Horror Stories - 7 True "Terrifying Airbnb Horror Story | True Creepy Experience While Traveling Alone

Episode Date: July 1, 2025

Terrifying Airbnb horror story experiences while traveling alone are more real than you think—and these 7 true accounts will leave you speechless. From creepy hosts and strange noises in the night to unexplained events and locked doors with no answers, these solo travelers walked into what they thought were normal stays… but found themselves in their worst nightmares. Every story is based on real experiences, shared by people who lived through these unsettling encounters in unfamiliar places. Warning: these are not for the faint of heart. If you travel solo or stay in short-term rentals, you need to hear what happened behind those Airbnb doors. #AirbnbHorrorStory #TrueScaryStories #SoloTravelHorror #CreepyAirbnb #TravelGoneWrong #RealHorrorTales #TerrifyingExperiences #CreepyHost #HauntedRentals #ScaryTravelStories terrifying airbnb horror story, true airbnb horror stories, airbnb gone wrong, solo travel horror, creepy airbnb experience, airbnb nightmare solo, scary airbnb story, real travel horror, haunted airbnb, true creepy airbnb, horror while traveling, travel story gone wrong, scary solo trip, airbnb ghost stories, terrifying real horror, travel alone horror story, weird host experience, horror airbnb incidents, unexplained airbnb events, scary travel true story, airbnb mystery events, creepy vacation rentals, disturbing airbnb tales, true traveler horror, travel horror experiences, nightmare airbnb guests, airbnb horror 2025, true story airbnb stay, horror short rental story, strange things airbnb, scary room rental, real life horror tale, creepy host behavior, airbnb dangers alone, dark side of travel Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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I needed that interview to go well, not because I was desperate, at least not yet, but because I was finally starting to pull myself out of the emotional pit that had almost swallowed me whole a year earlier. At the time, I was living in a small one-bedroom apartment in Stafford, Ohio, trying to rebuild my life after a long stretch of unemployment. I had quit my previous job in insurance claims due to severe burnout. Since then, I had been scraping by with odd jobs just to make rent. This new opportunity was with a logistics company located on the outskirts of Willridge, about three hours north. It wasn't a glamorous position, but it was stable, with benefits and fixed hours. If I could land it, I might finally be able to breathe again. The interview was

scheduled for 9 a.m. sharp on a Wednesday. I didn't want to risk traffic or show up looking wrecked after waking up at 4 a.m. So I decided to drive up the night before and stay at an Airbnb. I found one that looked ideal, a small one-story house in a quiet neighborhood about 20 minutes from the company office. The listing said, private room with full access to kitchen and amenities. quiet and peaceful, perfect for professionals. It had good reviews, a host named Jamie, and lots of photos. Everything seemed fine. I booked it, packed a small overnight bag, left around 4 p.m., and arrived shortly after 7 p.m. The sun was already low, casting a warm golden hue over the streets as I parked. It was a very quiet neighborhood with rows of similar houses, neatly trimmed lawns, and two-car garages.

Typical suburbia in the heart of America. The house was modest, white brick with blue shutters and a paved driveway. I double-checked the address. Yes, 6128 Elmageway. I parked, grabbed my bag, and walked up the driveway. The door was unlocked, which struck me as odd, but not overly concerning. I figured maybe the host had left it open, as some do when check-in is contactless. I stepped inside and called out,

Hello? Silence. I took a few more steps. The air had a faint citrus-scented cleaner smell. The place was tidy, lived in, but not messy. I was about to text the host to let him know I'd arrived when. Hi, someone said. I nearly jumped out of my skin. A woman came around the corner. She looked to be in her mid-forties, shoulder-length brown hair with streaks of gray, a loose sweatshirt, dark eyes with deep under eye circles. She looked as surprised to see me as I was to see her. Didn't mean to scare you, she said quickly with a smile. I'm Lacey. I'm staying here too. In the back room. I blinked. Oh, I didn't realize this was a shared place. Yeah, it's split up, she said, pointing down the hallway. You've got the front room, I've got the back. Jamie told me someone else was coming tonight.

I just wanted to say hi so it's not weird, you know. I forced a polite smile. Sure, I get it. I'm Marcus. Nice to meet you. She held the smile just a little too long. Well, I'll let you get settled. She turned and walked away.

I waited a few seconds, then pulled out my phone and reopened the Airbnb listing. Nowhere did it say it was a shared space, just private room. I checked the details again. even zoomed in on the photos. Only one bedroom was shown, and all the reviews mentioned how quiet and peaceful the place was. Not one mentioned other guests. I frowned and messaged the host,

Hi, I just arrived. There's a woman here who says she's also staying in the back. Just wanted to confirm. No immediate reply, so I let it go for the moment and took my bag to the room. Clean sheets, a lamp on the nightstand, a small desk in the corner. Everything looked fine.

I was hungry, so I pulled out a sandwich and some fruit from my bag. Less than a minute later, Lacey reappeared. She was barefoot, holding a cup of tea. Can't sleep either, she asked. I gave a weak smile, just having a bite to eat. She leaned against the counter and sipped her tea. Here for work? Got an interview tomorrow, I replied, not wanting to get into it.

She perked up. What kind? Operations coordinates. I'm a coordinator, logistics company in Willeridge. That sounds good. You look young. How old are you? Twenty-four.

She raised an eyebrow and smiled. You've still got your whole life ahead of you. I nodded hoping the conversation would end there. Then she asked. Can I ask you something? I paused mid-bite. Sure. You're single, right?

Her bluntness threw me off. Uh, yeah, I guess. She smiled again, but this time it didn't reach her eyes. That's rare these days. Most guys your age just want whatever, you know. Yeah, I guess. She took a step closer. My room's in the back, like I said.

I've got a TV and wine if you want to come hang out and relax a bit. Help you unwind before the big day. I gave a forced chuckle, trying to keep things polite. Thanks, but I'm really tough. tired, just going to eat and crash. Her smile froze, then slowly faded. Oh, okay. She lingered for a few seconds, then turned and walked away without another word. I let out a long sigh and stared at my sandwich. I wasn't hungry anymore. That's when my phone buzzed. It was a message from Jamie, the host. There shouldn't be anyone else in the house. Please leave immediately and call the police. I'm contacting

Airbnb now. I froze. Slowly I turned toward the hallway where Lacey had gone. From somewhere in the back of the house I heard a creek, then a door opened and footsteps followed, heavy, rushed. I didn't wait to see who it was. I dropped my food, grabbed my bag off the table, and bolted. The front door flew open as I hit the steps and practically dove into my car. As I backed out, I saw someone, a man around the corner of the house and run toward me. I didn't stop driving until I reached a gas station on the highway. I parked under a fluorescent light and finally let myself breathe. I called the police and then Airbnb again. The officer at the station took my statement and assured me a patrol would be sent to check the property. Jamie the host was just as shocked and apologized profusely. He told me the

house had been empty for over a month, cleaned and locked, waiting for guests. No one should have had access. I never found out who Lacey really was, or who the man running down that hallway had been. Police later confirmed there were signs of forced entry through a side window. Airbnb refunded everything no questions asked. That night I slept in my car, parked outside a 24-hour diner, jittery and exhausted. The next morning, despite it all, I went to the interview, and somehow I got the job. I didn't tell anyone what had happened. I just smiled. I just smiled. shook hands and pretended I hadn't spent the night running for my life, but I'll never forget 6128 Elmage Way,

or the way Lacey smiled with eyes that didn't match. And ever since, whenever I stay somewhere unfamiliar for work, I double-check every lock, open every closet door, and listen closely, just in case I hear footsteps that shouldn't be there. Story 2. To be honest, I didn't even want to go to the wedding. It's not that I didn't care about Julia. She had always been a close friend from our college years, but after nearly seven years without hearing from her, getting an unexpected wedding invitation to some tiny out-of-the-way town, it felt awkward.

It was Dean, one of my best friends, also invited, who ended up convincing me. Dude, it's a free weekend in the countryside, he said. We take a road trip, rent a decent Airbnb, and get drunk on wedding wine. I eventually gave in. of me needed to disconnect. I had been working overtime for weeks at the firm, barely sleeping, and hadn't left Chicago in months. Getting away, even to the middle of nowhere, was starting to sound almost therapeutic. We left early on a Friday morning driving across three states in Dean Silver Civic. We blasted music, debated whether Iowa or Nebraska had the most boring landscapes,

and laughed more than I had in weeks. By the time we reached Oak Ridge, Montana, the Sunday, was already setting. It was one of those towns that seemed stuck in time, like the 70s were still alive in its streets. A single restaurant, one gas station, a bar, and a few scattered homes surrounded by acres of open fields. Julia's family had lived there for generations. The Airbnb, which I had booked with low expectations, turned out to be better than the photos showed. A simple country home with two bedrooms, old but clean, wood-panelled walls, and a kitchen that smelled like cinnamon. The real surprise was how isolated it was from town, about 10 kilometers down a narrow dirt road surrounded by tall grass, empty fields, and patches of forest. No neighbors, no streetlights,

no sounds, just silence. Too much silence. Dean loved it from the moment we arrived. bro this is the kind of place where you could disappear and nobody would know i laughed in that moment i wish i hadn't we unpacked ordered pizza from the only place that delivered and stayed up chatting until around midnight dean fell asleep the second his head hit the pillow i on the other hand couldn't close my eyes something about that house unsettled me it wasn't its age i actually like old houses it was how still everything felt it was how still everything felt it felt. No cars in the distance, no city hum, no creaking pipes or ambient noise. Just absolute silence. And when you come from a loud city, that silence can feel like something is watching you. Still, I eventually fell asleep. The next day, Saturday, was the wedding. The ceremony was held in a small outdoor chapel just outside of town. It was sweet, emotional, and surprisingly beautiful. Julia looked radiant and her family welcomed us with warm hugs and tearful eyes, though I felt a bit out of place. The reception was way more fun than I expected. Great food, free drinks, dancing under string lights.

Dean and I didn't leave until after 10 p.m. tired but in good spirits from all the wine and laughter. Back at the house, Dean went straight to bed. I decided to stay up a little longer in the living room to clear my head. I turned on a lamp, sank into the old recliner, and started scrolling on my phone. That's when I heard it. A knock, soft but deliberate, just one. I froze. The phone's still in my hand. It came from the front door.

I sat up, my heart already racing. Who would come all the way out here at this hour? I walked toward the door slowly peeked through the peephole. Nothing. Still, I cracked the door slightly. looked outside. Everything was dark, no movement in sight, no cars, no one walking away. The porch light barely lit up the front path, which remained empty. I stepped outside for a moment, looked around, just trees, wind, and shadows. I shut the door again, locked it, and stood there, listening.

Silence. Maybe the house creaked. Or maybe it was an animal that bumped the door. I tried convincing myself it was nothing, but something about that single knock so intentional wouldn't let me rest. I went back to the living room and sat again, this time gripping my phone tightly and staring at the front window. Then I heard it again. Another knock. This time from the back. I stood up so fast the recliner snapped shut behind me. I ran to the kitchen and flipped on the back porch light. Nothing. The yard stretched out into a grassy slow. that ended in a dark tree line. I stood there watching for ten minutes, not a single movement. I felt a pit in my stomach. That second knock had also been precise, but who would be out here?

We hadn't told anyone we were staying at that house, and even locals wouldn't venture that deep into private land, especially at night. Eventually I calmed myself enough to go to my room. I lay down, my heartbeat slowly returning to normal, trying to convince me. myself it had all been in my head. Silence returned, and finally I fell asleep. What woke me was another knock, this time on my bedroom door. I shot up immediately chest tight. My eyes locked on the door. I was about to speak when I heard a familiar voice. Jamie, are you awake? It was Dean. I got up and opened the door. He was in the hallway barefoot, pale, clearly shaken. There's someone outside, he whispered.

What? I heard him walking by the window, he said, pointing. A man, circling the house like he was looking for something. My stomach dropped. Did he see you? I don't think so. And then. A metallic click came from the front of the house, the doorknob.

We both turned toward the living room. We moved quietly, cautiously, just enough to peek and see the door. The porch light was still on. And there he was. A man maybe mid-forties. Long coat, messy hair, his face barely visible through the glass. But what I saw chilled my blood. He had something in his hand, a thin piece of metal.

He was picking the lock. I grabbed Dean's arm. Call the police now. He ran for his phone. I stayed near the door, hand on the lock, unsure what to do. I just held it as if that could stop him. The man twisted the handle then stopped. For a moment, he just stood there,

as if he knew someone was right on the other side, as if he was waiting. And then suddenly he turned and ran. He didn't leave. He ran around the house. We didn't follow. Dean and I locked ourselves in the main bedroom, pushed furniture against the door and waited.

It took nearly 40 minutes for the police to arrive. By then, whoever that man was, he was gone. No footprints, no car tracks, no cameras, obviously. Just two shaken guys in a rear barn door wide open, which we hadn't noticed before. The officers were kind, but not much help. They took our statements, looked around, and suggested maybe it was someone from town who got the wrong house. We didn't believe that for a second. We left the next morning.

No brunch, no goodbyes. I still don't know who that man was, but I do know this. He was already there long before we noticed. Maybe even the night before. Maybe he saw us arrive. Maybe he tested every door. Maybe he watched waiting for the lights to go out. And maybe he already knew exactly who was inside.

Story 3. I still remember the exact moment we decided we needed to escape. It was a Thursday afternoon early October. and the sky over our Boston apartment had turned that deep bruised purple that always signaled the end of another cold gray day. I was sitting at the kitchen table hunched over my laptop, trying to sort through a week's worth of unanswered emails. Across from me, Katie, my girlfriend of three years, stared blankly into her third glass of wine. The look of exhaustion on her face said more than anything she'd said all week. We were completely burned out.

work had consumed us Katie was working double shifts as a cardiovascular nurse at Mass General and I had just wrapped up a brutal delivery cycle at my software company Our lives had become a dull mix of coffee, screens and collapsing into bed at midnight Even weekends felt like leftovers

Unenthusiastic brunches, silent TV binges and the occasional argument that always ended with a tired apology It wasn't that we'd stopped loving each other We were just exhausted. So when Katie broke the silence and muttered, Let's get out of here. Let's disappear for a while. I didn't argue.

I closed the laptop and nodded. That same night wrapped in blankets and scrolling through options on her iPad, we found it. A small standalone cabin listed on Airbnb in a remote town in New Hampshire called Stoddard. The photos showed an a-frame cabin blanketed in snow

surrounded by pine trees facing a frozen lake. The host, a woman named Claire, had glowing reviews. Total peace, secluded. Perfect for recharging, the comments said. It was affordable, far away, and looked exactly like what we needed. We booked five nights starting the following Monday. The confirmation came almost instantly. Katie smiled for the first time in days.

There was a flicker in her eyes. Maybe hope. Claire wrote to us that same night. Her tone was warm and professional. She even offered to have firewood ready and the cabin preheated for our arrival. She mentioned that the code for the key lockbox on the porch would be sent the morning of check-in. Everything seemed easy, calm, even comforting. The next few days were a blur of packing, last-minute shopping, and daydreaming about still mornings by the lake. Katie even bought a film camera for the vibe, she said, laughing. I stocked up on maps and local trail guides. We hadn't taken a trip like this in years, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like we were in sync again. But signs started to appear, small, and in time they would take on a different meaning.

The first red flag came Sunday night. While confirming the road, I noticed Claire still hadn't sent the promise code for the lockbox. I messaged her to ask. No reply. It was late, so I didn't think much of it. But by the next morning, we still hadn't heard back. Maybe she's just busy, Katie said, scanning the reviews. Everyone says she's amazing.

One of the best hosts. And it was true. Not a single bad review. No warnings. Still something in my gut. A faint unease. A tingling under the skin. By noon we were deep into New Hampshire.

Claire hadn't replied, but we didn't turn back. I don't know if it was stubborn. or desperation, but we kept going. The drive to Stoddard was long, winding, and nearly deserted. Snowflakes drifted across the windshield, and the gray sky made the afternoon feel more like the end of the day. The town, if you could call it that, consisted of a post office, a diner, and a gas station that looked unchanged since the 1970s. The further we drove, the more it felt like we were leaving the world behind, until we turned onto the private road listed in the directions. Katie wasn't talking anymore. Since we passed a sign that read Dead End about three kilometers back,

she'd barely said a word. We crested a small hill, and there it was. The cabin, just like in the pictures, even more beautiful. A steep A-frame nestled among pines, chimney-releasing gentle plumes of smoke into the cold air. A thin layer of snow covered the step. leading to the porch. The frozen lake sparkled behind the trees, but something felt off. A black SUV was parked to the side, half buried under snow, like it hadn't moved in days. Logs were stacked nearby, but the porch light was off. The window's dark, no footprints, no signs of life, and still no reply from Claire. Katie clutched the sleeves of her coat. Do we knock? We don't even know if anyone's here.

We climbed the steps. The lockbox was next to the door. No code, no note. I tried calling the number listed on Claire's profile. It rang twice, then went straight to voicemail. Katie looked increasingly uneasy. Her breath was visible in the freezing air. I tried the doorknob, unlocked. Inside the air was icy and the smell. We noticed it immediately. Old firewood smoke. in something else, something sour, not exactly rotten but definitely stale, like a house shut tight for months. The interior was cozy but messy. Firewood by the blackened hearth mismatched furniture, a dusty bookshelf full of worn paperbacks. The bed upstairs had a faded comforter, and one pillow looked like it had been tossed aside in a hurry. A half-full mug of something cold sat on the kitchen counter. Maybe she left unexpected. I said, though even I didn't believe it. Katie didn't respond. She was staring at wet marks on the floor, as if snow had melted. But the door had been closed. No one had entered. At least no one we had

seen. That night I heard the knocks for the first time, software like something tapping the walls from the inside. I sat up in bed, alert, one knock, then another, then silence. I looked at Kate's lady. She was already awake staring at the ceiling. You heard it too? I whispered. She nodded slowly, since too. Every now and then, from different parts of the cabin. I tried to be logical. Old cabins make sounds, wood creeks, animals get into the walls, but this didn't sound like that. It sounded intentional. The next two days were a fog of paranoia. The knocks didn't stop. They moved from the ceiling to the floor to the walls, sometimes soft like fingers, other times like fists.

The second night, Katie swore someone whispered her name. I told her she was dreaming, even though I heard it too. We tried to leave the morning of the third day, and that's when we discovered it. The road was gone, not blocked, not snowed, in, just gone. Where there had been a path now there was dense forest, as if we'd never arrived. No signal, no GPS. My calls to Claire's number no longer even connected. Not even emergency services worked, just a dead tone, as if we were calling from another time. We stopped sleeping. We took turns keeping watch. Katie started carving tally marks on the wall with a pocket knife.

according to her account we were there for seven days but the sun never changed it rose at the same gray angle every morning and set behind the lake at the exact same time then came the sixth night the knocks became footsteps above us in the attic we hadn't noticed a square hatch near the kitchen neither of us wanted to open it but we couldn't just wait i pulled the table under it and climbed up The hatch creaked open. Darkness. Dust. Freezing air pouring down on me. I turned on my phone flashlight and looked around. There were dozens of Polaroids pinned to the beams. All showed the same cabin, same furniture, same layout, but different people, couples of families alone, all staring directly at the camera. Some scared. Others aren't selling just off. With smiles too.

wide, empty eyes. In one corner of the attic was a worn mattress and a camera on a tripod. Still pointing at the hatch, something moved behind me. I fell backward. Katie screamed. The hatch slammed shut. We didn't sleep after that. We sat by the fire, silent, barely breathing. At some point, maybe morning, maybe not. There was a knock at the front door. Just one. Then silence. We opened it.

The road was back. Just as we remembered it. No snow on the car. As if it had never been there. We left without looking back. Claire never responded. The Airbnb listing vanished by the time we got home. We filed a police report.

They told us there was no registered property at that address, that the land was part of a natural reserve. No structures and no utilities, nothing. Katie doesn't talk about it. The photos from her camera. All came out blank. But sometimes when I can't sleep, I revisit that listing in my mind. The A-frame cabin, the lake, the snow, the silence.

And I wonder if it's still out there, waiting for the next couple who needs to escape. Story four. I never imagined a weekend getaway could leave such a deep. scar in my memory. It was in November 2019 during a difficult time for my wife Eliza and me, not in our relationship, but in life. I had been laid off from my marketing job three months earlier, and although she was still working full-time as a dental hygienist, the weight of the bills and the constant tension were starting to take a toll. We lived in a small one-bedroom apartment in a noisy part of Milwaukee, and with winter approaching, the walls were starting to feel like they

were closing in. One night Eliza came home from work with a tired smile and a suggestion that would change everything. We need to get out of here for a few days, just the two of us. No job hunting, no bills, just silence. At first I hesitated. We didn't have much money, but when she showed me the listing on her phone, I couldn't say no. It was a modern, stylish Airbnb located in a small town called Harrow's Field about two hours north. The photos were stunning, exposed brick walls, Scandinavian furniture, a stand-alone bathtub with a view of snow-covered pines. The reviews were five stars and the price surprisingly low for what was being offered. Maybe it's off-season, Eliza said. Isn't it perfect? And yes, it was. Or at least it seemed that way. We booked three nights,

Eliza's sister offered to watch our dog, and by Friday afternoon we were on the road. Our spirits lifted for the first time in weeks. The drive was peaceful, wide fields, snow-covered roads. When we arrived in Harrow's field, the town seemed wrapped in more than just snow. There was an overwhelming silence. The house was tucked away at the end of a forest road. It stood tall and square with large windows reflecting the gray sky. inside it was even more beautiful than expected warm wood tones an open concept kitchen and a fireplace already stacked with logs we needed this eliza said smiling at me i smiled back not knowing how true and terrifying those words would become that first night was peaceful eliza made hot chocolate i lit the fire we sat together on the leather sofa wrapped in blankets watching the flames dance outside

snow fell gently, no traffic, no sirens, no noisy neighbors, just peace. We slept better that night than we had in a long time. The next morning I woke up early, made coffee, and stepped out onto the back deck. The pine forest surrounded the house like sentinels. There was no sound except for the wind and the occasional creek of branches under snow. I almost didn't want to go back inside. When Eliza came down, she looked well rested. But when we entered the living room, she stopped. Do you smell that? She asked.

At first I didn't notice anything, but then it hit me. A faint chemical smell, like antiseptic or the cleaners they use in hospitals. Maybe the cleaning crew went overboard, I joked. Probably just mopped right before we arrived. She shrugged and went to make breakfast. But by the afternoon, the smell had grown stronger. It wasn't constant. It would fade for hours.

then return, more concentrated, like it was coming from somewhere specific. Eliza opened windows, even though the cold air cut like blades. We checked the fridge, the trash, the drains. Everything was spotless. This house is too clean, Eliza murmured, half laughing, like disturbingly clean. That night, while watching a movie in the living room, I noticed it again. The smell stronger, more sterile. I turned the volume down.

Eliza, do you smell it again? She nodded, frowning. It's stronger. We followed the scent like bloodhounds through the house until we reached a small linen closet between the main bedroom and the bathroom. I opened it. Towels and bedding neatly stacked. Nothing seemed out of place, but the smell was strongest there.

I moved the towels and touched the back wall. It's hollow, I said softly. Eliza looked at me. It's just a closet. Let me check something. I grabbed a flashlight from my backpack and looked more closely. Near the floor in a corner behind the bottom shelf, I saw something, fine cracks in the wall, and a small metal latch partially painted over. Eliza is that a door. We hesitated. The air felt heavier like the house was holding its breath. Want me to open it? I asked. She swallowed hard Just see what's behind it Carefully I scraped the paint off the latch and pulled gently A click

The panel opened about an inch A wave of chemical odor rushed out My eyes stung I pushed the door open fully It was a crawl space Narrow dark Unfinished wooden walls Low ceiling

I shone the flashlight inside Nothing just insulation, old paint cans, and something covered with a tarp in the back. Eliza, there's something here. She stiffened behind me. Don't go in. But I did. I crawled forward slowly. The floor creaked under my knees. When I reached the object, I lifted the tarp, and I wish I hadn't. Underneath were the remains of broken furniture, splintered wood, stained cushions, A lamp with no base, torn fabric, and something else. A small leather notebook swollen from moisture rested on top.

I grabbed it and backed out quickly coughing. Back in the living room, we opened it on the table. Many pages were ruined by water. Unreadable, but some still had writing. Shaky, disorganized ink. Dated entries. At the top, a name, Calvin R. Doyle, January, We read in silence, January 14th.

I can't sleep anymore. The smell won't go away. It's in the vents, the walls. I told the manager, but he just smiled, like he knew something, said it was just a matter of getting used to it. January 17th, the worst part is the dreams. A woman crying. Always the same. She's in this house screaming behind the walls, but no one hears her.

I tried tearing up the floor. I'm sure there's something underneath. January 22nd. I can't stay here. The smell is stronger. Like it wants me to remember something. I think... I think someone died here.

The final line was repeated again and again until the ink bled through the page. We looked at each other. Eliza was pale. This wasn't in the listing, she whispered. No, this is something they covered up. The next morning we packed our bags. I wanted to leave that night, but Eliza was too shaken,

and the snowfall had worsened. We barely slept. Every sound seemed louder, distorted. In the middle of the night, we both sat up suddenly. A knock. Then, a dragging sound. Something heavy sliding down the hallway. We didn't speak.

We stayed dressed in bed, eyes wide open, waiting. Around 2 a.m. it happened again. A single knock. Then the slow sound of something dragging. We sat up at the same time. I reached for my flashlight, but it was dead. Eliza, I whispered, stay here. No, she said firmly gripping my arm. We go together. The sound stopped. We stepped into the hallway. The air was frigid, heavier than before. Our breath hung in clouds. Using the dim light of my phone, I scanned the corridor, hoping to see nothing, praying. The closet door was wide open. We approached. The crawl space panel was shut again. Tightly. I hadn't closed it. Eliza, I said, eyes locked on it. Let's go. Now. No argument.

Within ten minutes we had everything in the car. Almost no words exchanged. changed. As we drove away, I looked back once, the window, dark, empty, as if it were watching us. We didn't stop until we were near Milwaukee. At sunrise and a rest area, we sat in silence. Finally, Eliza asked, do you think that man from the journal? Do you think? I don't know, I said quietly, but I don't think he ever got out. We reported everything to Airbnb, the hidden room. the smell, the journal. We included photos. A week later, someone from their safety team called us.

They apologized. Said the listing had been removed and the owner was under investigation for policy violations. That was the last we heard from them. Months went by. We tried to move on, but something stayed with us, something heavy. Eliza started sleeping with a light on.

I found myself checking closets without thinking. And one night, out of curiosity, I tried looking up the address again. Nothing came up. The listing was gone. No articles, no property records. As if the house had been erased from the internet. I wrote Airbnb again. They replied with a generic message.

Thank you for contacting us. This case has been closed and does not require follow-up. That was it. Even now, years later, I sometimes catch that smell. chemical, cold. It hits me randomly in a hotel lobby, in a freshly clean stairwell, sometimes even at home. And what I remember isn't the sound or the cold, not even the journal. It's that feeling that someone is still there, trapped behind that panel, buried in that silence, and the worst part is thinking that right now someone else is probably there too.

thinking they've found the perfect escape. Story 5. I never meant to spend the summer in a place like Marrow Creek. Originally, the plan was simple. Get away from the chaos of Boston. Spend a few quiet weeks helping my younger cousin Ava settle into her new job as a teacher and used the time to clear my mind after a difficult breakup. I had found the Airbnb listing one night,

scrolling through options on my phone with tired eyes. It was a last-minute deal. Historic villa in the countryside secluded Morrow Creek, perfect for writers, artists, and those seeking peace. The photos showed a majestic two-story country house with white wooden walls, a wraparound porch and ivy clinging to its columns. It radiated calm, an old-world charm, almost cinematic. I remember thinking it had a kind of quiet dignity. Ava thought it was perfect, and by the next afternoon we had booked the full month. Morrow Creek didn't appear on any major maps.

You had to zoom in three times on Google Earth just to see its name, tucked between dusty roads and miles of pine forest in the most remote corner of North Carolina. The GPS signal dropped about five miles from the house, and we had to rely on the written directions the host had sent. When we arrived, the sun was already sinking behind the trees, casting long shadows over the cracked road. A chorus of saccatas greeted us as a chorus of saccata's greeted us as a stopped the car. The house looked even more imposing in person. The paint was more weathered than in the

photos, and one of the porch railings leaned dangerously to one side, but it still held on to that air of old nobility. I love it, Eva said as she stepped out of the car, shielding her eyes from the sun. It's like something out of a Southern Gothic novel. I wasn't so sure, but I didn't say anything. We were tired from the trip, and the thought of a hot shower and a soft bed was more tempting than getting picky. The host, a woman named Deborah, had left the key in a rusted metal box next to the door. Inside, the house smelled faintly of cedar and something else. Something older, hard to place. The furniture was a strange mix of old and new.

A broken grandfather clock stood in the hallway, while the living room had a clearly modern leather sofa. Every step made the wooden floors creak. Our rooms were upstairs. Mine faced the front garden, and Ava's looked out toward the woods. We unpacked in silence, exhausted, and by the time we settled down with a bottle of wine in the living room, the outside had already sunk into complete darkness. That night I slept better than I had in weeks. No dreams, no tossing, just emptiness. The next morning passed with a lazy calm, the kind that makes you feel like the world.

has forgotten you. Eva left around 9 a.m. to meet with the school principal in town. I stayed behind, planning to read and maybe explore the surroundings a bit. I made myself a coffee and stepped out onto the porch. The air was already thick with humidity. And that's when I noticed the rocking chair. An old piece with peeling white paint tucked in a corner of the porch. I was sure it hadn't been there the night before, but convinced myself I must have overlooked it. The strange thing was the angle it was placed in, not facing the garden, but turned toward the woods, as if someone had dragged it there to watch something. I didn't sit in it. Instead, I spent the day inside. I video called a friend, tidied the kitchen, made a simple lunch, but something in that

house felt off, not fear exactly, just discomfort, a subtle unease that hid beneath the floorboards, waiting. When Ava returned that afternoon, she was smiling. Everyone at the school is so kind, she said. They told me they haven't hired anyone new in years. She laughed. Apparently, no one moves to Merrow Creek. They only leave. She said it like a joke, but it left a strange taste in my mouth. I asked if anyone mentioned anything about the house. Only that it's old. A woman named Miriam used to live here. She gave piano left. lessons in the living room. Died a while ago, I think. That night the rocking chair was facing the door, and that night I didn't sleep as deeply. I woke up once, exactly at 2.13 a.m.

The red numbers on the digital clock burned into my memory. The house was completely silent, except for a soft, rhythmic creaking. I sat up, heart pounding. The rocking chair. I went to the window. From my room I could see just the corner of the porch. It was moving, slowly, steadily, as if someone were sitting there rocking in the darkness. But no one was there. I told myself it was the wind, but the trees weren't moving. The next day I asked Eva if she'd noticed anything strange.

She paused for a moment. Actually, yeah, I woke up around 3 o'clock and thought I saw someone standing in the woods, just standing. But when I blinked, they were gone. Probably my imagination. We didn't say anything else, but from that moment something shifted.

The air grew heavier. The light started to flicker. The doors no longer stayed closed. I started hearing faint piano music from the living room. Always the same melody. Climsy notes off rhythm. Like someone just beginning to learn. Ava heard it too,

as and we stopped pretending not to. She began sleeping with the light on. I started locking my bedroom door. One afternoon I found an old photograph hidden behind a loose floorboard in the upstairs hallway. It was black and white, faded. Four children seated at a piano and a woman standing behind them. On the back handwritten Miriam's class, spring 1963. One of the children's faces was covered by a dark stain, not ink.

something else. We left the house three days earlier than planned, packed in the middle of the night without saying a word. We didn't speak again until we were back on the highway. As I left the key in the rusted box, the rocking chair was still there, facing the woods again. Ava doesn't talk about Morrow Creek anymore. She quit the job before the school year began,

said she didn't feel right staying. I don't blame her. Sometimes when I can't sleep, I think of that house, the rocking chair, the melody. I tell myself it was all in our heads, just an old house, tired minds. But deep down I know it wasn't. Some places don't want to be left alone, and some echoes never stop ringing. Story six, I never believed in omens, at least not until that weekend in Vermont. It was late January of 2019 when I convinced my wife, Claire, that we needed a break.

Both of us were on the verge of burnout from our jobs in Boston. She'd been working 60 plus hour weeks at a pediatric clinic, and I was drowning in deadlines and demands at a branding firm. Our 10th wedding anniversary was approaching, and something about hitting that round number

felt more important than we'd expected. We didn't want to celebrate it in the usual way. No fancy dinners or city getaways. We wanted silence, solitude, snow, something different, something memorable. After hours of browsing cabins on Airbnb, Claire found a gem. A newly listed A-frame at the edge of a frozen lake in a tiny town called Grand Anthem, Vermont. The photos looked like they were pulled from a storybook, snow-laden pines, a wraparound deck,

and floor-to-ceiling windows facing the white expanse of the lake. The host's name was Evan and he had a few excellent reviews. We booked immediately, three nights Friday through Monday. As soon as the reservation was confirmed, Claire rested her head on my shoulder and whispered, This is going to be good for us. And in that moment, I believed her. The drive from Boston to Grand Anthem took us just under four hours. We left early Friday morning to beat the storm that had been looming on the radar for days.

Claire made a playlist of songs we used to listen to when we first started dating, a mix of Nora Jones and Death Cab for Cutie, the kind of music that makes you feel like you're in a movie. Crossing into Vermont, the highway narrowed into rural roads lined with bare trees and scattered barns. Claire pointed out horses standing in the snow and guessed what each abandoned shed might have been used for. With every passing mile, it felt like we were shedding the chaos of the city.

Just before 1 p.m., we arrived at the property. The GPS led us down a winding door, dirt road through dense pine trees until it opened into a clearing. There it was, even more beautiful in person, a steep a frame with matte black siding and triangular windows reflecting the lake just behind. Everything was covered in a layer of clean untouched snow, like no one had stepped foot there in days. We parked in a gravel space at the base of the property and followed a cleared path to the door. When I opened it, the wood creaked, not in a creepy way. Just enough to remind us that we were far from the world we'd left behind.

The interior was warm and welcoming. The air smelled like cedar and something else. Something herbal. Eucalyptus maybe? Sage. Claire went straight to the fireplace, kneeling down to check the neatly stacked firewood. I walked into the kitchen and found a handwritten note next to a glass jar of hot cocoa mix. Welcome, Daniel and Claire.

I hope this weekend brings you peace and silence. The landline works in case of emergency. No cell service here, but that's the beauty of it. Let the mountains hold you, Evan. Claire read over my shoulder and laughed. That sounds poetic, or a little culty. I vote poetic, I said, wrapping an arm around her waist. We deserve a weekend like this.

She nodded, and for the first time in months I saw her truly relax. That first night was everything we'd hope for. We cooked a simple pasta dinner with wine, played cards at the wooden table. Outside, the wind whistled through the trees and snow fell again, cloaking the windows like we were being wrapped inside another world. At one point, Claire rested her head on my lap and looked up at me with that soft, tired expression. Do you ever wonder if we've changed too much? she murmured. I brushed a strand of hair from her face. Changed how?

I don't know. back when we first got married we'd stay up all night talking about our dreams now we just talk about deadlines deliverables work i paused maybe that's why we came to remember how it used to be she closed her eyes with a small smile i want to remember it i really do i do too i replied we slept in the loft under thick quilts on a king-sized bed that smelled faintly of lavender the wind picked up during the night and the lake groaned beneath the ice. It was a strange sound, like the earth sighing in its sleep. But it didn't bother us. It was part of the cabin's charm. The next morning Claire woke up before me and made coffee. I found her wrapped in a blanket on the deck,

holding a chipped white mug staring out at the lake. It's completely frozen, she said. I checked the ice. It's like three inches thick. You thinking of crossing it? I am. You thinking of crossing it, asked a little uneasy. She shrugged. Maybe, just to say I did. I smiled, though the idea gave me a weird chill. There was something about that lake, too still, too vast. After breakfast, we drove into town. Grand Anthem was small, maybe a thousand people. One main street with antique stores and a general shop. We stopped at a bakery called Maple and Birch, ordered two maple lattes and a fresh cinnamon roll. The owner, a woman in her 60s with long gray braids and an accent I couldn't quite place, greeted us warmly. You two staying up near Silver Hollow, she asked as we paid.

Claire nodded. A cabin on the lake. We rented it through Airbnb. The woman smiled, but her expression flickered for a second, like she wanted to say something else, but didn't. It's a beautiful property, she said eventually. Just keep your firewood dry. The weather's turning bad tonight. We thanked her and left. In the car, Claire looked at me. Did you see that, the way she said it? Yeah, I admitted. It was strange, like she thought we were crazy for staying there. Maybe she just knows the storm's going to be strong, I offered. By late afternoon, the snow was falling hard. We stayed inside, watched a movie on Claire's laptop, and cooked a big dinner. Around 8 p.m., the lights flickered once, but came back immediately.

And then something odd happened. I went to the kitchen for another bottle of wine and noticed one of the cabinets slightly a jar. I was sure I'd closed it earlier. It wasn't dramatic, just a few inches. But it stood out. I shut it and went back to the living room. Everything okay? Claire asked, stretching on the sofa.

Yeah, I thought I left a cabinet open, probably just my head. She didn't press, and neither did I. We fell asleep on the couch, the fire crackling beside us. At 2.17 a.m. a loud thud woke us both. It came from above, from the loft. I sat up instantly. Claire grabbed my arm, eyes wide. You heard that?

Yeah, I whispered. We waited in silence holding our breath. Another sound softer this time, like someone slowly shifting across the floor. Probably the wind, I said, more to myself than to her. But we both knew it wasn't. I grabbed the flashlight from the drawer next to the fireplace and crept up the stairs. Each step groaned beneath me. At the top I swept the loft with light.

Everything looked normal. Nothing out of place. I was about to turn back when something stopped me. The closet door was open, not wide, just enough to twist my stomach into a knot. It had been closed when we went to bed. Story 7. I never thought I'd actually take a vacation. For the past seven years, my life had been one long stretch of work, endless hours, and burnout disguised as dedication.

I ran a small but thriving digital consultancy firm based out of Chicago, and while the business was growing, I was quietly falling apart inside. My therapist had been warning me for months. Aidan, you're burning the candle at both ends. This isn't just exhaustion. You're unraveling. My wife, Maya, had been even more blunt. Either you take a break, or I'm packing my bags and going without you. And she wasn't bluffing. Maya had stood by me through the madness, but even her patience had limits, pressed by the two most important women in my life. I finally gave in. I cleared my schedule, turned on my out-of-office reply, and for the first time in years,

we were going to do absolutely nothing. We didn't want a resort or a crowded tourist town. We wanted space, silence, privacy. Maya found a listing on a site that specialized in countryside getaways. It wasn't technically Airbnb, but it worked similarly. Verified listings, photos, direct communication with the host. The place she found was a secluded house just outside a tiny town called Ashwood Creek, about a four-hour drive from the city.

The listing was perfect. Two stories, modern interiors, surrounded by forest, a big backyard with a fire pit and a private hot tub. The photos were full of natural light, polished wooden floors, soft tones, and huge windows overlooking the trees. The host, a woman named Vivian Locke, lived on the lower floor with her husband. husband, though she assured guests the layout guaranteed total privacy. The only shared space was the parking area. It was pricier than other listings, $120 for a night, but it was worth it. Maya was sold from the start. I hesitated little, but I didn't have the energy to argue. I just wanted to sleep. We booked five nights. The drive to Ashwood Creek was peaceful. Long stretches

of flat highway slowly gave way to winding rural roads. cities noise faded behind us Maya drove while I drifted in and out of a half sleep the kind where the body shuts down but the mind keeps spinning the town was tiny a grocery store a cafe a gas station it felt like stepping into a different era we stopped for a few supplies and followed Vivian's directions down a gravel path that led deep into the woods and there it was the house was beautiful tucked among pines and slightly elevated, with soft gray siding and windows catching the glow of sunset. It looked exactly like the photos, maybe even better. Vivian greeted us at the door.

She looked to be in her 50s, maybe older, wore a long cardigan despite the mild weather. Her smile was polite but stiff, and her voice was soft in a way that didn't match her eyes, sharp, intense. Her husband, Elias, said little. He nodded, shook my hand and disappeared around the side of the house. Vivian led us upstairs for a quick tour. Everything was spotless, clean sheets of fully stocked kitchen, and a welcome basket with the snacks on the counter. We're just downstairs if you need anything, she said as we unpacked, but we tend to keep to ourselves. That's exactly what we're looking for, Maya replied with a smile. Vivian nodded slowly, holding her gaze a second too long before turning to the stairs.

Oh, and one more thing, she added before descending. Sound travels through the trees at night. If you hear strange noises, don't worry. It's just the wildlife. Always is. And she left. That first night was a calm I didn't know I needed. Maya lit some candles while I unpacked. The sunset bathed the forest in amber, and for a moment,

I forgot about missed calls, demanding clients and spreadsheets that haunted my sleep. Dinner was simple, grilled cheese sandwiches, tomato soup, and red wine, but it felt like a celebration. We ate on the back patio surrounded by the hum of the woods and the song of cicadas at dusk. No traffic, no notifications. Just the two of us. Later, Maya curled up on the sofa with a book while I wandered the house, soaking in the unfamiliar quiet. The place had a special warmth, lived in but cared for.

The decor was minimalist, framed. to landscape prints, soft rugs, tall shelves filled with travel mementos and local history. One book caught my eye, the forgotten forests of Ashwood Creek. It was thin, more like a pamphlet. I flipped through it without much thought, until I found a section about local legends. It said the woods beyond Iron Ridge Trail were once sacred ground to a now-vanished tribe. Some still claim to hear chanting, voices, even see lights drifting between the trees, trees at night. Most dismiss it as folklore, but almost no one ventures into those woods after dark. I laughed. Campfire stories, I muttered, returning the book to the shelf. That night's sleep came easily.

Maya drifted off beside me, her breathing slow and steady. I stayed awake a little longer, listening. The house was silent, but not city apartment silent. It was deeper, more complete, more pleat. And then, I heard it, a soft sound barely there, like something dragging. I sat up. My heart thuddered in my chest. Again, clearer this time. It wasn't inside. It was outside. In the leaves just behind the bedroom wall. I held my breath, footsteps slow, uneven. A deer, I told myself, or a raccoon. Maybe a fox, but part of me knew better. The rhythm was off. I dared to peek through the window.

Nothing. Just the still silhouettes of trees in a windless night. The next morning, golden light and coffee on the porch made me question whether I'd imagined it. I said nothing. Maybe it was my mind or exhaustion. Maya, meanwhile, was glowing. Fully in vacation mode, forest strolls, sunbathing, hot tub at dusk.

We took a short hike on a trail behind the house that led to a dry creek bed. Maya snapped photos of mushrooms and strange moss while I tried to shake the lingering unease. The forest felt empty, not threatening, just hollow, like the air was heavier, like sound didn't carry right. At one point Maya paused. Do you hear that? Hear what? Nothing.

No birds. no wind. She was right. The forest had gone completely still. We stood there for a moment. Then she shrugged and walked on, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. That night I ran into Elias. I'd stepped out to grab some firewood and found him near the stairs leading to their floor. He was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. Evening, he said, voice rough like gravel in a tin. Evening, I nodded, not in the mood for small talk. You two settling in all right. Yeah, it's beautiful here.

Quiet, he said. Very peaceful. The house doesn't like noise. I frowned. Sorry? Just saying some places are different. They soak things up. Before I could reply, he flicked the cigarette into a coffee can and vanished downstairs.

I didn't tell Maya about that. either. That night she wanted to try the hot tub. We made drinks and slipped into the warm water just after nine o'clock. Steam rose in the cold air, and for a while everything was perfect. Then the underwater lights flickered. Once, then again. And they shut off completely. Did you touch something? Maya asked. Nope. Maybe the breaker tripped. The house lights were still on. I went to check the control panel behind the shed. Nothing was flipped. Still, I reset the breaker.

The lights came back on, dim humming beneath the surface. When I returned, Maya was staring into the woods. There was someone out there, she whispered. And you sure? She nodded slowly, tall. Still, just watching. I grabbed a flashlight and aimed it between the trees. Nothing.

Still, we went in. side, double-locked the door. At midnight a sound woke me, a woman humming. It wasn't Maya. She was asleep deeply. The tune was unfamiliar, software like a lullaby, but off key. It came from the wall, near the stairs. I stood in the hallway in the dim light, heart-pounding, then three knocks, slow, deliberate, knock, knock, knock. At our door, I stepped forward. My voice barely came out. Vivian? Silence.

I opened the door. Nothing. But I heard footsteps descending the stairs. And in the distant dark, just before the sound faded, I could have sworn someone whispered my name.