Some people believe wholeheartedly in ghosts from the moment they see their first horror film, while others spend their lives scoffing at the mere notion of anything that goes bump in the night. But even the most hardened skeptics out there have seen, heard, and felt things they simply can't explain, and a few them have posted their experiences to Reddit.
Do you believe in ghosts? If you do, you'll surely enjoy the following stories from Redditors who were once skeptics but are now believers, as they relay their chilling tales about their encounters with the unexplainable. And if you don't believe, don't be too sure that something won't happen to you that will change your mind. Vote below to let us know what your favorite ghost stories are!
I’m still not sure if I believe but there have been some weird things in my life that I can’t explain.
When I was 5 years old, I woke up in the night, and my grandma was standing at the end of my bed wearing a teal blue skirt and a matching blouse. I remember that it was summer and the sky was still light but not light enough for me to read, so I guess it was about 9 pm. I sat up as she put her finger to her lips. I rubbed my eyes a couple of times, and when I looked back she had gone. I just snuggled back under my covers thinking how nice it was to see her because I hadn’t seen her for AGES and I hoped she would still be there when I woke up.
The next morning, my house was eerily quiet. My mum was in a worse mood than normal, but she had been crying, so I asked her what was wrong. My grandma [passed] the night before. She had been crossing a road after bingo at 8.30pm, about 60 miles away from where we lived. She had a massive brain haemorrhage in the middle of the road and didn’t even make it to the other side, let alone to my house 60 miles away. She was wearing a teal blue skirt and matching blouse.
I still don't believe in ghosts, but I did have a strange experience. I had a cat who I found in a ditch many years ago. I pet her, and she followed me back about a mile to my home. I opened the door for her, and she came in... she was mine forever. I've had many pets over the years and loved them all, but this one was different. She wanted to be near me all the time. She followed me up to bed every night and purred me to sleep.
She [passed] fairly quickly - I barely even had a chance to say goodbye. I knew she was ill, having been diagnosed with hyperthyroidism, which cat owners will know is not a good thing. It was the most painful one I've ever had to deal with, I put her down and she even meowed one last time before the end. I buried her in the yard to keep her close and tried to go to sleep, completely beside myself with grief.
As I lay down, I heard something... familiar. I live in an old house, and my bedroom doesn't have a door so I installed one of those plastic sliding doors. The slats its made of make a tell-tale clacking sound when they're disturbed, like they did when a cat pushes in between them and the doorframe. A moment later, I felt the foot of my bed compress, and could feel the mattress deform around my feet, up beside my legs and roughly to my hips. I looked... no cat.
I don't know how to explain this. I don't believe in ghosts, and I'm sure grief can cause some pretty significant psychological disturbances, but to feel my mattress deform like that... in exactly the way she used to circle my feet and come up beside me... I don't know what to think.
Up until my mid-20s, I would've told you there's no such thing as ghosts. Now I... just... don't know. When I was I was newly married, my spouse and I moved for his job. We needed to find a place to live pretty quick and lucked into the perfect house. It was old and had been someone's beach cottage. It was on the back half of someone's property, with one road in and out, and lots of trees and shade. It was very quiet, and there were no other people around. Because the house was originally a weekend cottage, it was one big room, with a small addition to one side that contained a kitchen and bath, and another addition off the back that had a bedroom.
The thing that kinda pinged my radar was the landlord. He was overly insistent that we sign a year lease, and we couldn't break it for any reason. It didn't really register... at the time, other than I was a bit worried that maybe there were trouble-makers or noisy parties on the beach or something. He assured us that it was a very quiet neighborhood, but he repeated again that we couldn't break the lease.
I worked a 9-5 job. My spouse worked 12-hour on/off shifts. So there were lots of times when I would be home by myself. The first month or two were fine. I'm mostly a homebody, so when the spouse was at work, I would stay at home. Sometime around the third month, I started to get very strong feelings that someone would be standing behind me while I was reading. It only happened when I was alone in the house, and only when I was in the main room. Without thinking about it too much, I started sitting places where my back was to the wall, or reading in the bedroom. When I went to bed at night, I started closing the door between the bedroom and the rest of the house. I felt safe in the bedroom.
Sometimes, when I fell asleep in front of the TV late at night, I'd wake up to catch someone standing in front of the fireplace, just out of the corner of my eye. I thought I needed to stop dreaming so much. But I started to stay in the bedroom after dark, with the door shut. Then, things started not being where I put them in the big room. I wasted 5-10 minutes almost every day looking for my handbag or my car keys.
One day when I came home after work, I found my knitting yarn wrapped and tangled around all the furniture in the big room. I don't mean just a little bit-I mean the yarn was strung between couches and wrapped around the legs of the chairs. I told myself that my spouse was playing a trick on me, and I cleaned it up. Then I decided that I wouldn't mention it to him, just to see how long it took him to come clean. (He never did.) I moved my knitting to the bedroom.
My sister came to visit for a long weekend. She slept on the pull-out sofa in the big room. After the first night, she told us that the sofa wasn't very comfortable, and she thought she was coming down with something, so she changed her travel arrangements. She left that afternoon, she seemed agitated, but she wouldn't talk about it. A few days after she went home, she called and said, "I know you don't believe in ghosts and maybe I'm just being stupid..."
My heart dropped. I thought I was the only one. She went on to tell me that after she went to sleep that night in the big room, noises woke her up. She thought it was one of us, but no one was there. Then, the windows started opening and closing around the room. One window opened and closed, then the one next to that. Then she heard footsteps walking towards her, but no one was there. The footsteps walked right up to the bed where she was sitting, then over it, continued across the room, and out through the side door into the kitchen area. She said she ran out the front door and spent the rest of the night on the front porch. She came back inside when the sun came up, waited for us to wake up, and made excuses to go home. She didn't want to spend another night in that house.
A few weeks after that, just when I'd stopped jumping at every stray noise, I woke up one Sunday morning and went to cook a leisurely breakfast. And y'all... I still don't know how to explain this- when I opened the kitchen cabinets to get the dishes out, all the dishes were rearranged. Not messy. Not tumbled about. They were all very neat and orderly, but everything was on the wrong shelf. The shelf that normally held glasses now had plates stacked on them. The shelves that normally held bowls now had glasses on them. My first thought was that someone had been in the house during the night. I checked all the locks. Still locked. I pretended it never happened. I pretended that I always kept the glasses on that shelf, and there was nothing strange about having all the plates on this shelf. I cooked breakfast. I went on with my day.
Later that afternoon, I told my spouse that I wasn't really comfortable in this house anymore. Could we find somewhere else to live? Amazingly enough, my spouse never asked me why. He simply said that was probably a good idea and let's find something quick. We moved out and called the landlord after we'd already packed and moved the furniture. He came over and picked up the keys. He never, not once, asked why we were moving. In fact, he never met our eyes.
We agreed to keep paying rent until he could get some new tenants. Months later, I asked my spouse if he ever felt anything strange in that house. He said, "Yeah, that wasn't a good house. Glad we moved."
I grew up in a very scientific family, I never knew my dads stance on ghosts, but they were never talked about so it really didn’t matter. One day when I was in high school, we were eating dinner, and I decided to ask my dad about our old house and moving into it when I was just a baby. So, he told me a story. Apparently when we moved into this house, we lived there about a week before we started to receive “gifts” once a week.
Every Friday morning, my dad told me that there would be some sort of hand-crafted gift sitting on the mantle of our fireplace. My dad was reasonably freaked out by this because we were the only ones with keys to the house, and the last owner moved well out of state. So he informed the local police, and they decided to patrol the property every Friday night looking for intruders. They found nothing, and as you could imagine, the gifts kept coming.
My dad told me they eventually gave up. Feeling helpless he went to our local church. Eventually, he had a priest come and bless the house, and we stopped receiving the gifts. What really freaked me out about this was the fact that my dad never believed in ghosts, and didn’t mention once that a “ghost” was causing these gifts to appear. He’s an engineer so he always tries to debunk peoples “paranormal stories” with a realistic explanation, but he was 100% serious with this story.
One of the gifts we received we actually still have; it’s a wooden sled with a small painting of a man (presumably my dad), pulling me and my sister on the sled. We received this gift about 8 months to a year before my mother passed away from cancer, so that made the painting on the sled very freaky in hindsight. My dad only told me this story once, and he denied he ever told me it when I asked him about it recently.