You can hear this episode commercial free, along with hundreds of others from Calaroga
Shark Media, on Apples, Spotify, or many other players. Just click
the link in the show notes for more info Calaroga Shark Media. Hello and
welcome to Ghost. This episode is titled The Haunting of Hollow Hill. The
small village of Ashgrove nestled quietly in the shadow of Hollow Hill, a place
shrouded in dark legends and chilling whispers. The hill, with its dense forests
and looming ancient manner, had been the source of countless ghost stories that sent
shivers down the spines of those who dared speak of it. No one ventured
there after dark, for fear of the spirits said to haunt the Manner's crumbling
halls. It was on a cold, moonless night that Eliza Caldwell found herself
standing at the foot of Hollow Hill, her breath visible in the frigid air.
She was an investigative journalist known for her fascination with the paranormal. Her
latest assignment had brought her to Ashgrove, where tales of the haunted Manner had
piqued her interest. Eliza had heard the stories how The manor had once belonged
to the Wainwright family, wealthy landowners who had vanished without a trace a century
ago. The villagers spoke of strange lights flickering in the windows and eerie sounds
echoing through the night. Determined to uncover the truth, Eliza set out to
spend the night in the Manner, equipped with only her camera, a flashlight,
and her unshakable resolve. The path up the hill was overgrown and treacherous,
twisting through dense underbrush and ancient trees. The silence was oppressive, broken
only by the crunch of leaves under foot and the distant hoot of an owl.
As Eliza approached the Manner, she felt a chill that had nothing to
do with the cold. The building loomed before her, its dark silhouette stark
against the night sky. Its windows were like empty eyes staring out into the
void. Eliza pushed open the heavy wooden door, which groaned in protest.
She stepped inside, the beam of her flashlight, cutting through the thick darkness.
The air was stale, filled with the scent of decay and disuse.
Cobwebs draped the corners, and dust motes danced in the light. The silence
was profound, broken only by the occasional creak of the old house settling.
She made her way through the grand foyer, her footsteps echoing on the wooden
floor. Portraits of stern faced ancestors lined the walls, their eyes seeming to
follow her every move. Eliza shivered, brushing off the feeling of being watched.
She was here for a story, not to be frightened by old paintings.
As she ventured deeper into the manner, she found herself drawn to the
grand staircase that wound up to the second floor. Each step groaned under her
weight, as if protesting her intrusion. She reached the landing and turned down
a long hallway lined with closed doors. At the end of the hallway,
a door stood ajar, beckoning her. Eliza entered the room cautiously, her
flashlight illuminating the space. It was a large bedroom, dominated by a four
poster bed draped in dusty, moth eaten curtains. A massive fireplace stood at
one end, its hearth cold and empty. But it was the mirror above
the dresser that caught her attention. It was cracked, the glass splintered into
a web of fractures. She approached the mirror, her reflection distorted and fragmented.
As she stared, the temperature in the room seemed to drop even further.
Her breath fogged the glass, and she felt a presence behind her,
heart pounding. She spun around, but the room was empty. Determined to
stay calm, Eliza took a deep breath and turned back to the mirror.
Her reflection was still there, but something was wrong. In the fractured glass,
she saw a figure standing behind her, a woman, her face pale
and eyes hollow, dressed in a tattered, old fashioned gown. Eliza's blood
ran cold as the figure raised a hand pointing at her. Eliza whipped around
again, but the room remained empty. She turned back to the mirror,
only to find her reflection alone. Once more, panic began to set in.
She needed to f find the source of these disturbances, the truth behind
the haunting. Leaving the bedroom, she made her way to the attic,
the place where the Wainwright family was last seen. The stairs leading up were
narrow and steep, and as she ascended, she heard a faint rhythmic tapping.
It grew louder as she neared the attic door, a sound like fingernails
wrapping on wood. The attic was dark, the only light coming from her
flashlight. The space was cluttered with old furniture, trunks and boxes covered in
dust. The tapping continued, seeming to come from a large trunk in the
corner. Eliza approached cautiously, the hairs on the back of her neck.
Standing on end with trembling hands, she opened the trunk. Inside she found
old clothes, yellowed letters, and at the very bottom, a worn diary.
The tapping ceased as she picked up the diary. Its leather cover cracked
and faded. She opened it, the pages brittle and filled with spidery handwriting.
The diary belonged to Clara Wainwright, the youngest daughter of the family.
As Eliza read, the story began to unfold, a tale of madness and
terror. Clara wrote of her father, who had become obsessed with the occult,
conducting dark rituals in the Manner's basement. He believed he could summon spirits
to grant him eternal life. The family had tried to stop him, but
he had grown increasingly violent. One night, during a particularly brutal storm,
Clara's father had sealed the family in the attic, intending to use them as
sacrifices. Clara's final entries were filled with desperation and fear. She wrote of
hearing strange voices, seeing shadowy figures, and the tapping, always the tapping.
Eliza's heart raced as she reached the last entry. Clara described how her
father had finally succeeded in his ritual, but instead of gaining eternal life,
he had unleashed a curse upon the manner. The spirits he had summoned had
taken their revenge, trapping the family in the house forever. Clara's final words
were a plea for help, a cry that had gone unanswered for a century.
As Eliza closed the diary, she heard a whisper, Clara's voice,
soft and pleading help us. Determined to free the spirits, Eliza made her
way to the basement, the source of the curse. The air grew colder
with each step, and she could feel the weight of unseen eyes upon her.
The basement door was heavy, and it took all her strength to push
it open. The basement was a chamber of horrors. Strange symbols were etched
into the walls, and the remnants of a dark altar stood in the center
of the room. Eliza's flashlight flickered, casting eerie shadows. She approached the
altar, her heart pounding. Suddenly, the temperature plummeted and the room was
filled with a bone chilling wind. The spirits of the Wainwright family appeared,
their forms translucent and shimmering. Clara stepped forward, her eyes filled with sorrow.
Please, she whispered, her voice echoing in the cold air. Release
us. Eliza nodded, determined to end the curse. She reached into her
bag, pulling out a small vial of holy water and a crucifix. With
a steady hand, she began to recite an exorcism, her voice strong and
clear. As she spoke, the spirits wailed, their forms twisting in agony.
The symbols on the walls glowed with a malevolent light, and the altar
began to tremble, but Eliza did not fall. She continued the exorcism,
her voice growing louder, more powerful. Finally, with a blinding flash of
light, the spirits were gone. The air grew still, the oppressive darkness
lifting. Eliza collapsed to the floor. Exhausted but triumphant the curse had been
broken. The next morning, the villages of Ashgrove found Eliza at the foot
of Hollow Hill, Clutching Clara's diary. She recounted her harrowing experience, and
the villagers listened in awe and fear. The manner, once a place of
dread, was now silent, its haunted past finally laid to rest. Eliza
left Ashgrove, her story of the Wainwright family and the Haunted Manner becoming a
legend in its own right. But she knew she would never forget the chilling
whisper of Clara's voice, the weight of the spirit's sorrow, and the feeling
of unseen eyes watching her every step. And though the manner was now free
from its ghostly inhabitants, the villagers still spoke of Hollow Hill in hushed tones,
wary of the darkness that had once dwelled there, For they knew that
some legends never truly die, and the echoes of the past could still be
heard in the silence of the night. Ghost is a Caloroga Shark Media production
written and hosted by Alexander Ian McIntyre, produced by Mark Francis Executive producers Mark
Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast may have been created with the
assistance of AI Caloroga Shark Media