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Ghost Stories from

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Real People. This

0:34

is Into the Paranormal

0:36

with Tony Bruski. It's

0:39

the kind of house you only see in movies. The

0:42

towering Victorian sort with peeling

0:44

gingerbread trim and attic windows

0:46

shaped like eyes. The

0:48

kind of place where the wind always

0:51

seems to whisper your name and the

0:53

silence is never quite empty.

0:56

But this story isn't from a movie,

0:58

it comes from a real home, one

1:01

with history and its bones, and

1:03

something else still hiding deep within

1:05

its walls. Our

1:08

story tonight begins with a letter from

1:10

a listener who spent most of her

1:12

childhood in such a house, nestled

1:15

in a historic district surrounded

1:17

by southern charm, and

1:19

drenched in an atmosphere that turned

1:21

from unsettling to dangerous, from the

1:23

outside it was majestic. Inside,

1:26

there was a room that no one dared

1:28

to speak about. A room that breathed differently.

1:31

A room that watched you back. She

1:34

speaks of a presence. An evil that

1:36

seemed confined to a space no bigger than

1:38

a closet. Yet strong enough to

1:40

choke the breath from your lungs. A

1:43

place where something once fell. Or

1:46

perhaps was pushed. Something

1:49

that never moved for a decade. Until the moment

1:51

she ran for her life. But was it all

1:53

in her head? childhood imagination

1:57

running wild

1:59

or is there something

2:01

about certain places certain rooms that

2:03

holds on to more than just

2:05

dust and time something that waits

2:08

for just the right moment let's

2:10

get to the letter they write

2:12

Tony I've listened to your show

2:14

for a long time always thinking

2:17

maybe one day I'd submit something

2:19

but every time I sat down

2:21

to write I'd stop There's

2:24

a fear that still lingers in me. A

2:26

fear tied to one specific room in the house

2:29

I grew up in. A fear

2:31

that feels foolish until I remember how it

2:33

made me feel. So this

2:35

is me finally getting it out.

2:38

Maybe you can help me make sense of it. I

2:41

was seven years old when we

2:43

moved into the house. Massive Victorian

2:45

style mansion that sat up on

2:47

a slope in the old part

2:49

of town. Quiet, treeline streets, old

2:51

lamp posts, neighbors who still waved

2:53

from their porches. It

2:56

was the kind of home people admired

2:58

from the outside, but living in it,

3:01

that was something different entirely. The

3:04

place had been built in 1870 by a

3:06

family named Drayton. My parents

3:08

said we were lucky. It was

3:11

a steel for its size. Three

3:13

full stories and an attic that

3:15

spanned the entire house. Technically,

3:18

It was four stories if you counted the

3:21

basement. We called it the downstairs, but

3:24

it wasn't the kind of downstairs you'd want to play

3:26

in. At first, it

3:29

was just strange in a way

3:31

that old houses are, settling noises,

3:33

weird drafts, closets with locks on

3:35

the outside. I remember

3:37

the front door had this huge brass

3:39

knocker shaped like a lion's head. No

3:42

one used it. People who visited

3:44

always rang the bell. And once

3:46

inside, they usually glanced up just

3:49

for a second at the massive

3:51

staircase in the shadowed hallway beyond.

3:54

But for me, the

3:56

house became real the moment I saw the

3:58

attic windows. They were like

4:00

eyes, curved at the top, narrow at

4:02

the sides. My friends

4:04

called them Amityville windows, though I didn't

4:06

get the reference until I saw the

4:08

movie years later. After that,

4:11

I understood why they were always hesitant

4:13

to spend the night. That house had

4:15

its layers, the top floor was always

4:18

quiet, too quiet. The

4:21

attic creaked when no one was up there, but

4:23

it was the basement that got under your skin. You

4:26

didn't go down there unless you had to. My

4:29

mom kept decorations stored down

4:31

there, Halloween bins, Christmas lights,

4:33

Easter baskets, and there were

4:35

still remnants of what it used to be. Rusted

4:38

metal stalls from when horses were kept,

4:40

a side entrance where the old carriage

4:42

would have rolled in. The

4:44

rooms were divided oddly. One

4:47

part was walled off by thick

4:49

sliding metal doors on an overhead

4:51

track. They were heavy and

4:53

loud, industrial almost. I

4:55

used to imagine they were built to lock

4:57

something in. Behind them

4:59

was what I called the backside. The

5:03

servants quarters, a root cellar and something

5:05

else, something I've never been able to

5:07

forget. The furnace

5:09

room. It was small, barely big enough to

5:11

turn around in, but it had a coal

5:13

chute like something out of an old prison.

5:16

Black, gaping, built at a slant that looked

5:18

like it could suck in light. The

5:21

furnace itself had been modernized by the time

5:23

we moved in, but the chute was still

5:25

there. Metal, stained, and cold. That

5:28

room was the only place in the entire

5:30

house that made me feel like I was

5:32

being watched from the inside. From

5:34

the moment I first stepped in, I

5:37

could feel something pressing on me. A

5:39

weight. in the air. I

5:42

told my mom once that the room hated

5:44

me. She laughed it

5:46

off, just childhood imagination. But

5:49

that feeling never left. Even

5:51

now, just thinking about it, I can

5:53

feel my chest tighten. Every

5:56

time I had to go in, I'd try to

5:58

be quick, grab the box, the chair, the flashlight,

6:00

whatever I was sent for, and

6:02

get out. But every time I

6:04

felt like something didn't want me to leave,

6:07

Not something physical, nothing I could see, but

6:09

it was there, hovering, holding its breath. One

6:12

time I forgot the key to unlock the

6:14

metal doors and stood there, staring through the

6:16

gap, trying to psych myself up to reach

6:18

inside and slide it open anyway. I

6:21

swear to you, Tony, I heard someone whisper my

6:23

name. I bolted back up the

6:25

stairs, heart pounding, and didn't go

6:28

down for a week. It

6:30

wasn't just me. My

6:32

brother hated the furnace room, so did

6:34

my dad. though he never

6:36

said so outright. He

6:38

started storing fewer things in there as the

6:41

years went by. Friends

6:43

who visited didn't know the details, but when

6:45

asked to grab something from the basement, they'd

6:48

come back pale, brushing it off

6:50

with nervous laughter. The

6:52

cold shoot started showing up in my dreams,

6:55

always the same. I

6:57

was stuck inside trying to scream, but

6:59

my voice wouldn't come. I'd

7:01

wake up gasping for air sometimes in

7:04

tears, but I never told anyone, not

7:06

until now. One

7:08

summer my cousin stayed with us for a week.

7:11

We were supposed to grab the pool chairs from

7:13

the furnace room. I warned him.

7:15

It sounds silly now, but I told him not

7:18

to go in without me. He

7:20

shrugged me off. When I

7:22

found him a few minutes later, he

7:24

was standing in the middle of the

7:26

room, just staring at the chute. I

7:29

called his name three times before he

7:31

even blinked. When he finally looked at

7:33

me, he asked if there was someone

7:35

else down there with us. There wasn't.

7:38

That's when I started keeping count of

7:40

how many people said something felt wrong

7:42

about that room. Nine.

7:46

Nine people over the years, not including

7:48

me, all said the same thing. Something

7:50

wasn't right in there. That

7:52

it felt too cold. That the

7:54

shadows were wrong. that it felt angry.

7:56

I don't know what happened in that

7:58

space, Tony, but I've never forgotten it.

8:01

Never stopped wondering if we were

8:03

all just feeding each other's imaginations,

8:05

or if something was feeding on

8:08

us. It's been years

8:10

since I lived in that house, Tony. I'm

8:12

35 now, married three kids

8:14

in a world away from

8:17

Glenmore Hill, but I still

8:19

dream about the furnace room, still feel

8:21

its breath when I walk down dark

8:23

hallways. or hear something fall in the

8:25

night. The last time I

8:27

went in there, I was 19, home

8:30

from college for Easter break. My

8:32

mom, always sentimental, asked me to go

8:34

downstairs and grab the Easter baskets. They

8:37

were stored in the corner of the furnace

8:39

room behind a stack of lawn chairs. I

8:42

remember hesitating at the top of the stairs.

8:45

It was broad daylight, sunlight

8:47

filtering through the dusty glass blocks

8:49

near the outer basement door, but

8:51

that room Even in

8:53

daylight, it had a kind of darkness that

8:56

didn't care about the sun. I

8:58

walked in. Nothing felt different

9:01

at first. The metal doors slid open

9:03

with the usual groan. I

9:05

stepped inside, flipping the light switch.

9:07

It flickered, buzzed, then stabilized.

9:11

The air hit me like a wall,

9:13

cold, heavy still. The

9:15

kind of stillness that warns you not to

9:17

move too fast. I took

9:19

maybe two steps toward the back wall

9:21

when it hit, that pressure, that presence. It

9:24

was like the air had hands, Tony. Hands

9:27

pressing down on my shoulders, wrapping around

9:29

my throat. I couldn't

9:31

breathe. My heart pounded so hard it

9:33

hurt. Every instinct in me screamed to

9:35

leave now. I

9:37

turned, ran, no baskets, no

9:39

hesitation, just panic. As

9:42

I crossed the threshold into the main

9:44

basement, my foot hit the first step,

9:46

and that's when I heard it. A

9:49

loud, sharp bang, something

9:51

heavy crashing behind me. I

9:53

turned and saw it, my dad's

9:56

old axe, the one that had been

9:58

resting upright against the furnace room wall

10:00

for as long as I could remember,

10:02

now laying flat across the door frame.

10:05

It had fallen, but not just

10:07

fallen, thrown maybe. Dropped

10:09

with purpose, it landed exactly where

10:11

I'd been running a second earlier.

10:14

If I had left just a heartbeat later, It

10:17

would have struck me right in the chest. That

10:20

ax hadn't moved in over a decade. No one

10:22

touched it. No one even talked about it. It

10:25

was just there, like part

10:27

of the room, watching. I

10:30

told my dad, he shrugged, said

10:32

maybe it slipped, but he didn't meet

10:35

my eyes when he said it. My

10:37

mom didn't say anything. She just quietly stopped

10:39

asking me to go down there after that.

10:42

After that day, I never stepped foot in the

10:45

furnace room again. Over time

10:47

other pieces of the house's

10:49

past started surfacing. I started

10:51

digging old newspaper archives Whispers

10:53

from neighbors little fragments that

10:55

never quite formed a full

10:57

story What I found only

11:00

deepened the questions the original

11:02

owner Eleanor Drayton had died

11:04

in the house Fell down

11:06

the main staircase from the

11:08

top floor. They said a

11:10

tragic accident, but some local

11:12

accounts hinted otherwise murmurings

11:15

that she'd been seen arguing with someone

11:17

near the attic door just hours before

11:19

she fell. There were

11:21

rumors about the house staff too,

11:23

specifically a man who worked in

11:25

the coal room. No name ever

11:27

listed. Just the furnace man. According

11:30

to a handwritten letter tucked inside an

11:32

old church bulletin we found in a

11:34

kitchen drawer one year, he was

11:37

rumored to be violent. There was talk

11:39

that Eleanor had wanted him dismissed. The

11:41

staff allegedly warned her not to anger

11:43

him. The letter ended with

11:46

a sentence that never made sense until I was

11:48

older. Some fires don't

11:50

go out with water. Some burn in

11:52

silence. I

11:54

don't know if he died in that house. I don't

11:56

know if he's the one I felt in that room,

11:58

but something stayed behind. Something

12:01

hateful. Something territorial. Years

12:04

later, when I brought my husband and kids to

12:06

visit my parents for Thanksgiving, I

12:08

swore I heard something scratching at the furnace

12:11

room door. I hadn't even

12:13

told my kids about that part of the house. But

12:16

that night, I woke to find my six

12:18

-year -old daughter standing at the top of

12:20

the basement stairs. She

12:22

was whispering. When I asked her

12:24

what she was doing, she said, the

12:26

man told me to help with the coal. We

12:29

left the next morning. I still visit my parents,

12:31

but I never sleep there anymore. And

12:34

I won't go near the basement, not

12:36

even to peak. Sometimes

12:39

I wonder if something was left unfinished

12:41

in that room, something that

12:43

was never buried properly, or

12:45

maybe it was never human to begin with. I've

12:48

spent years trying to convince myself it was

12:50

all in my head, but that

12:52

axe didn't fall on its own. Thanks

12:55

for reading this, Tony. I'm not looking

12:57

for answers, really. Just wanted

12:59

to finally say it out loud. Maybe

13:02

someone else out there knows what I'm

13:04

talking about. Maybe they've seen the eyes

13:06

in the attic or felt the breath

13:09

in the dark or heard the cold

13:11

shoot whisper. If so,

13:14

I believe you. Thanks. When

13:16

we hear a story like Elaine's, the

13:18

easy reaction is to reach for logic.

13:21

Maybe it was the age of the

13:23

house, the drafts, the suggestion planted by

13:25

childhood fears. Maybe the axe

13:27

slipped. Maybe the furnace

13:29

room was just unsettling by

13:31

design. But there's something

13:34

deeper here. something harder to brush away.

13:37

Nine different people felt it. Describe

13:39

the same weight in the air,

13:41

the same unseen pressure, the

13:44

same dread. Her cousin

13:46

lost in a trance. A

13:48

little girl sleepwalking toward a room she'd never

13:51

heard about, murmuring about

13:53

coal. These

13:55

aren't just coincidences, at a

13:57

certain point, too many unexplainable

14:00

stop feeling random and start

14:02

feeling Targeted.

14:05

Psychologically, it's true. Places

14:07

can influence our emotions. Clostrophobic

14:10

spaces, stale air, even infrasound,

14:13

low frequencies created by old

14:15

machinery or airflow, have been

14:17

known to cause nausea, unease,

14:20

and even hallucinations. That

14:22

cold shoot might have been acting like an

14:24

echo chamber for more than just sound. But

14:27

science doesn't explain the axe. Doesn't

14:30

explain the voice whispering her name. And

14:33

it sure doesn't explain a child untouched

14:35

by any of those memories, waking

14:37

in the night, ready to shovel coal for

14:39

a man who hasn't existed in a hundred

14:42

years. Some believe objects

14:44

and places absorb what they witness,

14:47

that certain rooms trap emotion

14:49

like static. In

14:51

the case of the Drayton house, maybe the furnace

14:53

room wasn't just a space, it was a scar.

14:56

One that never healed, one that waits

14:59

for footsteps it remembers, even if no

15:01

one else does. The

15:03

most chilling part of Elaine's story isn't

15:06

what she saw, it's what she almost

15:08

didn't survive. That Axe

15:10

had waited over a decade to move and

15:12

it moved with intent. Which

15:15

begs the question, what else

15:17

is waiting?