see me.
People were there, enjoying Halloween. Kids ran past with buckets of candy. Adults waved at them. Everyone seemed oblivious to my panic.
I tried to flag down a car.
No luck.
I started walking.
The streets felt familiar. I knew this part of town like the back of my hand.
But the further I walked, the stranger it got.
Streetlights flickered. Trees cast long shadows. The houses… some I knew, some I didn’t.
Was this still my neighborhood?
I stopped at a corner.
Nothing looked right.
I tried to tell myself I was imagining things.
Maybe stress from work. Too much coffee. Too much sugar from Halloween treats.
But then I heard it.
A car engine. Faint. In the distance.
I turned, trying to locate it.
The sound came closer.
I saw headlights.
A car, black, moving slowly down the street.
I ran toward it.
Maybe it was mine. Maybe I was overreacting.
The closer I got, the more it seemed… off.
The car’s shape was familiar, but wrong. Older. Newer. I couldn’t place it.
I called out.
“Hey! Wait!”
The car slowed, almost as if acknowledging me.
Then, without warning, it disappeared.
I stopped in my tracks.
The street was empty.
No headlights. No sound of the engine.
I shook my head.
What the hell was happening?
I decided to go back to the parking lot.
Maybe I was losing it. Maybe my car had been towed.
But when I got there, the lot was… different.
Smaller. Bigger. I couldn’t tell.
The outlines of the parking spaces had changed.
And yet… I remembered exactly where my car had been.
Nothing.
I started walking again.
Trying to get home. Trying to find a landmark. Something familiar.
The streets twisted. Turned. Looped in ways that didn’t make sense.
Every corner I turned looked the same.
I felt dizzy. My stomach churned.
And then I heard voices.
Soft. Faint. Laughing.
Not kids. Not adults. Something else.
I turned toward the sound.
Nothing.
The laughter came closer. Surrounding me.
I ran.
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. I had no sense of time.
Every street looked the same.
Every alley, the same shadows.
I thought I saw my car once. Parked at the end of a street.
I ran.
It vanished before I could reach it.
I tried knocking on doors, asking for help.
No one was there.
Houses empty. Streets deserted.
Not a single soul.
Just me.
And the feeling that something was watching.
I found a payphone.
Picked up the receiver.
No dial tone.
Just a whisper.
A familiar voice.
My own. Saying, “Keep walking.”
I dropped the receiver. Heart hammering.
I kept moving.
Every block, every street seemed endless.
The city I knew… gone.
Replaced with an endless maze.
Street signs twisted, unreadable.
Traffic lights flickered red, green, yellow… all at once.
I saw the car again.
This time parked on the curb.
I ran toward it, relief flooding through me.
The door opened. Empty. No keys inside.
I sat inside, shaking, heart racing.
The engine started by itself.
I drove. Or thought I did.
The streets stretched into blackness. Trees leaned over the road. Shadows danced.
Every time I looked back, the car behind me… not mine.
A shadow car. Following. Watching.
I didn’t know how long I drove. Minutes? Hours? Days?
Time had no meaning.
The GPS showed nothing.
Every turn led to the same street.
The same empty intersection.
The same shadows.
I pulled over. Tried to get out.
The doors wouldn’t open.
Windows wouldn’t roll down.
The car wasn’t mine.
It had taken me somewhere else.
The headlights flickered.
And then I saw it.
The figure.
Standing in the middle of the road. Black cloak. Face obscured.
I swerved.
It vanished.
I kept driving.
Until the sun rose.
The streets started looking familiar.
Buildings I recognized.
And then… I saw it.
The parking lot.
My car. My real car.
Keys in the ignition. Everything as I had left it.
I ran inside my apartment. Locked every door. Shook for hours.
The next day, I told my friends.
They laughed. “Halloween stress. Too much caffeine. You’ll calm down.”
But I know what I saw.
I know where I went.
And sometimes, when I drive late at night, I see the shadow car.
Following. Watching. Waiting.
I never left my keys in the ignition again.
I never drove alone on Halloween.
I never parked in empty lots.
And sometimes, late at night, I hear a faint engine.
And I know it’s coming for me.
Halloween isn’t about candy or costumes.
Sometimes, it’s about things that vanish.
Cars. Streets. Time.
And sometimes… you come back.
But sometimes, you don’t.
7. The Phone Call From the Unknown
Halloween night is supposed to be fun.
Candy. Costumes. Laughter.
For me, it started quietly. I was home alone, curled up on the couch with a blanket and my laptop. My roommates were at a party downtown. I had decided to skip it. Too much noise. Too many people.
Instead, I was content. Or so I thought.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
The only sound was the soft hum of my laptop and the occasional creak of the old floorboards.
I was halfway through a horror movie when the phone rang.
I froze.
Odd. I didn’t expect calls tonight. Not from anyone I knew.
I glanced at the caller ID.
Unknown.
I frowned.
I debated ignoring it. Maybe a telemarketer. Maybe someone pranking people on Halloween.
I answered.
“Hello?” My voice sounded cautious.
Silence.
Then, a soft click.
And a whisper.
“I see you.”
I jumped.
My hand shook.
“Who is this?” I demanded.
No answer.
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone. Heart hammering.
I tried to convince myself it was a prank.
Halloween pranks are common. Everyone expects them.
Still, the voice sounded… wrong. Not childish. Not adult. Older. Cold. Familiar.
I put the phone down. Tried to go back to the movie.
But I couldn’t focus.
Ten minutes later, it rang again.
Same number. Unknown.
I picked up.
“Leave the house,” the whisper said.
Chills ran down my spine.
“Who is this? What do you want?” I said, trying to keep calm.
The line went dead again.
I considered calling the police.
But I hesitated. What could I tell them? “Someone called me and told me to leave my house?”
And if it really was a prank, they’d laugh at me.
So I stayed put. Tried to ignore it.
Another ten minutes. The phone rang again.
I didn’t answer.
But I could hear it.
A faint hum. Whispering.
My name. Repeated. Over and over.
I walked to the window. Peered outside.
The street was quiet. Children gone. Lights dimmed.
Nothing.
I turned back.
And froze.
The lights flickered.
I heard it again. My name.
Closer this time.
Inside the room.
I spun around.
No one.
I grabbed a kitchen knife. Held it tight.
Then I heard footsteps.
Soft. Deliberate. From upstairs.
I don’t live alone. But my roommates were gone.
I crept toward the stairs, every nerve on fire.
“Hello?” I called out.
Nothing.
The footsteps stopped.
Then… a whisper.
“Don’t turn around.”
I froze.
My heart hammered.
I wanted to scream. To run. To grab the phone.
I wanted answers.
But fear rooted me to the spot.
The phone rang again.
Unknown.
I answered without thinking.
“You’re awake,” the voice said.
I swallowed. Couldn’t speak.
“You should have listened,” it whispered.
And the line went dead.
I tried turning on every light. Lamps, ceiling lights, flashlights.
Nothing helped.
Shadows seemed longer. Darker. More alive.
I felt a presence. Close. Watching. Waiting.
I sat on the couch. Knife in hand.
The phone rang again.
I wanted to throw it. Smash it. End this nightmare.
I answered.
“You can’t hide.”
The whisper was inside the house now. Not on the line. Not from outside. Inside.
I screamed.
I ran to the front door. Locked. Checked the back door. Locked.
Windows? Locked.
I was trapped.
The phone rang one last time.
I didn’t answer.
It stopped. Silence.
I spent the rest of the night on the couch. Eyes wide. Listening. Waiting.
Every creak. Every whisper of wind made me flinch.
By morning, everything seemed normal.
I tried to convince myself it was over. A prank. A hallucination.
But when I checked my phone, there was a message.
From an unknown number.
It said: “Next year, I’ll be closer.”
Halloween came again.
I didn’t answer any calls. I didn’t pick up any messages.
The whispers started again, faint at first. Outside. Inside. Everywhere.
I moved. Far away. New city. Different house.
For a while, I felt safe.
But each Halloween, the calls returned.
The whispers followed me.
Always unknown. Always unseen.
Always close.
Sometimes I think it’s testing me. Watching how I react. Waiting for fear to grow.
I don’t answer unknown calls anymore.
I don’t answer the door.
I don’t trust silence.
Halloween is not about candy or costumes.
It’s about fear.
And sometimes… fear finds you.
Even when you’re alone.
The last call I got, two years ago, was at 3:07 a.m.
Unknown.
I didn’t answer.
I heard the whisper anyway.
Clear. Close.
“You will answer next time.”
I still live alone.
I still lock every door.
I still check every shadow.
And every Halloween, I wait.
For the call.
For the whisper.
For the unknown.
Because I know one day… I won’t be able to ignore it.
And then… who knows what will happen.
Why These Stories Stick
What’s terrifying isn’t the ghosts themselves. It’s the possibility. The thought that there’s a world slightly off, slightly darker, right alongside ours. That sometimes, we just brush up against it—and it leaves its mark.
And Halloween… well, Halloween lowers our guard. It’s a night when fear is dressed in costumes, when shadows stretch longer than usual, when your imagination is fuelled by sugar and candlelight. But sometimes, the imagination isn’t the culprit.
Sometimes, it’s real.
How to Stay Safe (Or Not)
Okay, don’t freak out. Most of us won’t encounter ghosts, haunted dolls, or whispering spirits. But Halloween is a good reminder:
- Trust your instincts. If a place feels wrong, it is.
- Don’t go alone into abandoned buildings. Seriously.
- Respect old houses, cemeteries, and other spaces that have history. Some things aren’t “just stories.”
- Document what you see… if you dare. Photos can capture the unexplainable.
Personal Note
I’ve had my share of Halloween scares. One year, a figure in black followed me home from a party. Another time, a doll in a thrift shop winked at me (I swear). I laugh about them now. But the memory of that uneasy feeling—the “something’s not right” feeling—never really goes away.
That’s the essence of these stories. It’s not just about screaming or gore. It’s about connection. Connection to places, people, and moments that are… off. That make you pause. That make you feel alive in the face of the unknown.
Final Thoughts
So, if you’re looking for Halloween thrills, don’t just watch movies. Listen to the wind. Walk past the darkened houses. Ask yourself: what if it’s real?
Because on Halloween, sometimes it is.
Stay safe. Stay curious. And maybe… just maybe… leave the porch light off if you hear whispers.
