Haunted Places — Nobody Believes Me

I'm renting a house. Old, wooden, with high ceilings and creaky floors. The owner let it go cheap. At the time I figured I'd just gotten lucky. First month, nothing. A house is a house. But then I noticed that every evening when I got back from work, the front door was slightly ajar. Not wide open, no. A two-finger gap. Lock intact, bolt in place, yet the door was cracked open. Every single day. I changed the lock. Didn't help. Then came the footsteps. Not at night, during the day. I work from home on Wednesdays. I'd be sitting downstairs at my desk, and upstairs someone would be walking. Slowly, heavily, like an elderly person. Corner to corner. I'd go up, nothing there. I'd come back down, the footsteps would start again a minute or two later. As if it had been waiting for me to leave. I set up three cameras. One in the upstairs bedroom, one on the staircase, one by the front door. And this is where things got truly strange. The footsteps are AUDIBLE on the recordings. The camera picks up sound, the microphone catches impacts on the floor. But on the video, no one. An empty room where something is walking. I sent the footage to a few people. They all said the same thing: floorboards shifting from temperature changes. Right. Floorboards that shift exclusively on Wednesdays, when I'm home. And then something happened that kept me up for two nights straight. I have this notebook. Nothing special, just a regular notebook. I left it open on the kitchen table, went to the shop. Came back and the notebook was open to a different page. A blank one. And right in the center, in pencil, in shaky handwriting, there was a single word. "wednesday" My pencil had been sitting next to the notebook. I remember this clearly, because it's always there. I took a photo, showed my friends. "You wrote it yourself and forgot," "you're messing with us," "someone comes over while you're at work." I live alone. The owner doesn't have a spare key. I changed the lock. After that I deliberately started leaving the notebook open. Every day. Two weeks, nothing. Then, again on a Wednesday, a new entry. Same handwriting. Two lines: "dont leave dont like when it's dark" I started shaking. Not from fear. From realizing. It doesn't just "exist." It's lonely. It waits for Wednesdays because on Wednesdays I'm home all day. It opens the door when I come back. It walks around upstairs while I'm downstairs. Not to scare me, just... living alongside me. I wrote in the notebook: "Who are you?" The next morning, beneath my question: "been here a long time" And below that, smaller, almost hesitant: "you're good the ones before you were bad" I kept trying. Asked different things. Sometimes answers appeared, sometimes they didn't. The handwriting was always the same. Large, trembling, the letters unsteady, like the hand wasn't used to writing. Or had forgotten how. Many times I asked "Who are you?" There was never an answer to that, but one day a page simply read: "dont remember" Five months have passed now. I still live here. On Wednesdays I work from home, the door cracks open when I return, someone walks around upstairs. We correspond through the notebook. It's the strangest thing in my life. Last week the owner called, asked how the house was. I said fine. She went quiet for a long time, then just said goodbye. The notebook is almost full. Yesterday I bought a new one. Left it on the table, open to the first page. In the morning it said: "thank you" Nobody believes me. But I have a notebook where someone who's been here a long time writes to me.

So. I've been reading through your stories for a while now, and I finally worked up the nerve to share what happened to me. I'll try to keep it straightforward, but sorry in advance if I ramble — once I start thinking about this stuff, it's hard to stop. It was November 2019. My wife and I went to Cairo. Not one of those all-inclusive Red Sea resort deals — she's got a degree in History and had always wanted to see the pyramids in person. I'll be honest, I was more in it for the trip itself. I was never someone who believed in anything supernatural. I was always the guy who'd say "there's a rational explanation for everything." Was. On day three we headed to Giza. We'd hired a local guide, Ahmed, solid guy, spoke great English. It was about 30 degrees out — November and still that hot, go figure. There were tourists around, but it wasn't packed. Off-season, I guess. The Great Pyramid up close is quite something. Photos don't do it justice. You stand there looking at those stone blocks — each one comes up to your chest — and there are millions of them. Your brain just can't process it. Ahmed asked if we wanted to go inside. My wife didn't even hesitate, and I tagged along. We paid the entrance fee and in we went. The passage is narrow, low, stuffy. I'm not claustrophbic, but I won't pretend it was pleasant. We started climbing up the Grand Gallery — this long, sloping corridor with a high ceiling.And that's where the first thing I can't explain happened. I'd fallen a few metres behind my wife and Ahmed. They'd gone round a corner, and for just a moment — I'm talking two or three seconds — I felt completely alone. Not in the "they walked ahead" sense. Alone in the world. Every sound vanished. All of them. No footsteps, no tourist chatter, no echo off the walls. Dead silence, thick and almost physical. And the smell changed — instead of that stale, damp air, there was something sweet, like incense but not quite. I can't describe it any better than that. It lasted two, maybe three seconds. Then my wife called out to me and everything snapped back — the sounds, the smells, the feeling of reality. At the time I told myself it was the heat, the thin air, and I didn't mention it to my wife. We made it to the King's Chamber. It's a room with a granite sarcophagus, bare, with a massive echo. Ahmed was explaining things, my wife was taking photos. And I was standing by the far wall feeling strange. Not sick — strange. Like there was someone else in that room besides us and the three or four other tourists. It wasn't threatening, more like... being watched. You know that feeling when you walk into someone's house and the owner is just standing there in the doorway, silently looking at you? That. I wanted to get a photo of the sarcophagus on my phone. Pulled it out, aimed the camera — and it switched off. Just died. Battery was around 70 percent. I pressed the power button — nothing. Held it down — nothing. My wife was right next to me photographing away on hers, no issues whatsoever. I shoved mine back in my pocket and figured I'd deal with it later. It turned itself back on about fifteen minutes later, as we were leaving the pyramid. Screen lit up like nothing had happened. Battery — 70%. But in the photo gallery there was one picture I definitely didn't take. Black, almost entirely black. But when I turned the brightness all the way up, you could make out the wall, the corner of the chamber, and something like a shadow near the sarcophagus. It wasn't my shadow, it wasn't any tourist's — it was different. Elongated, the shape didn't match anything. My wife said it was probably a camera glitch. Maybe it was. Right, so up to this point you can still come up with a rational explanation for all of it. What came next — I'm not so sure. That evening we got back to the hotel. I had a shower, lay down, absolutely shattered. Fell asleep instantly. And I had a dream that I remember in vivid detail to this day — and I'm someone who normally forgets dreams before I've finished breakfast. I was inside the pyramid, but it was different. Not crumbling — new. The walls were smooth, covered in drawings and symbols. Oil lamps were burning. And I was walking down a corridor, and I knew where I was going — as if I'd walked that route hundreds of times. I could feel the clothes on my body — some kind of rough linen. And I could feel that I wasn't me. The body was different, the hands were different — dark skin, calluses, and bracelets on both wrists. I reached a room. Not the King's Chamber — a different one, smaller, lower ceiling. There was a stone vessel, and I knew I had to place something inside it. I can't remember what. But I knew it was important and that it wasn't the first time I'd done it. Then I heard a sound. Low, vibrating, as if the pyramid itself was humming. Not unpleasant,but powerful — I felt it through my whole body. And at that moment I looked up and the ceiling was gone. Instead of stone, there was sky. But not a normal sky — the stars were closer, brighter, and they were moving. Rotating slowly. I woke up at 3:47 a.m. I remember the exact time because I checked my phone straight away. Heart hammering, t-shirt soaked. And here's the part that proper scared me: on my left wrist there were two red marks. Parallel, like something tight had been pressing against the skin — a cord, a bracelet. They weren't scratches — they were pressure marks. They stayed visible for about two hours and then faded. My wife was asleep. I didn't wake her. The next day we went to the Egyptian Museum. I was looking at the exhibits when I stopped dead in one of the halls. There were items from tombs — vessels, figurines, jewellery. And I saw bracelets. Bronze, wide, with etched markings. I recognised them. Not "they looked like the ones in the dream" — I recognised them the way you recognise somthing that belongs to you. My hands started shaking. I could feel the weight of them on my wrists. Ahmed was with us. I asked him what those bracelets were, who wore them. He told me they were worn by the "hemu netjer" — temple servants, a kind of junior priest who worked at temples and tombs. Not the high priests, but the ones who carried out the daily rituals. I asked what rituals. He said: offerings,preparations, looking after sacred objects. Basically, what I'd been doing in the dream. I hadn't told Ahmed anything about the dream. It's been over six years now. The dream never came back, the marks on my wrists never reappeared. The phone works fine. That black photo is still sitting in my cloud storage — every now and then I open it, stare at that shadow, and just sit there not knowing what to think. I only told my wife the whole story about six months later. She took it the way you'd expect — "well, maybe it was genetic memory, maybe it was all the impressions from the day getting jumbled together." She's like that, rational, practical, feet firmly on the ground. I used to be too. I don't know what it was. I'm not claiming anything — not past lives, not spirits, not pyramid energy. I've told you what happened, that's it. If anyone's been through something similar, write it up too — I'd love to compare notes.

In Indonesia, stories about spirits or “things” that live in forests and villages are very common. We grow up hearing them. But honestly, I always treated them as just part of the culture—old stories, nothing more. Until last year. I live in a small village not far from Yogyakarta. I have a motorbike, and sometimes at night I visit a friend in a neighboring village. It’s about a 25-minute ride, through rice fields and a stretch of old forest. The road is narrow, the asphalt is uneven in places, but I’ve taken it hundreds of times. That night felt normal. It was around 9:30 PM—already dark, but not completely, because the moon was almost full. I was heading home from my friend’s place when, about halfway through the route—right where the forest begins—I noticed something strange: it was too quiet. It’s hard to explain. Usually at night you still hear things— insects, crickets, sometimes dogs in the distance. But this time it was like… someone had turned all the sound off. At first, I didn’t think much of it. But a couple of minutes later, I saw someone standing in the middle of the road. That was already unusual. No one really walks there at night. I slowed down and got closer. It was a man, dressed normally—a shirt and pants. He was standing with his back to me, completely still. I stopped about five meters away and called out, “Hey, are you okay?” No response. Nothing at all. I thought maybe he was drunk or not feeling well. I turned off the engine and started walking toward him. That’s when things got strange. Every step I took forward, it felt like the distance between us didn’t change. I stepped again—same thing. It was like he stayed exactly where he was, even though I was clearly moving closer. I stopped. At that moment, he began to turn his head… very slowly. Not his body—just his head. And the way it moved… it wasn’t right. Too slow, and at an angle I can’t really describe. I didn’t wait for him to fully turn around. Suddenly I had a strong feeling that I needed to leave. Not even fear exactly—more like instinct. I quickly turned back, started my motorbike, and sped off. After about 20 or 30 meters, I heard footsteps behind me. At first soft, then faster. I looked in the mirror—and I saw him. He was walking behind me. Not running. Just walking… but getting closer. I accelerated as much as I could. The road doesn’t allow high speed, but I pushed it anyway. I checked the mirror again—he was closer now. And that’s when I noticed something that still scares me: his legs weren’t moving the way they should. It was like… he was gliding. I don’t know how long it lasted—maybe 20 seconds, maybe a minute. Then suddenly, the sound stopped. I looked back again—no one there. I didn’t stop until I was out of the forest. Only when I got closer to the village did I finally stop and realize my hands were shaking. I went home and didn’t tell anyone. I thought maybe I was just tired, or imagining things. But a few days later, I noticed something else. On the back of my motorbike, there were marks—like dirty handprints. Not mine—I know where I usually hold. These were higher… and the fingers looked longer. I later asked my friend, carefully, if he had ever seen anyone on that road at night. He said he tries not to go that way after dark. I asked why. He just said, “Just don’t go there at night.” Since then, I never take that road at night anymore. During the day, everything feels normal. But every time I pass that part of the forest, I get this strange feeling… like someone is watching me from behind. I know this sounds made up. I’m not trying to convince anyone. I just wanted to share it, because even now, I still can’t explain what I saw that night.

I don’t even know why I’m writing this, because if I read something like this from someone else, I probably wouldn’t believe it. But it happened to me, and since then, I haven’t been able to come up with any normal explanation. I live in a small town in the Czech Republic. I work remotely, so I often stay up late. About six months ago, my schedule got a bit strange—I’d go to bed around 2 or 3 a.m., sometimes even later. It started with something small. At the beginning of winter, I began waking up almost every night at around the same time—3:17 a.m. Not 3:15, not 3:20—almost always 3:17, or very close to it. At first, I didn’t think much of it. Just coincidence. But then it kept happening. Every single night. No matter how tired I was, no matter when I went to bed, I’d still wake up at exactly that time. And the strangest part was how I woke up—it was sudden, like something had woken me. Not from a sound, not from a nightmare—I’d just open my eyes, instantly. After about a week, I started noticing something else. Every time I woke up, I had this feeling that I wasn’t alone in the room. It’s hard to describe—I didn’t see anything, but there was a very clear sense of presence. Like someone was nearby, just out of sight. I told myself it was just that half-asleep state. But then one night changed everything. I woke up, as usual, at 3:17. I was lying there, staring at the ceiling. The room was dark, just a faint glow from outside. And then I heard it… a soft knocking sound. Like someone tapping on the wall. Once. Then a pause. Then again. I froze. I do have neighbors, but that wall faces outside. There’s nothing there but the street. I sat up and listened. Silence. I almost convinced myself I imagined it—then I heard it again. This time closer. Not the wall, but like it was coming from the wardrobe. Tap… tap. I turned on the light. The sound stopped immediately. I got up, checked everything—wardrobe, door, window. Nothing. I went back to bed, turned off the light. About five minutes later, the knocking came back. But now it sounded like it was coming from different places. Still quiet, but very clear. I turned the light on again—silence. This went on for about half an hour. Every time I turned the light off, the tapping would start again. Like something was checking whether I could see it. I didn’t sleep that night. The next day I tried to rationalize it—pipes, maybe, or something in the walls. But then it got worse. A couple of days later, I woke up at 3:17 again, already expecting the knocking. But instead, I heard something else—a very faint sound, like whispering. Not words, just a soft, constant murmur. I lay still and listened. The sound was to my right, near the armchair. I turned my head—and it stopped instantly. I turned on my phone’s flashlight and pointed it there. And this is where I’m not sure what I saw. There was something on the chair… something dark. Not exactly a full figure, more like a dense shadow—but it didn’t look like a normal shadow. It had some kind of shape, but I couldn’t quite focus on it. I blinked—and it was gone. After that, I couldn’t just explain it away anymore. I started leaving the light on at night. And I noticed something: as long as there was light in the room, nothing happened. No sounds, no presence. But the moment it got dark—it all came back. The strangest thing happened about a month later. I decided to test whether the time mattered. One night, I didn’t go to sleep at all—I worked straight through. And at exactly 3:17, while I was sitting at my computer, my monitor… flickered off for a split second. Just a black screen, like the power cut out. And in that exact moment, I felt it again—that presence. The monitor turned back on, everything looked normal. But there was a folder open that I hadn’t opened. And inside it—a file named “3_17”. I know for a fact I didn’t create it. I opened it. It was an empty text file. No words, no symbols. Just blank. After that, I moved to a friend’s place for a few weeks. Nothing happened there. Nothing at all. But when I came back home—on the very first night, I woke up again at 3:17. I’m planning to move out. Because I don’t know what this is. And honestly, I’m not sure I even want to know.

We live in a really small town where pretty much everyone knows each other. There used to be a family here — a mother and her little girl, about five years old. They had no other relatives in the area. Then the girl passed away after a sudden illness. Her mother took it incredibly hard. She'd go to the cemetery every single day. A whole year went by like that. And then the mother was gone too — the grief was just too much for her. It's all heartbreaking and awful, but here's where it gets strange. It's been three years since all of this happened, and the little girl's grave is always in perfect condition. Not a blade of grass out of place, not a speck of dust. If someone were tending to it, you'd still see signs of wear between visits. But it's like time just stopped there — or like the place is somehow frozen. Everyone in town talks about it. A lot of people avoid that spot altogether. And everyone's got their own theory. Some whisper that the mother's ghost settled there and watches over her daughter's resting place. Others say the mother worried so much about who would care for the grave after she was gone that when she died, she poured the very force of her soul into that place. And of course, some people don't believe any of it. They say someone sneaks out there every night to tidy it up just to spook the rest of us. But who would bother with a prank like that? I don't think anyone would keep it up for three years just for a laugh.