5 Haunting Videos That Should’ve Never Been Recorded (Don’t Watch Alone)

Chapter One: The Man Who Chased the Dark

I have spent most of my adult life chasing places other people avoid. While the rest of the world looks for light, I go where it barely survives. My name is Adam Mercer, and I document abandoned, forgotten, and haunted locations across the United States—old hospitals, shuttered schools, houses where history ended badly and never quite let go. Some people call it obsession. I call it listening. Because if you stand still long enough in these places, something always speaks.

The footage you are about to read about was captured throughout 2025, across several states, each investigation more unsettling than the last. These were not staged moments or embellished legends told after the fact. Every sound, every movement, every voice occurred in real time, witnessed by my team and recorded exactly as it happened. Some of these encounters still visit me in my sleep. Others follow me when I’m awake.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but by the end of that year, something had changed. Not just in the locations—but in me.

Chapter Two: The Poet’s House

The first incident took place in rural Vermont, inside a decaying nineteenth-century farmhouse known locally as The Poet’s House. It had been abandoned for decades, its former owner a reclusive writer rumored to have died alone in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Neighbors reported voices, footsteps, and lights flickering inside despite the building having no power.

I was there with Aaron Cole, my longtime cameraman. The house felt wrong the moment we stepped inside—too quiet, as if sound itself was being swallowed. Upstairs, we found several iron bed frames still lined against the walls, their mattresses rotted into dark, hollow shapes. When I asked aloud if anyone was present, the spirit box responded with disturbing clarity. A single word cut through the static. “American.”

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Aaron froze. We hadn’t mentioned nationality. We hadn’t prompted anything remotely close to that.

Moments later, the air shifted. I felt it first—a pressure in my chest, like someone standing too close behind me. Then came the sound. A violent crash echoed from the far end of the hallway, exactly where I had just said I felt uneasy. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t random. It sounded intentional, like something trying to announce itself.

We decided to leave. But as I opened the front door, something unseen slammed into the wall behind Aaron. We ran. I still don’t know whether what chased us that night was a spirit furious at our presence… or something far worse that had been hiding there the entire time.

Chapter Three: The Priest’s Cottage

In Indiana, on the outskirts of a forgotten parish, stood St. Elroy’s Cottage, once home to a priest rumored to have performed burial rites in secret. The basement was the worst part. That’s where bodies were prepared before being taken to the cemetery. That’s where the air felt thick, heavy, alive.

I was there with Sean Riley, who rarely scares easily. But when a loud knock echoed through the basement walls—followed by what sounded like a voice crying out in pain—his expression changed. We reviewed the audio later. The voice was unmistakable. Human. Distressed.

We left equipment running and exited the property, wanting to see what would happen when the house was completely empty. When we returned, two loud knocks answered a simple question I had asked earlier: “Can you sing for me?”

Something had responded.

Later, during a séance, I asked if whatever was there wanted us to leave. The response was immediate—violent pounding from the room above us. When we went upstairs, wooden blocks we had carefully arranged on the floor were scattered, as if swept away by an invisible hand.

Whatever remained in that cottage was not passive. It was aware. And it was not welcoming.

Chapter Four: Hell Hospital

Bronnag Hospital in West Virginia was built to isolate, not heal. Long corridors stretched endlessly, paint peeling like old scars, wheelchairs abandoned mid-hall as if their occupants had simply vanished. Locals called it Hell Hospital, and after one night inside, I understood why.

As we explored, a faint tapping echoed against a glass door. It sounded deliberate, rhythmic. I stepped inside the room while Sean held the door open behind me. Without warning, the door slammed shut. I didn’t touch it. The footage confirmed it.

Later, reviewing the recordings, we noticed something none of us saw in real time. In a palliative care room on the opposite side of the building, a door slowly moved—as if something inside was trying to get out. We weren’t anywhere near it. No drafts. No explanation.

Some places don’t trap spirits. They become them.

Chapter Five: Cornist Hall

Cornist Hall, abandoned in Pennsylvania, was already crumbling when we arrived. The moment I asked for any spirits present to show themselves, loud metallic banging rang through the building. It felt like a warning.

Then something happened that still haunts me. As Sean stood in a doorway, a single strand of her hair lifted straight into the air, rising slowly as if pinched between invisible fingers. There was no wind. No movement anywhere else.

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Moments later, a door began to close on its own. Slowly at first. Then, as I approached, it slammed shut with force.

At three in the morning, a heavy object struck the front door from the outside. No footsteps. No voices. Just impact.

I had the overwhelming sense that whatever lived there wasn’t trying to scare us.

It was trying to communicate.

Chapter Six: The Screaming Girl

The final investigation took place at Hollyridge Academy, an abandoned boarding school in upstate New York built on land with a violent history. From the moment I stepped inside, something watched me. I heard it say so.

During a spirit box session, responses came too quickly, too accurately. When I mentioned fear, a voice whispered back, “Don’t be afraid.” When I said the spirits seemed hostile, a disembodied voice echoed, clear as day: “To speak to me.”

I switched to an EVP recorder. What I captured sounded like children talking in a classroom—laughing, whispering, moving chairs. Then, during my final question, asking for a name, something screamed.

It wasn’t distant. It wasn’t faint. It was close. A raw, desperate sound filled with pain, like a young girl trapped and furious at being heard.

That was the moment everything changed.

Because after I left Hollyridge, the activity didn’t stop.

Some encounters end when you walk away.

Others follow you home.’