The Haunted Grove
The Haunted Grove is where paranormal horror fiction fans come to escape the everyday world through immersive, story-driven horror experiences.
We craft immersive scary stories that blur the line between reality and nightmare, perfect for late-night listening or satisfying your Creepypasta cravings. Our growing collection features everything from subtle psychological horror to full-blown supernatural encounters.
The Haunted Grove
My grandma had a horrifying secret hidden in her house!
What if the grandmother who baked you cookies and told you bedtime stories had a secret so dark it would shatter your entire childhood? Behind her warm smile and twinkling eyes, what if something monstrous lurked?
This bone-chilling tale takes you to a beautiful Victorian farmhouse where three siblings spent idyllic summers with their loving grandmother. The property came with two strict rules: never venture into the surrounding woods, and never open that strange red door at the end of the upstairs hallway.
Years later, her granddaughter returns alone to clean out her recently deceased grandmother's house. In the quiet emptiness of the old home, childhood memories collide with present-day discoveries as a hidden key reveals what lies behind the forbidden red door. What she finds transforms everything she thought she knew about her beloved grandmother and the Ellis family legacy.
The horror doesn't end with the revelation of past atrocities. As our narrator grapples with her grandmother's dark secret, she begins noticing disturbing changes within herself. At twenty-eight—the same age her grandmother was when her "family darkness" emerged—could she be next in line to inherit this terrifying legacy?
This episode masterfully explores themes of inherited evil, family secrets, and the question of whether we can ever truly escape our bloodline. The tension builds relentlessly as our protagonist fights against the growing darkness within, culminating in a final scene that will leave you checking the locks on your doors and examining your own family history with newfound suspicion.
Ready to question everything you thought you knew about your own family? Listen with the lights on—and whatever you do, don't open that red door.
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Welcome. You've stumbled into the Haunted Grove podcast, the place where paranormal, horror fiction fans come to escape the everyday through immersive storytelling. I'm Megan, your host and narrator for tonight's tale, and, trust me, it's a good one. So sit back, turn the lights down low and, whatever you do, don't look behind you. Thank you.
Speaker 1:My brother, sister and I spent every summer at Grandma Ellis' house when we were kids, and we loved it. My mom said that this was the Ellis family home. It had been in our family for generations. Built by my great-grandfather in the 1800s, it sat on five acres of land about ten miles outside the city, far enough to feel like another world, surrounded by woods so dense that they seemed to swallow the sunlight. As a kid, I felt like we were in the middle of nowhere.
Speaker 1:The area that surrounded my grandma's house was a popular recreation spot for people who wanted to utilize the hiking trails and the remote camping sites to be isolated from the city and the noise. The house itself was a beautiful Victorian farmhouse painted white with blue shutters. Inside was everything you would imagine a grandma's house to be Polished wood, handmade quilts and the walls covered in old family photos. When you entered through the front door, you were always greeted with the soft sounds of grandma's old record player playing her favorite tunes and the smell of fresh baked cookies and lavender. And grandma Ellis was everything you'd expect in a grandmother. She had a soft, sweet voice that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. Her silver hair was always perfectly styled in a soft bun and her clothes were neat and pressed, even when she was gardening. She had this way of making you feel like you were the most important person in the world. When she spoke to you and no matter how bad of a day you were having, when she smiled at you you knew that you were loved. She was perpetually baking something and she was always ready with a story. We loved it when she would tell us family stories how her father was a respected doctor in town, how her grandfather had built this house with his own hands and how the Ellis name was one of the oldest in the county. Sometimes, while telling those family stories, grandma's voice would change just slightly. Her eyes would focus on something distant and for a moment she seemed like a different person entirely. But then she'd blink, smile that warm smile, and the moment would pass. There was always a strange pride in her voice when she spoke about the family legacy. She'd tell us how our ancestors were survivors who did what needed to be done when times were tough, and how Ellis' family members had a special strength that others didn't understand.
Speaker 1:Grandma had two very strict rules at her house. The first rule Never go past the property line into the woods behind the house. People disappear in there, she'd say, her eyes suddenly distant. Your grandpa went for a walk in those woods and never came back. Those woods had a presence to them, even on bright summer days. They seemed to watch the house. The tree line was a perfect dark boundary, as if the forest had decided exactly how close it would allow civilization to come. Sometimes, when I was standing at the property's edge, I'd swear I could hear whispers from within those trees. Grandma would always appear then, as if sensing my curiosity, gently pulling me back towards the house. I remember asking her about Grandpa once. She wouldn't say much, just that they had only been married for a few years when he went missing. She was 28 when it happened. The few times I'd pressed for more details, grandma would get this strange look. It wasn't quite sadness, it was something harder.
Speaker 1:The second rule at Grandma's house never open the red door at the end of the hallway upstairs. She never explained that one. She would only say that door stays closed, it's not for children. Something in her tone made us never ask twice. Unlike the other white doors in the house, the red door seemed out of place, like it belonged to another house entirely. It was smaller than the others, made of heavier wood with an old skeleton keyhole. That fascinated me. Once I pressed my ear against it, holding my breath convinced. I heard movement on the other side. When I turned around, grandma was watching me from the end of the hall. Her face was unreadable. As kids we didn't question these rules. That's all we ever knew. We were happy with having the run of the house, the sprawling garden and the tire swing by the old oak tree. We were content to spend our days catching fireflies, playing hide-and-seek and listening to grandma's stories on the front porch swing.
Speaker 1:I was different than my siblings, more curious, more intense, where they were content to play in the yard. I wanted to explore every corner of the property and every inch of the house to play in the yard. I wanted to explore every corner of the property and every inch of the house. I collected things like interesting rocks, unusual feathers and a dead butterfly I had found in the windowsill that I kept in a jar for weeks. Grandma noticed Sometimes I'd catch her watching me with an odd expression, something between pride and worry.
Speaker 1:As I got older. Sometimes I'd find myself sitting on the old tire swing, staring off into the woods beyond the property line in the back of the house, or tracing my finger along the ornate door handle and skeleton keyhole of the red door, just wondering what it was about them that was so forbidden. But I adored my grandma and the fear of disappointing her was always stronger than my curiosity. She loved us all. That was obvious. But I always felt like her and I had a special connection. I couldn't quite explain it, but there was a very strong bond between us. We never talked about it, but I knew she felt it too. I could see it in her smile and the way she spent just a little more time with just me. Once, when I was 12, I found her in her study looking through an old photo album. When she saw me she quickly closed it, but not before I glimpsed a strange expression on her face, almost like guilt. Some memories are just for me, she said, touching my cheek. Then she added you remind me so much of myself at your age. The way she said it didn't sound entirely like a compliment.
Speaker 1:Eventually, the summers at Grandma's house stopped. We were getting older, first high school, then college, and then life got in the way. We'd try to visit on holidays, but those golden summers belong to our childhood now. That was until a few months ago when Grandma died in her sleep at 92, and everything I thought I knew about her, about our family, changed forever. As the oldest grandchild, I volunteered to clean out the house. My mom was devastated and needed time to grieve. My siblings offered to help, but they had families and jobs that don't allow for extended leave. I'm in between jobs right now, a freelance writer with too much time on my hands and not enough assignments.
Speaker 1:So I came back to the house alone. It was early spring, the trees were just beginning to bud, the air carried that earthy scent of thawing ground. As I drove up the winding gravel driveway, the house came into view and I felt this strange mixture of nostalgia and unease. It looked smaller than I remembered. It was weathered, the white paint was peeling in some places and the blue shutters had faded to a dull gray. But something else had changed too. The house seemed to have settled into itself somehow, as if it had been holding its breath for all these years, and finally exhaled.
Speaker 1:I used the spare key that Grandma had kept hidden in the flower pot next to the front step. The lock resisted at first, but then suddenly gave way, with a sound almost like a sigh. As I stepped through the front door, the air felt thick and undisturbed, the dust motes hung suspended in the afternoon light streaming through the windows spinning slowly as I passed through them, the house was exactly as I remembered as a kid the same floral wallpaper, the same creaking floors, the same grandfather clock in the hallway that was still ticking away, as if grandma had just wound it. But it felt different without her Empty quiet, no sounds of cookies being taken out of the oven or grandma's favorite tunes being played on the record player. The fact that she was really gone was starting to sink in. I could feel the lump in my throat forming and my eyes started to water with tears.
Speaker 1:I'd planned to stay for a week, maybe two. I didn't have anywhere pressing to be, and this would give me plenty of time to sort through her belongings and decide what to keep, what to donate and what to sell. The realtor wanted to list the property by the end of the month. I put my bags down on the bed in Grandma's room. The beds were way too small in the other bedrooms and I wasn't a kid anymore. If I was going to be here for a whole week, I wanted to be able to spread out a bit.
Speaker 1:As I was hanging my clothes up in her closet, I found a shoebox pushed to the back. It was filled with newspaper clippings. Most of them were faded with age, but they all shared a theme Missing persons, reports H with age, but they all shared a theme Missing persons reports, hikers who'd never returned from the woods or campers who had disappeared without a trace. All from this area and spanning decades. Grandma, you morbid old lady, I muttered, closing the box. She must have collected them because of what happened to Grandpa and just ended up feeding her fear of the woods. I set the box aside, making a mental note to throw it out later. No need to show mom something that would only upset her further.
Speaker 1:The first night, though, I barely slept. The house was making strange noises Creaking, settling the pipes, groaning Normal old house sounds, but without grandma's presence they seemed ominous. And then I had the strangest dream. I was ten years old again, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the red door. Strangest dream I was ten years old again, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the red door just staring at it. But in my dream Grandma wasn't telling me to stay away. Instead, she was standing behind me with her hand on my shoulder, like she wanted me to open the door. In the dream, the door began to leak, not water, but something darker, thicker. It pooled around my small legs, soaking into my clothes. And still Grandma urged me closer. Put your ear to the door. She said Listen to them, listen to their screams.
Speaker 1:I woke up drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around my legs. For a moment I could have sworn. I smelled Grandma's lavender perfume in the room and, despite the closed windows, a cold draft swept across my face, as if someone had just passed by the bed. The next morning, the sunlight draining in through the curtains made that nightmare seem silly. I made coffee and took it to the front porch, just like Grandma used to do every morning. The property looked different in the spring than it had during our summer visits. The garden was overgrown, the flowerbeds choked with weeds, the old tire swing hung motionless from the oak tree, its rope frayed and weathered, and the woods? The woods seemed closer somehow, had they always extended so far into the eastern edge of the property? I didn't remember the tree line curving inward like that.
Speaker 1:That afternoon I drove into town for groceries. The small market hadn't changed much since my childhood visits Same standard food choices, the same narrow aisles. The elderly cashier squinted at me as she wrung up my items. You're Millie's granddaughter, aren't you Staying out at her place? I nodded, making small talk about being there to sort out grandma's affairs Alone. She asked her scanner, pausing over a can of soup. When I confirmed this, she pressed her lips together. That's a lot of house for one person, especially an Ellis. What do you mean? Especially an Ellis? I asked. She seemed to catch herself. Just that. It's a big old place with a lot of history, that's all. Your grandmother managed it because, well, she was your grandmother. What was that supposed to mean? I knew my grandma was a tough lady. I mean she never remarried and once all the kids were grown and off to college, she had lived in that house all by herself as I carried the groceries out to the car, my phone buzzed with a text from my mother Just checking in is everything okay at the house? Don't forget grandma's rule about the woods? I texted back that everything was fine. I wanted to tell her about the strange dream I had, but something told me to keep that to myself.
Speaker 1:By the third day I had fallen into a routine. I'd work through one room at a time, sorting Grandma's belongings into three neat piles Keep, donate and trash. It was emotional work. Every object held a memory the cookie jar she always kept full, the reading glasses she'd perched on the end of her nose, the collection of spoons she had all around the living room.
Speaker 1:By that afternoon I decided to tackle the fireplace in the living room. It needed cleaning. It was full of ashes from Grandma's last fire. As I scraped them out, I noticed one of the bricks at the back was loose. It wobbled when my brush hit it. Curious, I pried it out, my fingers catching on the rough edges. Wobbled when my brush hit it. Curious, I pried it out, my fingers catching on the rough edges. Behind it was a small cavity and inside the cavity was a key. Not a modern key, an old skeleton key, black iron with an ornate handle, the kind of key you'd read about in a gothic novel. Its teeth were intricate, designed for a complex lock, and the handle was formed in the shape of what looked like a bird with outstretched wings.
Speaker 1:I knew instantly what had opened the red door. I sat there on the hearth key in hand, my heart racing. Why would Grandma hide the key to that door? What could possibly be up there that needed to be locked away? For a moment I considered respecting her wishes, putting the key back and letting whatever secret she had up there die with her. But I couldn't. The mystery of that door had haunted me for years, burning inside me since childhood. There was almost a physical need to know what was behind it. I closed my fist around the key, feeling its cold metal slowly warm against my palm. It's just an old attic, I told myself. Just storage, old furniture, probably family heirlooms. But if that were true, why hide the key? Why make a rule that no one would ever open that door? I had to know.
Speaker 1:The red door stood stoic at the end of the upstairs hallway, just as I remembered it, smaller than the other doors, positioned right under the slope of the roof. The paint was a deep crimson like dried blood against the pale yellow walls. My pulse was pounding in my ears. The key was ice cold in my palm, my breath shaky as I slid it into the old lock. The red door groaned and swung open, revealing a set of narrow stairs disappearing into the darkness.
Speaker 1:I told myself I was being ridiculous. What could possibly be up there? But as I took that first step, the floorboards creaking beneath me, I had this sudden suffocating feeling that something wasn't right. The stairs were steep and narrow. The wood groaned under my weight.
Speaker 1:At the top of the stairs was another door, this one unpainted. It opened into what was clearly an attic space the ceiling sloping on both sides, the air thick with dust and something else, a faint coppery smell I couldn't quite place. Light filtered weakly through a small circular window illuminating what appeared to be some kind of workspace A desk against one wall, some filing cabinets and in the center of the room, a single wooden chair facing a wall covered in papers. I approached slowly, squinting in the dim light. On the wall was a large map surrounded by newspaper clippings and photographs, like something from a detective movie. I spotted a light switch by the door and flipped it on. What I saw made my blood run cold.
Speaker 1:The map was of Grandma's property in the surrounding woods. It was marked with red X's and next to each X, a date, a name, sometimes a photo. Missing hikers, campers or locals who'd taken a wrong turn all vanished near Grandma's property. The wall was a meticulous record of disappearances, dozens of them spanning decades. The wall was a meticulous record of disappearances, dozens of them spanning decades. Newspaper clippings with headlines like Search continues for missing campers and local man vanishes without a trace were pinned to the wall surrounding the map and Polaroids. The Polaroids showed faces, terrified faces of people I didn't recognize, men and women of different ages. Some looked like they had been taken somewhere out in the woods and others looked like they had been taken in this very attic. They were pinned near the locations marked with those red X's on the map.
Speaker 1:What was I looking at? I was so confused. What was she doing with all of this? For one desperate moment, I tried to construct another explanation. Maybe Grandma was tracking a killer? Maybe she was trying to solve these disappearances? I frantically started looking around the room. I needed something, something that would give me some kind of explanation, something that would give me answers.
Speaker 1:My hands trembling, I opened one of the filing cabinets. Inside were folders, each labeled with a name and a date. Some were the same names. From the wall I pulled out one at random. Inside were more photos and personal effects, a detailed account written in Grandma's neat handwriting, describing how she'd followed them for days, learning their routines, and how she'd approached them with a story about her dog being lost in the woods or how they were lost and asked her for help, how they followed her willingly and how she'd watched as the light left their eyes. The clinical detachment of her descriptions was almost as horrifying as the acts themselves. I couldn't read anymore. I slammed the folder shut. Then I found a locked drawer in the desk. The skeleton key from my pocket fit into this lock too. Inside were trophies, a wedding ring, a college class pin, a man's watch still ticking and a small glass vial containing what looked like a human tooth, each labeled, each dated and each corresponding to a name on the wall or in the filing cabinet.
Speaker 1:And then I saw it A yellowed newspaper clipping Local man missing. Wife claims no knowledge of whereabouts. Below it was a photo of Grandpa. His face had been scratched out with such violence that the photo paper was torn. She'd done it. She killed Grandpa.
Speaker 1:My whole body went cold. This couldn't be real. And yet the evidence was overwhelming. There was no more room for denial. I sank into the chair my mind struggling to process what I was seeing. My sweet cookie-baking grandma was a serial killer.
Speaker 1:As the truth dawned on me, my body rebelled, my stomach heaved and I barely made it to the wastebasket in the corner before vomiting. The taste of bile in my mouth seemed fitting, my body purging itself of these lies that had been fed my entire life. I couldn't stop shaking, not just my hands now, but my entire body, as if I was freezing from the inside out. Sweat beaded on my forehead while my teeth chattered. And then I noticed a leather-bound book on the desk. Different from everything else, it was labeled simply Family.
Speaker 1:With trembling hands, I opened it. Inside was a meticulous family tree dating back to the 1850s. But this wasn't an ordinary genealogy. Next to certain names were tallies, numbers, and I realized with growing horror that these were victim counts. Great-great-grandmother, elizabeth Ellis 17 tally marks. Great-grandfather, thomas Ellis 8 tally marks. Grandma's father, william Ellis 23 marks. An aunt I had never heard of, judith Ellis 4 marks with the words caught and executed in 1964, written beside her name and grandma herself 31 marks and counting. Not everyone in the family tree had these markings. My mother's name was in there, but it was clean no marks.
Speaker 1:The family book revealed patterns I couldn't ignore. Great-great-grandmother Elizabeth had started as a nurse during the Civil War. Her first victims were wounded soldiers who would not be missed. Great-great-grandmother Elizabeth had started as a nurse during the Civil War. Her first victims were wounded soldiers who would not be missed. Great-grandfather Thomas started his killing spree at 28, the same age Grandma was.
Speaker 1:When Grandpa disappeared, each Ellis killer seemed to have their own method, their own ritual. Great-grandfather Thomas drowned his victims in a lake that had since dried up. Grandma's father, the doctor, used poisons that mimicked natural causes. Grandma had perfected the use of the woods, making her victims' disappearances seem like tragic accidents. Is that why she kept us away from the woods? Not to protect us, but to protect her secret? The woods didn't claim those people. My grandmother did just as her father had before her and his mother before him. It was a family business, a family curse.
Speaker 1:Most disturbing were the notations beside each name. Not just numbers but words Reluctant, eager, natural. The Ellis family had categorized their murderous tendencies like wine connoisseurs raiding vintages, and next to grandma's name was written simply the best of us all. Why? How? The loving woman who I'd spent so much of my childhood with, who'd bandaged my scraped knees and taught me how to bake bread, how could she be this monster?
Speaker 1:I caught my reflection in the window glass, my face pale and eyes wide. I looked away and then looked back, and just for a moment I thought I saw Grandma's face looking back at me instead of mine. The same eyes, the same bone structure, the same intensity. I'd always been proud of looking like her, of being her favorite, a special bond that we shared. Now I wondered if what she saw in me wasn't love but recognition, the same darkness waiting to emerge.
Speaker 1:I couldn't breathe. The walls of the attic seemed to be closing in. The faces on, the Polaroids watched me. Their disembodied voices were whispering in my head. I had to get out of here, away from this house, away from all of this, away from this curse. But as I stood to leave, a final terrible thought struck me. I had her blood in my veins, I had her eyes and I had her curiosity. What else of hers did I have dormant inside of me, and now that I had opened the red door, would it awaken?
Speaker 1:I stumbled down the attic stairs, nearly falling in my haste. I slammed the red door shut behind me, as if I could lock away the truth Back in my room. I threw my belongings into mye. I slammed the red door shut behind me as if I could lock away the truth Back in my room. I threw my belongings into my suitcase. I couldn't stay in this house another minute.
Speaker 1:Childhood memories came flooding through my mind. They were lies, all lies. But as I was packing, I noticed something on the bedside table that I hadn't seen before A small leather-bound book Grandma's diary. I shouldn't have opened it, I should have just left, but I didn't. The entries were sporadic and mundane at first Daily activities, garden notes, recipes. And then I found entries about us, her grandchildren, how she loved our summer visits and how she worried about us, how she wondered if we carried what she called the family darkness. As I flipped further through the diary, I found entries spanning decades. One entry from 1982 read Mother would be proud of how careful I've become. Not like Judith who got sloppy and was caught. Not like Father who couldn't control his urges and had to be handled. I've learned from their mistakes. Another entry from 1991.
Speaker 1:I found a box of great-grandmother's things in the basement today, newspaper clippings about missing persons dating back to the 1890s. So it goes back even further than mother told me, five generations at least, always the firstborn, always manifesting in the late 20s. I wonder if it's something in our blood or something darker. Then an entry about her own daughter. My mother, margaret isn't showing any signs of the darkness. Thank God it skipped her completely, but I fear that her children may not be so fortunate.
Speaker 1:The final entry stated earlier this year. I've watched them all these years, my grandchildren, looking for signs. The boy has his father's temper, but nothing more sinister. The younger girl is gentle to a fault, but the eldest. I see myself in her that same curiosity, that same intensity, those moments when her eyes go distant, focused on something others can't see. It started for me at 25. She's 28 now. I pray that I'm wrong. I dropped the diary horrified. What was she saying? That this sickness was hereditary. That she thought I might have it too. That's ridiculous. It's insane.
Speaker 1:I grabbed my suitcase and fled down the stairs. I needed to get out. I needed to get away from this house and its secrets. As I reached the front door, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. For a moment, I didn't recognize my own face. There was something different in my eyes, something cold, something dark. I blinked and it was gone.
Speaker 1:I left grandma's house that day, never wanting to come back. I couldn't bear to set foot in that place again. When I got back to my apartment, I called the realtor and told them to stop everything. We weren't going to be selling the house. I couldn't let anyone move in there. I haven't told my mom or my siblings what I found. How could I, how do I tell them that grandma was a monster, that the warm, safe house of our childhood was hiding something horrific?
Speaker 1:For the first week I barely slept. Nightmares plagued me, faces of my grandma's victims reaching out to me, the red door creaking open the woods whispering my name. By the second week, the nightmares had stopped, but in their place was something way worse Dreams. Dreams where I was walking through the woods following someone, no, stalking someone, feeling a strange excitement I'd never known before. I'd wake up not with fear, but with disappointment that the dream had ended. I told myself it was just trauma, post-traumatic stress. It had to be a normal reaction to an abnormal discovery, right, nothing more. It's been three weeks now. I should be feeling better and getting back to normal, but I'm not.
Speaker 1:I've been researching our family history in public records and newspaper archives, genealogy sites, even Everywhere the Ellis family had lived. There were disappearances and unsolved murders going back generations. And now I'm 28, around the same age Grandma was when she killed Grandpa, the age where the darkness starts to take over. Sometimes, late at night, I find myself thinking about that wall of victims, about the meticulous records and hidden trophies. But instead of disgust I feel something else Admiration. I can't stop thinking about it. The planning, the precision, the perfect crimes that no one ever solved. Sometimes I catch myself standing in front of the mirror studying my reflection, looking for her in my face, for the Ellis family eyes that Grandma said were a mark of our bloodline. I've taken up a new interest in researching missing persons cases, but the interest is going way beyond academic.
Speaker 1:I started following news stories about hikers who ventured into remote areas, calculating how long it would take for someone to be reported missing. I threw away my kitchen knives and then bought new ones, better ones, sharper. I told myself. It was because I was cooking more. And then my appearance began to change. I lost weight, my skin became pale, my movements are more deliberate, precise. One morning I noticed a strand of silver in my hair, exactly like grandma's. I didn't color it, I liked it. No, this isn't me. This can't be me. I'm trying to fight it.
Speaker 1:But yesterday I found something in my pocket. I don't even remember putting it there, I don't remember taking it from the house. It was the key to the red door. As I stood on the front porch of that old Victorian farmhouse with the peeling white paint and the faded blue shutters, I called my mom to tell her that I wanted to keep Grandma's house. I wanted to keep it in the family. Are you sure, honey, she asked with concern in her voice, that place is so isolated? I'm sure I said I think I belong here. After hanging up, I went to the red door. It doesn't frighten me anymore. Instead it calls to me. I catch myself humming grandma's favorite songs as I work. I understand her now. The careful planning, the meticulous documentation it was the ritual of it all. Last night a hiker got lost near the property. I found him wandering disoriented near the tree line as darkness was falling. Thank God, he said when he saw me. I've been lost for hours. I smiled Grandma's smile. You poor thing. Let me help you.
Speaker 1:You've been listening to the Haunted Grove Podcast. If tonight's story drew you in, leave a review, share the scare and follow and subscribe for more immersive paranormal horror fiction stories. If you love spooky storytelling and want to share the scare and follow and subscribe for more immersive paranormal horror fiction stories. If you love spooky storytelling and want to support the show, consider joining the Midnight Club over on our Facebook page. Members get exclusive access to stories, behind-the-scenes content, early access to episodes and so much more. This isn't just a membership. It's where you belong. Until next time, sleep tight and, whatever you do, don't look too closely at the shadow in the corner of the room. You might just find it's looking back.