Diary of a Ghost Hunter

The following is all that could be recovered from the diary of a deceased Ghost hunter who died of unknown causes. Many pages of the original diary had been ripped out and could not be recovered, notes of his adventures are missing or incomplete, the only remaining note was the ghost hunter’s last hunts before they were found deceased. The following are from the Ghost Hunter’s final documented hunts.

June 14, 1982

There’s something wrong with the woods near Pine Hollow. People speak of lights flickering through the trees, of figures standing just beyond the reach of lanterns. Tonight, I went to see for myself. The deeper I walked into the forest, the more I felt like I was being followed. A sound like dry leaves crunching trailed behind me. I turned, but there was nothing. When I reached a clearing, the air around me pulsed, thick and suffocating. My flashlight dimmed. Something is here.

June 15, 1982

I went back. I shouldn’t have. The moment I stepped into the clearing, a deep hum vibrated through the ground. The trees swayed without wind, and the air crackled with unseen energy. Then I saw it, something tall and thin, standing at the edge of the trees. It had no face, but I could feel its gaze burning into me. I ran. I don’t remember how I got back to my car, but I know one thing for certain, I’m not coming back.

September 10, 1982

There’s an abandoned house on the edge of a town in Wyoming that locals refuse to go near. They say strange lights appear in the windows at night, and those who get too close hear voices calling their name. Tonight, I went to investigate. The moment I stepped onto the property, the air felt thick, heavy. Inside, every floorboard creaked under my weight, and a faint whisper echoed through the empty halls. I swear something was watching me.

September 11, 1982

I returned to the house, determined to find the source of the whispers. As I moved through the darkened rooms, I heard footsteps upstairs. I rushed to see who or what was there, but the hallway was empty. I felt a chill against my neck, like someone breathing just behind me. My flashlight flickered, and in that brief darkness, I thought I saw a shadow move. When I turned it back on, I was alone.

September 12, 1982

The whispers grew louder tonight. They were no longer just sounds, they were words. Faint and distant, but clear enough to understand: "Help me." I tried speaking back, but silence followed. Then, the temperature dropped sharply, and the door behind me slammed shut on its own. I’m not doing this alone anymore, tomorrow, I’m bringing someone with me to help figure out what’s happening here.

December 14, 1982

Cheerful time of the year for a not very cheerful activity. Ghost hunting doesn’t pause for the holidays. Today, I arrived at the old estate just outside of town. Before even stepping inside, I saw something, a figure standing in the window, watching me. By the time I reached the front door, it was gone. Voices echoed throughout the day, distant murmurs, whispers I couldn’t quite make out. Yet, despite the unsettling sounds, I never saw the figure again. At least, not today.

December 15, 1982

I returned tonight, something about this place gnaws at me, as if it’s waiting for me to uncover its secret. The voices are back, clearer this time, though I still can’t make out words. Then I saw it again. The figure darted down the hallway, a shadow moving unnaturally fast. I chased after it, but when I turned the corner, it was gone. The hall ended in a solid brick wall. There was no way out. I should have been terrified, but instead, I felt a strange pull, as if something wanted me to keep looking. However, I knew I couldn’t stay here, the ghost might already be angered by me, and I have to make it back home for Christmas, maybe just one more day.

May 2, 1983

Rumors brought me to a supposedly haunted building in Idaho today. Locals speak of whispers in the dark, of shadowy figures lurking just out of sight. I spent the evening walking the halls, listening, watching. The stories aren’t exaggerations. There’s something here. Strange voices floated through the air, but every time I turned to look, I was alone. I glimpsed movement in the corner of my eye—something shifting just beyond the reach of my flashlight.

May 3, 1983

I came back to try to uncover the secrets of this place. I needed to know more. I stepped inside, notebook in hand, but before I could even begin, the pages were ripped from my grasp. The wind? A prank? Or something else? I scrambled to recover them, but some were lost to the darkness. Whatever is here doesn’t want to be known. I don’t know if I’ll return.

June 3, 1983

I’ve heard whispers around town about the old mines near East Falls in Wyoming. They say spirits linger there, especially after dusk. Curiosity got the best of me today, so I packed my flashlight, a notebook, and a sturdy pair of boots. The air was still when I arrived. The mine’s entrance yawned open like a dark mouth, daring me to step inside. I swear I heard faint whispers echoing from the depths as soon as I stepped closer. The breeze shouldn’t carry voices, should it?

June 4, 1983

Back at the mine tonight. The whispers are growing louder, almost like a conversation just out of reach. My flashlight caught something moving ahead—a shadow darting across the walls. I ran after it, but nothing was there when I reached the spot. The air felt heavy, charged, as if I had stepped into something unseen. The walls seemed to pulse in the dim light. I touched the stone and felt a strange warmth beneath my fingers. Something is here.

June 5, 1983

I saw it. A faint figure, hovering at the edge of the mine’s tunnel. It was pale, almost translucent, with a flickering glow that played tricks on my eyes. I froze as it turned towards me, but then it vanished like smoke. When I retraced my steps, I found footprints in the dust—ones that did not belong to me. I followed them deeper, past a collapsed tunnel. They ended abruptly. The whispers continued, closer now. I swear I heard my name.

June 6, 1983

Again, I spotted him, the strange figure hovering there as it faced me before disappearing. I decided to explore these mines a little longer today. Other than some faint whispers, not much else happened—almost as if the ghost is hiding. The deeper I went, the stronger the metallic scent in the air became. My skin feels warm, almost like I’ve been standing in the sun too long. Must be because I feel so thirsty, I forgot to bring water with me today but there's a small stream of water in the cave, it will have to do. It’s red appearence made me wary, but it’s either this or die of thirst. 

June 7, 1983

I’m not lying anymore, I was before, but now it's real. I caught a proper glimpse of him tonight. He’s tall and gaunt, wearing an old mining outfit, with hollow eyes that seem to pierce right through you. His mouth opened like he wanted to speak, but only strange whispers escaped it. When I turned to leave, my vision blurred for a moment. My head pounded. When I reached my car, I noticed a nosebleed staining my sleeve. I must have scratched myself on the rocks. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.

June 8, 1983

The whispers aren’t just whispers anymore. They’re words, calling for help. At least, I think they are. No no, I know they are. I thought I was imagining it, but it’s real, it has to be real. I explored deeper into the mine, past where the light barely reaches, past where the air feels thick and wrong. And then I found its name, James. Carved into the stone, deep and jagged, like it had been clawed there by desperate hands. It’s old, but it’s still fresh, somehow. Like it’s been waiting for me to see it. The stories were true, he’s here.

My hands shake as I write this. I feel weaker, drained, like the mine is pulling something from me. My throat is dry, so dry, no matter how much water I drink. No, that’s not right, I drink, but it doesn’t help. The water doesn’t taste right. The air inside the mine clings to my skin, presses against my lungs, makes it harder and harder to breathe. Maybe it’s just my nerves. Maybe it’s something else. Maybe James has put a curse upon me.

June 9, 1983

I blacked out last night. No, not just blacked out, something took me. I woke up still in the mine, lying in the dust, my limbs weak and in pain, my mind foggy. My flashlight was off. My notebook was missing. The whispers weren’t whispers anymore, they were screams, a chorus of desperate, angry voices, hammering against my skull. My nose won’t stop bleeding. It won’t stop. The ground is stained with it. How long was I out? My watch stopped at 3 AM. I don’t even remember leaving the mine, but somehow I must have. Unless... unless I didn’t. Unless I never really left at all.

June 10, 1983

I vomited blood this morning. It wasn’t normal. It was thick, dark, wrong. My reflection in the mirror, my reflection. My skin is pale, almost grey. My fingers tremble, they feel weak, I can barely hold the pen, barely write. The whispers aren’t whispers anymore. They sing now, they laugh. They seep into my dreams, into the walls, into my bones. They’re everywhere. James won’t stop speaking. He repeats the same phrase over and over "Stay away." But it doesn’t make sense. Why warn me now? Why not before? I don’t understand. He’s dead. I know he’s dead. So why does it feel like he’s standing right behind me?

July 11, 1983

They say I’ve lost my mind. They, the doctors, the people who don’t understand, the ones who don’t hear the whispers, don’t see the shadows moving in the corners of their eyes. No one will believe me when I tell them what’s happening in the mine. They call me delusional. They tell me I’m sick. But I know what I saw. I know what I heard.

The ghost of James is there. He’s waiting, watching, whispering. He wants something. But no one will listen. No one will help. My hands barely work anymore, and I grow weaker by the day. Every night, the whispers grow louder. Every night, the shadows creep closer. I know what’s coming, to anyone that reads this, stay away from the mines or else you'll be cursed like I have.

Final Note: The ghost hunter claimed these notes from June 7th were authentic until the day he died. Despite his insistence, most have dismissed him as a fraud or as having gone insane. His body was discovered weeks after his last entry, curled up in his home, his skin marked with strange burns. The cause of death remains officially unknown.

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