This happened when I was in high school, deep in the heart of Kentucky.
It was an old building, the kind that creaks when no one is around. The local legend was that the school had been built over what used to be a graveyard. But nobody believed that, not really. That was until the night of the lock-in.
It was supposed to be fun. A bunch of us, staying overnight in the gym, playing games, and hanging out. There were maybe 30 of us, mostly juniors and seniors, and a few unlucky teachers stuck supervising. Around midnight, I was sitting with my friends near the entrance when I heard it: a low, rhythmic knocking. At first, I thought it was coming from outside, but then it became clear—the sound was coming from within the walls.
The teachers brushed it off, saying it was the old pipes, but something about it felt… off. The knocking was too deliberate, too measured. After a while, the noise stopped, and things went back to normal. That is, until the lights went out.
There was a moment of panic, everyone whispering and looking around. The emergency lights kicked in a few seconds later, casting an eerie red glow over the gym. That’s when we saw it. A figure, standing in the corner near the exit door, dressed in what looked like old-fashioned clothes—too old-fashioned, like something straight out of the early 1900s.
I could hear the gasps and see the confusion on my friends’ faces, but when one of the teachers turned on a flashlight and pointed it toward the figure, it vanished. Just… gone.
We tried to laugh it off, blame it on the darkness and our minds playing tricks, but the mood had shifted. We all felt it—something was wrong in that school, something we couldn’t explain. The rest of the night, strange things kept happening: whispers coming from the hallway when no one was there, cold drafts that would send chills down your spine, and the constant feeling of being watched.
By the time morning came, no one had slept, and we were all too eager to get out of there. But the thing that haunts me the most isn’t the figure or the whispers. It’s what we found the next day.
One of the teachers had gone to check on the breaker room, hoping to figure out what caused the outage. Inside, scratched into the door, were the words: “Let me out.”
No one ever talked about it again.
This happened when I was in middle school, just outside a small town in Kentucky. We used to hear all kinds of ghost stories about the woods behind the school, but none of us really believed them. That was until one of my friends went missing.
It was a regular Friday afternoon, and after school, a group of us decided to sneak into the woods for some adventure. We weren’t supposed to go back there; the teachers always warned us to stay away. But when you’re thirteen and bored, rules don’t mean much.
There were five of us, walking deeper into the woods than we ever had before. The air felt different that day—heavier, like something was watching us. After a while, we came across an old, run-down building. It was half-buried under vines and rotting leaves, with the roof caved in, but it had to be part of the old school grounds—at least that’s what we thought.
Billy, the bravest of us, decided he wanted to go in. The rest of us stayed outside, nervous but too scared to admit it. He climbed through a broken window, disappearing into the darkness inside. For a few minutes, everything was quiet. Then we heard him scream.
It wasn’t a normal scream. It was a guttural, panicked sound, the kind that makes your blood run cold. We called his name, but there was no answer. Against our better judgment, we ran toward the window. What I saw when I looked inside still haunts me.
Billy was lying on the floor, but something was wrong—something was moving beneath his skin, like worms crawling under the surface. His eyes were wide open, and his mouth was frozen in a silent scream. I’ll never forget the smell—like rotting meat and copper. His skin started to tear, and blood poured out in thick, slow streams, pooling around him as something inside him pushed its way out.
None of us moved. We couldn’t. We just stood there, frozen in place, as these… things, black and twisted, forced their way out of his body. It wasn’t long before his limbs were shredded, his insides spilling out in chunks. There was so much blood.
We ran. God, we ran so fast, leaving Billy behind. When we got back to the school, we were too shaken to speak, and nobody believed us when we tried to explain what happened. The adults said he must’ve fallen, got hurt, and wandered off.
They never found his body, but sometimes, when the wind blows just right, you can still smell that sickly sweet rot coming from the woods.
I’ll never forget that day. The thing that took Billy is still out there, waiting for the next stupid kid to wander too deep.
This happened when I was in middle school, just outside a small town in Kentucky. We used to hear all kinds of ghost stories about the woods behind the school, but none of us really believed them. That was until one of my friends went missing.
It was a regular Friday afternoon, and after school, a group of us decided to sneak into the woods for some adventure. We weren’t supposed to go back there; the teachers always warned us to stay away. But when you’re thirteen and bored, rules don’t mean much.
There were five of us, walking deeper into the woods than we ever had before. The air felt different that day—heavier, like something was watching us. After a while, we came across an old, run-down building. It was half-buried under vines and rotting leaves, with the roof caved in, but it had to be part of the old school grounds—at least that’s what we thought.
Billy, the bravest of us, decided he wanted to go in. The rest of us stayed outside, nervous but too scared to admit it. He climbed through a broken window, disappearing into the darkness inside. For a few minutes, everything was quiet. Then we heard him scream.
It wasn’t a normal scream. It was a guttural, panicked sound, the kind that makes your blood run cold. We called his name, but there was no answer. Against our better judgment, we ran toward the window. What I saw when I looked inside still haunts me.
Billy was lying on the floor, but something was wrong—something was moving beneath his skin, like worms crawling under the surface. His eyes were wide open, and his mouth was frozen in a silent scream. I’ll never forget the smell—like rotting meat and copper. His skin started to tear, and blood poured out in thick, slow streams, pooling around him as something inside him pushed its way out.
None of us moved. We couldn’t. We just stood there, frozen in place, as these… things, black and twisted, forced their way out of his body. It wasn’t long before his limbs were shredded, his insides spilling out in chunks. There was so much blood.
We ran. God, we ran so fast, leaving Billy behind. When we got back to the school, we were too shaken to speak, and nobody believed us when we tried to explain what happened. The adults said he must’ve fallen, got hurt, and wandered off.
They never found his body, but sometimes, when the wind blows just right, you can still smell that sickly sweet rot coming from the woods.
I’ll never forget that day. The thing that took Billy is still out there, waiting for the next stupid kid to wander too deep.
This one is hard for me to talk about because, even now, I can’t explain it. I’ve told myself a thousand times it wasn’t real, that it was just my mind playing tricks, but I know what I saw. I know what happened that night.
It was my senior year, and our school had this tradition. Every Halloween, the seniors were allowed to spend the night in the old part of the school building. It was a way to celebrate the end of high school, but the real reason everyone did it was because of the stories. The old wing was said to be haunted, and every year, we dared each other to go see if the rumors were true.
The old wing had been abandoned for decades. The school never tore it down, but no one used it anymore, except for storage. The doors were usually locked, but on Halloween, the teachers would let us in for the night—probably just to scare us, or so we thought.
That year, I was part of a small group that decided to sneak into the basement. It was the oldest part of the building, with crumbling walls and dark, narrow hallways that led to who-knows-where. We grabbed flashlights and quietly made our way down the creaky stairs, trying not to alert the teachers.
As soon as we stepped into the basement, the air felt thick. Not just cold, but… heavy, like the walls were closing in. We kept joking around, trying to keep the mood light, but deep down, we were all scared. The further we went, the quieter it got. No wind, no sounds from the rest of the school—just the soft crunch of our footsteps on the dirt floor.
We finally reached a door at the end of the hallway. It looked ancient, barely hanging on its rusted hinges. One of the guys dared me to open it, and I, trying to act brave, turned the handle. The door creaked open, revealing a small, windowless room. And in the middle of the room was something that made my stomach drop—a chair, facing the wall.
We stepped inside, shining our flashlights around. The walls were covered in scratches, like someone had tried to claw their way out. It was the chair, though, that drew us in. There were dark stains on it, and the air around it felt colder than the rest of the basement.
Then the door slammed shut behind us.
We all jumped, turning our flashlights toward the door, but there was no one there. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears, and before I could say anything, we heard it: a faint whisper, coming from the chair. It wasn’t clear at first, just a low, repetitive sound, but as it got louder, the words became clearer.
“Help me.”
We froze. No one dared move. Then the chair started to turn. Slowly, impossibly, it creaked around to face us. There was no one sitting in it, but the air around it shimmered, like heat rising from pavement. The whispers grew louder, filling the small room with their desperate plea.
“Help me.”
One of the girls screamed, and suddenly, the room seemed to close in around us. The walls felt like they were pushing in, and the whispers became deafening. We bolted for the door, yanking it open and scrambling out of the basement. We didn’t stop running until we were back in the main part of the school.
None of us talked about what we saw after that night. The teachers just thought we were freaked out by the darkness, but I know better. There was something in that basement, something that’s been waiting down there for years. And the worst part? Every now and then, I still hear those whispers.
“Help me.”
It’s about a school in Kentucky that everyone in the area swore was haunted. I never believed the stories until the night we had to stay late for band practice.
Our school wasn’t as old as some, but the rumors were always there. People would say that strange things happened late at night—footsteps in the halls when no one was around, lights flickering for no reason, and a strange cold spot in the library that everyone avoided. Most of us thought it was just typical ghost story stuff, nothing to worry about. But what happened that night changed my mind.
We’d finished band practice late, and by the time we were packing up to leave, the rest of the school was empty. I was with two other friends, Joe and Lila, and since we were the last ones, the band director asked us to lock up the auditorium before we left. No big deal, right? So we headed back to make sure the doors were locked.
As we walked down the hallway toward the auditorium, the lights started flickering. At first, we laughed it off, thinking it was just an old building problem, but the closer we got, the worse it got. The lights would flicker, then shut off completely for a few seconds, leaving us in total darkness before buzzing back to life. It was unsettling, but we kept moving.
When we reached the auditorium doors, they were already closed, but something was strange. It was colder here, much colder than it should’ve been. I pulled my jacket tighter, but I could see my breath in the air—inside the building, in early fall.
Lila, being the brave one, pushed the doors open to peek inside. The moment they swung open, we heard it: faint music, coming from the stage. At first, I thought maybe someone had left the sound system on, but the music wasn’t from any instrument I recognized. It was soft, almost like a lullaby, but distorted, echoing around the empty room. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone left in the building.
“Let’s just lock it and get out of here,” Joe said, his voice shaky. We were all thinking the same thing.
But as we moved to close the doors, the music stopped abruptly. And then we saw it—a figure standing on the stage. It was hard to make out at first, but as our eyes adjusted to the dim light, we realized it was a woman. She was dressed in an old-fashioned gown, the kind you’d see in a black-and-white movie, her long hair hanging loose over her face. She didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, just stood there, facing us.
I couldn’t breathe. None of us could.
Then she started to walk toward us, slow and deliberate, her bare feet making no sound on the wooden stage. The cold air around us thickened, and the lights began flickering faster, casting the room in an eerie, strobe-like glow.
That was enough for us. We slammed the doors shut and ran down the hallway, not stopping until we were outside in the parking lot. We didn’t talk, didn’t even look at each other, just got into our cars and left.
The next day, we tried to tell ourselves it was a prank, that someone had been messing with us. But the band director was the first one to the auditorium the following morning, and when we asked him, he said the doors had been locked all night. No one else had been there.
I don’t know who—or what—that woman was, but ever since that night, I’ve refused to step foot in the auditorium alone. And every once in a while, when I drive past the school at night, I swear I can still hear that strange, haunting music.
It’s been passed around my hometown for years, and no one knows if it’s really true, but those who went to the school swear it happened. I can’t say for sure, but I know what I experienced.
There was an old science teacher at my high school, Mrs. Miller. She had been teaching for decades, and everyone knew her as this strict but fair woman. She never smiled, but she knew her stuff, and you learned a lot if you paid attention in her class. A few years before I got there, Mrs. Miller had a heart attack during class. She died right there, in front of her students. It shook the entire school.
After that, no one used her classroom. They closed it off, supposedly because they didn’t need it anymore. The school had more space than students, so there wasn’t any reason to keep it open. But everyone knew the real reason—they said Mrs. Miller never left.
It was a dare, of course. My friends and I had heard the rumors, and one night after a football game, we decided to sneak into the old science wing. The halls were empty, the lights dimmed, and the whole place had that eerie silence you only hear late at night in a school.
We made our way to Mrs. Miller’s old classroom. The door was still locked, but one of the windows was cracked open. It felt wrong stepping inside, like we were disturbing something that should’ve been left alone. The room was just as it had been the day she died—desks in perfect rows, papers still stacked on the teacher’s desk, and that old chalkboard, covered in faded equations.
We walked around the room, joking nervously about the stories we’d heard, but the air felt heavy, like we weren’t alone. Then, Lila—who always had a sixth sense for this stuff—stopped in her tracks. Her eyes were locked on the teacher’s desk.
“Do you smell that?” she whispered.
At first, I didn’t notice anything, but then it hit me—a faint scent of chalk dust and… perfume. It was strong, too strong for an empty room. It smelled exactly like the powdery perfume Mrs. Miller used to wear. That’s when the chalkboard creaked.
We all turned to face it. I swear to this day, we didn’t touch it. Slowly, a piece of chalk rolled off the ledge and onto the floor, making that awful, echoing clatter in the silent room. My heart was pounding, but none of us moved. And then, right in front of us, words began to appear on the board. Not fast, but slow and deliberate, like someone was writing it with invisible hands.
“Sit down.”
We didn’t have to be told twice. We ran. I don’t even remember getting out of the room, just the sound of the chalk scratching across the board behind us as we bolted down the hall.
The next day, I convinced myself it didn’t happen, that we were just spooked. But the other kids? They wouldn’t go near that room again. And the janitor? He said every morning, there was new writing on the board—messages like “Stay quiet,” and “Pay attention.”
I don’t know if Mrs. Miller is still teaching her silent class, but if she is, I’d rather not find out.
