A Teacher’s Haunting in Salem (United States)

Michael Thompson (US, Salem, Massachusetts, High School History Teacher)

My name is Michael Thompson, and I’ve been teaching history at Salem High School for over a decade. Living in Salem, a town steeped in rich and often dark history, I’ve always been fascinated by the past, especially the events surrounding the infamous witch trials. However, I never imagined that I would encounter something that would make me question the very fabric of reality.

It was the fall of 2019, just before Halloween—a time when Salem transforms into a hub of paranormal enthusiasts and tourists eager to experience the town’s haunted reputation. I had recently moved into a quaint, historic house on the outskirts of town. The property, built in the early 1800s, had charm: creaky wooden floors, antique fixtures, and a small, overgrown garden in the back. Despite its age, it felt like the perfect place for someone with my appreciation for history.

One evening, after grading papers late into the night, I decided to unwind with a book in the living room. The house was enveloped in silence, save for the occasional groan of the timber settling—a sound I had grown accustomed to. As I immersed myself in the pages, a faint tapping noise broke my concentration. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but distinct enough to catch my attention.

I paused, listening intently. The tapping continued, rhythmic and deliberate, seeming to emanate from the walls themselves. I dismissed it as perhaps a rodent or the old pipes and returned to my book. But as the minutes passed, the tapping grew louder, more insistent.

Determined to identify the source, I set the book aside and followed the sound down the narrow hallway leading to the basement—a place I had only ventured into once when I first moved in. The door to the basement was ajar, which struck me as odd since I always kept it closed. Hesitantly, I descended the creaky stairs, the tapping growing louder with each step.

Reaching the bottom, I fumbled for the light switch. The single bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered to life, casting long shadows across the damp, stone walls. The basement was mostly empty, save for a few old crates and cobweb-covered furniture left by the previous owner. The tapping had ceased, replaced by an oppressive silence.

As I turned to head back upstairs, a cold draft brushed past me, carrying with it a faint whisper—so soft I wondered if I had imagined it. I stood frozen, straining to hear anything further, but the basement remained silent. Unease settled in my stomach, and I hurried back upstairs, firmly closing the basement door behind me.

Over the next few days, the tapping became a nightly occurrence, always leading me to the basement. Each time, I found nothing to account for the noise. Sleep eluded me as I lay awake, anticipating the sound that had now become a macabre part of my nightly routine.

One particularly cold night, as I sat grading papers, the tapping began again, louder and more frantic than before. Frustration and fear bubbled within me. Grabbing a flashlight, I decided to confront whatever was causing this disturbance once and for all.

Descending into the basement, I noticed the air was colder than usual, my breath visible in the dim light. The flashlight’s beam cut through the darkness, revealing the same barren room. But this time, something was different. In the far corner, partially obscured by shadows, stood an old wooden door I had never seen before.

Heart pounding, I approached the door, its surface worn and covered in scratches. I hesitated, every instinct urging me to turn back, but curiosity propelled me forward. I grasped the cold, iron handle and pulled. The door creaked open, revealing a narrow passageway that seemed to stretch into darkness.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped through the doorway. The passage was claustrophobic, the walls damp and lined with old, decaying wood. As I ventured deeper, the tapping resumed, echoing around me. It felt as though the walls themselves were alive, pulsing with the rhythmic sound.

After what felt like an eternity, the passage opened into a small, circular chamber. In the center stood a stone pedestal, and upon it, a dusty, leather-bound book. The air was thick with an unidentifiable scent—something ancient and foreboding.

Compelled by an unseen force, I approached the pedestal and opened the book. The pages were filled with handwritten entries, drawings, and symbols I couldn’t comprehend. One entry caught my eye—a detailed account of a man from the 17th century who had been accused of witchcraft during the Salem trials. His name was Elias Turner, a schoolteacher who lived on the very land where my house now stood.

As I read further, a chilling realization dawned upon me. Elias had been wrongfully accused and executed, his property seized and his name erased from records. The book seemed to be his journal, detailing his life, the betrayal by his neighbors, and his undying vow to seek vengeance on those who had wronged him.

A sudden gust of wind extinguished my flashlight, plunging the chamber into darkness. Panic set in as the tapping grew louder, now accompanied by whispers—indistinct but filled with an unmistakable tone of anger. I felt as though I wasn’t alone in the room anymore. My breathing quickened, and I fumbled to turn the flashlight back on, but it refused to work.

Then I heard it—a deep, guttural voice, low and menacing. It uttered words I couldn’t understand, but the intent behind them was unmistakable: I was not welcome. My legs trembled, but I couldn’t move. I felt rooted to the spot as the air around me grew colder, almost freezing.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow forming in the darkness. At first, it was faint, almost formless, but it began to take shape—a tall, gaunt figure with hollow eyes that seemed to pierce through me. It stood motionless, its head slightly tilted as though observing me.

“Who are you?” I whispered, though my voice was barely audible.

The figure didn’t answer. Instead, it raised an arm and pointed to the book still clutched in my trembling hands. The pages began to turn on their own, faster and faster, until they stopped abruptly on a single entry. The words seemed to glow faintly in the darkness, as if urging me to read them.

The entry described a curse—a binding spell Elias had cast with his dying breath. It spoke of tormenting anyone who dared to live on his land until his name was cleared and justice was served. My heart sank as I realized I was now part of this story, drawn into a centuries-old grudge.

The figure stepped closer, its movements slow and deliberate. I stumbled backward, tripping over the uneven floor and landing hard on my back. The flashlight slipped from my grip and rolled away, leaving me in near-total darkness.

“Please,” I begged, not even sure what I was asking for. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t know.”

The figure stopped, its head tilting again as if considering my words. The whispers grew louder, filling the chamber with an almost deafening cacophony. I covered my ears, but the sound seemed to bypass them, resonating directly in my mind.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, everything stopped. The figure vanished, the whispers ceased, and the oppressive cold lifted. I was left alone in the silent chamber, the book still lying open on the pedestal.

I don’t remember how I made it out of that passageway or back to my house. It’s all a blur. But when I woke up the next morning, the book was on my bedside table, its pages open to the same cursed entry.

I’ve tried to get rid of it—burning it, burying it, even throwing it into the river—but it always finds its way back to me. The tapping has stopped, but I still feel his presence in the house, watching, waiting.

I’ve since learned more about Elias Turner, scouring old archives and records. It seems his story was all but erased, hidden away like a dirty secret. I’m trying to uncover the truth, to clear his name, hoping that it will bring peace to both of us. But until then, I live with the constant fear that one day, Elias might decide that my efforts aren’t enough—and that he’ll take his revenge in full.

This house, once a dream for someone like me who loves history, has become a waking nightmare. Every creak of the floorboards, every shadow in the corner of my eye, reminds me that I am not alone here. And every night, as I try to sleep, I wonder if tonight will be the night Elias returns to finish what he started.

This is my story. Believe it if you want, or dismiss it as the ramblings of a scared man. But I know what I saw, what I felt. And if you ever find yourself in Salem, wandering its historic streets, remember: the past is never truly gone. Sometimes, it’s just waiting for someone to stumble upon it.