Brushes With The Afterlife: Everyday People’s Extraordinary Short Ghost Stories.

Dive into a chilling series of true ghost short story posts that will leave you questioning the line between reality and the paranormal. “Brushes with the Afterlife” brings to light personal haunting experiences and eerie true stories that have been whispered from the shadows but are now shared with the world. Each story of this haunting anthology reveals paranormal encounters recounted by those who lived them — supernatural eyewitnesses to the inexplicable. From the subtle chill of an unseen presence to the terrifying clarity of a haunted encounter, these real-life ghost encounters span the gamut of the supernatural real stories spectrum. Prepare to be drawn into a world where the ordinary becomes extraordinary and the unexplained mysteries of the everyday prove too true to be comfortable. These are not your average ghost tales; they are true paranormal experiences that defy logic and reason.

Whether you’re a skeptic or a believer, “Brushes with the Afterlife” offers a compelling journey through the creepy true tales and spooky true stories that exist just beyond the reach of the light. Are you ready to explore the haunting true tales and paranormal real-life stories that will challenge your perception of what is possible? Discover the true ghost stories that you will find hard to believe yet impossible to ignore. “Brushes with the Afterlife” is your gateway to the extraordinary, a testament to the ghost stories from real life that whisper to us in the dark, urging us to listen.

Welcome to Brushes with the Afterlife. In this post, Story 1, “The Bet,” This story is so creepy, you actually feel chills when your reading through parts of the story. The only thing I have changed are the names of the individuals ( requested by the story submitter ) and any grammar or punctuation if needed. Any images in this short-read story are for illustration purposes only; the pictures are not the exact images depicted in this story or are not meant to be. This story is set in a village in Worcestershire, in the United Kingdom. I will leave it there and let the story begin…

My name is Steve, and I’m about to share a story you might find hard to believe. It’s one of those stories that burrows deep, taking root in the darkest corners of your mind. (That’s what it felt like for me.) Back then, I’ve only shared this encounter with two others, and let me tell you, it’s not the kind of thing you go shouting from the rooftops. Early on, I learned the hard way that having such an experience often leads to ridicule and mockery. So I kept it buried, a secret tucked away.

It was in June of 1983, when I was 16 and a half. The day was a dreary, cloud-smothered day in the quaint village in Worcestershire, in the United Kingdom, where I lived with my parents.

Everyone in those parts was aware of a derelict abandoned house that stood over the landscape. An overgrown dirt track wound past its frontage, a path I frequently took to cut through the fields and reach the neighboring housing estate where my mate lived. Back then, I was just a teenager, and like any other teenager, I was into music, going out with my friends, just having a good time, and keeping out of trouble. I was one of those teenagers who never got into trouble with the police. I never had an alcohol drink and never smoked.

Yes, I guess I was one of those boring teenagers who was a goodie two shoes. On that afternoon, around one o’clock, I set out from my parents place. They had given me my pocket money — one pound and 50 pence. Back then, I thought that was a lot of money for my age. I then headed out to go to my friend’s house. Little did I know, that journey to my friend’s house would lead me into an encounter that would forever alter the boundaries of my reality. As I write these words to you 41 years later, the memories remain seared into my psyche, as vivid as the day they transpired.

Back then, in the 80’s, you would hear many different stories and tales of the house. Some would say someone had seen a white lady roaming the grounds, and some would say someone had seen a headless horseman. Listening to that now would seem very hard to believe; your first thought would be that it’s all a load of horse crap. But back then, you would get people in groups hanging out around the derelict house at night — you know, teenagers meeting to have smoke, drink cider, etc. — that’s what teenagers did back then. They thought it was cool to hang around a place where a headless horseman was supposed to be spotted; it was more like going there to impress the girls.

The house had a builders fence around it with signs on the outside saying do not enter; the house is liable to collapse. Basically, it was a warning sign explaining the house isn’t safe and there was a possibility of injury if entering the grounds. We see this today on any property, big or small, that’s deemed unsafe and a risk to injury if you go in. But on one side of the fence, someone had made an opening, and it was easy to just slip through the opening, and you were on the grounds of the house. This is how people were getting in, hanging around the house, and going inside it. The opening in the fence, i recall, had been there for at least over a year; no contractor had been seen near the house; I had never seen any type of workforce there; and I had used the track at least 2 to 3 times a week while I was on my way to my friends house on the other housing estate.

On the day of my encounter, I headed up the track, and then, on turning the bend, the house came into view. As I looked up towards the house, I thought, Should I or shouldn’t I? I had always wanted to just have a look; that curiosity in my mind and in any other young kid’s mind just wanted to have a look. As I said, I wasn’t a kid who would do no wrong or get in trouble, but having heard so many different things about the house, people saying it was cool to walk around, etc., I thought it wouldn’t do any harm to have a little look around. As I got closer to the fence line, I started to get closer to the opening in the fence. As I said, I had passed this so many times and didn’t even think about wanting to go in, but on this day, no one was around, and I looked around to see if anyone was walking up or down the track, and no one was.

Something in my head just said, F*** it. I steered over to the opening and squeezed through it. I quickly looked around, and all was still clear. My heart was pumping; I had never done something like this, and a little adrenaline was pumping through my body. It was a mix of fear and the risk of getting caught, mixed with a little excitement that I was actually doing something I shouldn’t be doing. After getting my thoughts together, I slowly walked towards the side of the house. On looking around as I approached, the outside grounds were overgrown in most parts, and empty bottles of beer and spirit were smashed and left scattered all over the grass and surrounding areas. Obviously, kids have been here getting drunk, leaving trash, etc. I walked around the back side of the house. The outside walls were a dirty white colour. Back in the day, it was clear this house was a fine, respectable manor type, probably owned by a rich, wealthy family.

Most of the windows on the backside were smashed, and clearly people had been using these as a means to enter the home. On looking further, I noticed a doorway that had half a door still attached to the framework — more signs of another entry into the house. I carried on walking around the back of the house and found a small conservatory-like building attached to the rear side of the home. All the glass was smashed, and again, lots of empty beer and spirit bottles were scattered around. In some way, I found all this fascinating. Being on the grounds of this home and looking around at the garden features like a small pond with a fountain in the middle — not working, mind you — you could imagine what it would be like to work, water jetting out of three spouts into a pond.

As I continued to walk around the other side wall of the house, I spotted another door. This door had a double-dark wooden effect; it had two round black door handles. I pushed the door to see if it was unlocked; no joy; it was solid. I turned the round handles, but still nothing. I walked off and carried on looking around. While I was walking around, I couldn’t stop thinking of all the stories that I had heard over time about this house, but as I look at the house, I think that the stories just don’t fit this house. The headless horseman stories just don’t fit the setting of this house. The white lady, on the other hand, might get away with that one, but all the other strange, weird sightings I have heard over the years just don’t fit this house. The more I walked around, the less scared and frightened I felt. To be honest, on entering the grounds through the opening, I thought, What the hell do I do if I see a white lady walking around or a headless horseman? Yes, I know, that sounds absolutely stupid, but you have to see it through me.

These stories are what I was brought up with at the time; this is what is supposed to be here. As I carried on strolling around the house, I spotted a side door that had been smashed. I pushed one side of the door, and it slowly opened and was hanging on by a couple of old, rusty screws. I grabbed the side of the door, pushed it fully open, and rested against the inner wall of the doorway. I stood there now, looking into the small hallway that leads into the main house. My mind was like, No, don’t go in there; I know it isn’t safe; it’s a derelict house; there’s signs saying it’s not safe, but then my mind switched to, I wonder what it looks like in there? Have you ever had that conversation in your mind? I made the decision to enter, but I would be careful where I went and stood, just in case something fell on me or I stepped on something. Basically, it was an excuse. I was just curious as hell. I got into the grounds, and my mind said, why not just have a little peek and look around?

Curiosity got the better of me, and I entered the house. On entering the home, the hallway had bits of graffiti sprayed on it — probably drunk kids. The hallway opened up into some sort of scullery/pantry; there were old pans on the floor; the pantry looked like some of the original items were still left here; there was an old table still standing, one of those solid wooden tables; some old chairs, clearly broken and scattered all over the floor; old rusty forks, spoons, etc. I looked around, and there were two doors that were present, one that was clearly off the frame and lying on the floor, and the other door was a double door but closed. I tried the double door first; it was unlocked. I opened one side of the door, and it was an empty room. I think it could have been a storage room; nothing was in there except empty sweet wrappers and crisp packets. I walked to the other doorway.

As I walked through the opening, I found myself entering a huge entrance. In front of me was a foyer; the main entrance door was in front of me, and the windows were smashed on one side. The doors were closed, and to my left were other doorways that led into different parts of the house. I looked around this foyer; the walls were dirty, and kids had used spray paint to mark up the walls. All over the floor was trash that had been left by other people coming here and, again, empty beer bottles. Don’t get me wrong, I knew people were coming here to hang out, so this type of thing scattered all over the place didn’t surprise me. As I stood in the middle of this foyer, taking in the look of it, I looked at the other two doorways and thought I had to have a look. As I headed to the first doorway, a girl came through the opening. To be honest, I nearly s**t myself; she scared the life out of me. I just froze; she just stared at me in the same way, thinking I was the only person in the house, so she was thinking she was the only person in the house. I was about to speak, and she said, Oh, I didn’t know anybody else was in here. I just said, I better go.

She quickly replied, You don’t have to go; I come here all the time; I find it fascinating. I just said, I’ve never been here before. She started to walk over to me. I’m Karen, she said. I’m Steve, I replied. Now Karen just looked like one of those girls who wasn’t scared to do anything; she had a tomboy look about her and clearly wasn’t afraid of taking risks. She turned to me and asked if I wanted a tour of the house. I thought, OK, I will go with this. I didn’t feel I was in danger, and she had obviously been in here before. I said to her, Don’t take me to any part of the house that is dangerous; I haven’t come in here to get hurt. She stopped and turned around and said, All this house is dangerous; just follow me and you will be ok. As I followed Karen, she was like telling me about the history of the house; she told me a family lived here in the 1970’s and had to leave the home due to financial issues.

That’s why, when the family left, they only took their personal possessions and had to leave all other items. I said, How do you know so much about this home? Karen replied back that her parents knew a family who knew the family who lived here in the house, so they had close ties and knew about what was going on. As the minutes passed by, I felt not scared or afraid to be in the house, even though I shouldn’t be in here. You know we shouldn’t be in this house, Karen; it’s private property, I said. She just smiled, stopping being a wuss or a baby — something of that type of remark. I did feel a little embarrassed, being a guy, feeling a little scared, and Karen had no fear at all. She started to walk into another room, and it had a staircase leading upstairs. I want to go upstairs, she said to me, or are you scared? She smiled with sarcasm. Ok, I said. Being a man trying not to show any fear, it wasn’t working. Yes, I was a little scared. I’m walking around a house I have never been in, and I don’t know how safe it is. Karen said she has been here hundreds of times.

I asked, Why do you come here so many times? She just said it’s relaxing and quiet. I thought okay, but don’t you get bored of the same thing, just walking around the same rooms? I asked, and she replied, absolutely not; it’s peaceful, and I like that. Are you not afraid that if you get caught, your parents will ground you? I said, and she just laughed and called me some lame name. As we both looked around the rooms, she would have some knowledge of each room, and I found her fascinating. She was dressed in jeans, wearing a blue coat and long brownish blondish hair; she strutted around the rooms and the house like a tour guide; she just seemed like she had no cares in the world. She was saying how she enjoys coming here sometimes at night, just looking up at the stars through the broken windows, and how peaceful and tranquil the atmosphere is. I thought, Wow, coming here at night. I said, What about the stories, then, Karen? What stories? She said, You know the ghost stories; does it frighten you? She looked at me and said, You’re not scared of ghosts, are you? I looked at the ground, then looked back up. It’s what I have heard, Karen.

I haven’t seen a ghost; I just heard so many stories. She stopped walking and looked at me. Okay, she said, Do you believe in ghosts, Steve? I don’t know Karen. I have heard a lot of stories but never seen one. I cannot say I believe in ghosts, I replied. Ok, she said, you’re in an old house with many ghost stories. I will bet you one pound, and by the time you leave this house, you will have seen a ghost. Well, I just laughed at this and thought, Ok, I’m getting no fear feelings that this house is full of ghosts. It is not giving that fear factor feeling out to me. At the beginning, when I was having doubts about coming into the grounds, yes, I was scared, but coming in and looking around, it’s just an old house that’s been abandoned. The stories that have been told over the years have given it a fear factor. I mean, people come up here to drink and have fun. It’s all starting to make a little sense now.

There are no ghosts; it’s just an old house rotting away through time. Well, Karen, as I said, you’re on! She just smiled. Okay, it’s a bet, she said. I was 100% sure I was going to win this, until she said, Just to let you know, Steve, I have seen a ghost here many times. I stopped in my tracks. Whereabouts in this house have you seen a ghost? I asked. She looked at me and pointed at various rooms and places in the house. Hold on; I think she is trying to scare me. I played along and didn’t let it bother me. Are you scared yet, Steve? She would say this as we entered a different room. No, Karen, I’m not; I would reply. As we walked around, the house was amazing; some of the rooms were so big, and in some rooms, the furniture was still present but very badly damaged or smashed up in pieces. You could get a feeling of how it used to be: very elegant and posh-looking; there was old carpet in some rooms; the pattern was amazing; it looked expensive.

As Karen walked in front of me, I was passing different rooms to my left and right. We were on the upstairs floor, and I spotted an item in a room and walked into the room. Karen shouted out very loud, Don’t go in there, just stop! Damn, her voice echoed through the top floor. It was that loud. I just stopped and turned around to her. She entered the room in front of me and pointed to the floor. There, in the middle of the floor, was a hole. Ok, to be honest, I didn’t even notice this hole. There were so many pieces of rubbish all over the floor that it was discarded from view, but Karen knew it was there. She looked at me with a look of fear; that’s the only word I could use to describe it, like fear. Please be careful, she said. Don’t go walking into rooms without me. I know all the bad places in this house. I nodded in response and told her I was sorry. I looked through the hole and went into the room below. I could have easily stepped on it and fallen a long way down into the next room below.

At that point, safety was a concern for me. That’s how easily you could hurt yourself in a place like this, and that’s why there are signs outside saying there is a risk of injury. As we carried on looking around, Karen stepped into a room. This is my favourite room, she said. I looked inside, and the ceiling or roof had some sort of glass window. Like a skylight. I like looking through this window at night, she said, looking at the stars; it’s so peaceful. I could imagine looking up at all the stars in an old house like this at night, all quiet. I could see what she meant by it. Anyway, Karen, I haven’t seen any ghosts yet, I said jokingly. She just looked at me and said, There’s plenty of time left. I must have been in this house for at least an hour, or just over with Karen. There was so much still to see. I know it’s an abandoned house with rubbish everywhere, but just looking at the rooms and walking around was so fascinating.

As we went back downstairs, I aimed for the room I could see from upstairs through that hole in the floor. As I walked into the room, I shouted to Karen to come over. While in the room, I looked up to the ceiling and spotted the hole in the room above. I thought that it would be a long way to fall if you stepped through that. The hole was big enough for a person to fall through it; you could see that from the room below just by looking up. I turned to Karen and said, Look at that hole, Karen. Karen stood outside the room, just looking in. I said to come in and have a look. Karen said she doesn’t like this room. I looked at her, puzzled. Why? I asked, and in that hole, she said, someone did fall through and fell to their death. Wow, my mood suddenly changed when she said this. I’m actually standing in the spot where someone died; this freaked me out just a little.

I left the room feeling a little sad. I even stopped before leaving the room and said, If anyone is here, I’m sorry if I have offended you in any way. I meant no harm. Do not ask me why I said that, but my mind automatically thought I had to make an apology. Karen looked at me and said, You have offended nobody, Steve, and she walked away into one of the rooms. Then she said, Come on, and I just followed her into the next room. After about 2 hours in this house with Karen, I checked my watch; it was about 3:15 p.m., or a little bit later, I thought, crap! I should have been at my friend’s house over two hours ago. I got lost in the excitement in this house. I said to Karen, I have to go. I’m sorry; I should have been at my friend’s house hours ago. Karen nodded. I understand, she said. She then said, did you like the house then? I said it was amazing to walk around it, and I’m glad I bumped into you to help me look around it.

To be honest, she was like a tour guide; knowing more about the family who lived here gave the walk around a little more of a real life feel. I told her I was sorry I had to leave; she just smiled. On walking to the side door where I entered the house in the first place, I suddenly realized I hadn’t seen a ghost. I turned around to Karen. At this point, she was walking into a room to my far right. I shouted, You owe me a pound. A bet is a bet, I said. I started to walk towards her, wanting my pound. She said, You haven’t left yet. When you leave the grounds and you still haven’t seen a ghost, I will meet you outside and give you your pound. I thought, Here we go. I know I’m not going to see a ghost on my way out. On leaving the house, I got to the opening in the fence, climbed through, and walked a little up the path. I was thinking my friend would be going nuts because I’m late. Near the front of the house, I spotted two people, a man and a woman, standing in front of the fence that blocked the front entrance into the house grounds.

I slowly walked up the track, and I noticed the woman crying and the man comforting her with his arm around her as she was crying. I looked around, and nobody else was nearby. As I approached them, they shifted to the side to let me by. I stopped and said, Is everything okay? I noticed you were upset. The man said, We are fine; we visit here every year; we have done for the past five years; we lost our daughter here; she died in this house in an accident; we come here every year to remember her. The first thing that came to mind was that Karen told me somebody died in here; maybe it was this couple’s daughter. Sh*t, I thought I was in the room where she died. I looked at the couple and said, I bet you saw me come out of the house. They said no, and I told them I was in there because I found the house fascinating. I didn’t know anybody had died there before I went in, but I found out inside when I was told.

I didn’t mean any disrespect; they were fine with me. As the woman wiped her tears, I noticed she had a photo frame tucked into her coat. I said, Please tell me to go away if you want, but how did your daughter die in this house, if you don’t mind me asking? The man turned to me and said, She was exploring the house; she had been in this house many times and liked walking around it. Apparently, she had walked into a room, fell through the floor, and dropped to her death into the room below. S**t, I thought. Karen told me a person died by falling through the ceiling, and I was there in the room at the place where she would have possibly died. I’m so sorry for your loss, I said. In a way, I felt so sorry for them, and in another way, I felt that I had disrespected them by being in a room and a place where their daughter died. I was walking around that house for fun and pleasure, and on the other side, their daughter died in that house, so the house isn’t a fun place to be in or around for them.

I was about to say my goodbyes, and I thought, Karen hasn’t been out and paid me my pound. I nodded and smiled. I thought I was never going to get that pound of her, even though I knew I wouldn’t see a ghost. I looked at the couple and again told them how sorry I was. I was about to walk away, and the lady took out the photo frame and started kissing the picture and saying, I miss you so much. I thought that was so touching, coming to the place of their daughter’s last moments in life and remembering her and giving love to her. I glanced down and caught a small glimpse of the photo. Something caught my eye that was so recognisable; the coat looked very familiar. Trying not to be too sensitive or morbid, I asked the lady, May I see your picture of your daughter? She said yes. From the moment she pulled out the photo frame to turning it around, everything seemed to go in slow motion.

From the point of the frame being turned around and revealing the picture, you see it in films. Believe me, it feels that real. As soon as I looked at the picture, my knees gave way and my eyes filled with tears. They were not tears of upset, but tears of shock and fear. My body just felt like I had walked into a freezer. I collapsed in front of the couple. The man grasped my arm to prevent me from falling over. He said, Are you alright? You have lost your colour. My body just went numb. The girl in the picture was Karen, dressed in the same clothes as when I met her in the house. The picture they had was taken the morning she had left her house to go to this abandoned house to explore it, and then the house she died in. I couldn’t get my words out to explain to the couple that for the past 2 and a half hours I had been with their daughter in the house. Their daughter was showing me around the house, and I couldn’t say that. How f***king crazy does that sound? I sat with Karen’s parents for about an hour, but I couldn’t tell them I was in the house with their daughter; I just couldn’t. There was no way they would believe me, and I didn’t want to try and convince them, not while they were here to remember her.

As this whole episode started to sink into my brain, I kept going over and over this: Karen was real, like looking at another person, that real, not see through like Casper the ghost, but real real. Even after all these years, I look back on this, and I still don’t believe it happened, but it did. After Karen’s parents had left the abandoned house, I stayed there, sitting outside on the track. It was about four or four thirty in the afternoon, and I sat looking at the house from the outside, looking at the rooms where Karen took me in. When you look at this from that point, it’s mind-blowing. I was looking at the rooms from the outside — the room a ghost was showing me around — not just that room, but lots of rooms. I spent 2 hours looking through rooms. I gathered my thoughts and remembered that it’s the stupid things you always remember in situations like this. Karen did bet me I would see a ghost by the time I left this house; she already won the bet when she made it. As a man of my word, I reached inside my pocket, grabbed out a pound note, spotted an old brick just inside the fence, put the pound note under the brick, stood up, and shouted, YOU WON THE BET KAREN. Karen had won the bet, and she also made me believe in ghosts. This is why I kept this a secret. At the beginning, I told my dad, and all I got from him was joke after joke.

I even told my best friend — again, just mockery. From that point on, I just kept this locked away in my brain. I know this happened. I know two other people know this happened: Karen’s parents. After a year had passed, I bumped into Karen’s parents while they were visiting the house. This time around, the house was getting demolished, and the land was being sold to developers. I brought the whole incident up after Karen’s parents had been visiting the house; I didn’t want to be explaining it while we were there. We went for a walk, and I explained it from the beginning, from when I went into the house. They didn’t even disbelieve me; they knew something had happened with the look on my face and how I reacted to the photo, and they 100% believed me. To be honest, I thought they would be angry about bringing their daughter into some ghost fantasy game thing, but they weren’t.

I described how she acted and spoke, and they said that was exactly how she was. Me and Karen’s parents stayed good friends through the years; sadly, Karen’s father died in 2002, and shortly after Karen’s mom died in 2003, I went to both of their funerals. I hope they are all together as a family now, and I miss them all.

I have never visited Karen’s grave; I want to remember my experience as it happened and not see a gravestone with her name on it. Maybe this sounds very strange to some people. But it’s just the way I feel about this situation. This experience changed my perspective on life, on the afterlife, and on the possibility that we’re never really alone, even when we think we are. The house, its history, and especially Karen, taught me more about the mysteries of the world than any book or story ever could. It’s a reminder that sometimes reality can be stranger than fiction and that there are things in this world that defy explanation. I keep the story of Karen and that day in the abandoned house close to my heart, a personal testament to the existence of something beyond our understanding. It’s a story I have now started to share with close friends, not out of fear or to sensationalize, but to honour the memory of a girl who was lost too soon and to acknowledge the incredible, albeit eerie, connection we shared for a brief moment in time.