SCARY GHOST Videos That Will INFECT Your MIND With NIGHTMARES!

The glow of the monitors was the only light left in the office, casting long, unnatural shadows against the back wall of the archive room. Arthur rubbed his eyes, the dry itch of sleep deprivation stinging under his eyelids. As a digital archivist for a struggling media aggregator, his job was to sift through hours of submitted “found footage,” categorizing them into folders labeled either “Trash” or “monetizable.” Most of it was garbage—fishing line pulling doors open, dust motes caught on night vision, or bad actors pretending to be possessed. But the batch he had received tonight, labeled simply Zigot_Raw_Uploads, felt different. The air in the room had grown heavy, the silence thick and uncomfortable, the kind of quiet where nothing out of the ordinary should happen, yet everything felt poised to break.

He clicked on the first file.

The footage was grainy, a domestic scene of a couple, Jensen and Fiona, lounging on a beige sofa. It was mundane, boring even. Fiona was filming casually, the camera panning over a closed piano sitting against the wall. Then, the atmosphere on the screen shifted. A single key pressed down. It wasn’t a melody; it was a test. A random, dissonant strike as if unseen fingers were checking the weight of the ivory. Arthur leaned in. On screen, Jensen sat up, staring at the instrument. There were no pets, no wires. The keys continued to depress in an uneven, unsettling rhythm, a chaotic concerto for an empty room before abruptly stopping. The silence that filled the living room on the screen seemed to bleed out into Arthur’s office. He shivered, marking the file, and moved to the next.

This one was darker. A man walking through a house with a flashlight, trying to laugh off the noises he’d been hearing. The beam cut through the darkness, landing on an old wooden rocking chair in the center of a room. It was rocking. Not with the gentle sway of momentum, but with a driving force. “Grandpa!” the man called out, his voice cracking with a nervous joke, trying to rationalize the irrational. Then, the chair jerked. It turned sharply, aggressively toward the camera, far faster than any natural swing. The man panicked, sprinting, the footage dissolving into chaos. Arthur felt a cold prickle on the back of his neck. It didn’t feel random. It felt like whatever was in that chair had noticed the man noticing it.

Arthur took a sip of lukewarm coffee. The building creaked around him. He told himself it was just the pipes, just the settling of the foundation. He clicked the next video.

A hospital corridor at night. Michael, a security warden, was filming. The hum of the facility was overlaid with a high, ringing sound that grew louder with every step. The lift doors slid shut on their own, sealing off the exit. Then, a heavy piece of medical equipment began to roll. It shifted deliberately, pivoting toward the cameraman. Michael backed away, his breathing heavy on the audio track. Arthur paused the video. He swore he could hear a similar ringing in his own ears, a faint, high-pitched whine that wasn’t there a moment ago. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus.

The next clip was dated June 2018. A fixed CCTV camera overlooking a park. A swing moved back and forth in dead air. A dark, unfamiliar man stood in the frame, watching it, completely motionless. He didn’t interact; he just stared, waiting. Then, another man entered, pulling out his phone to record the phenomenon. Arthur watched as the screen split, showing the phone footage beside the CCTV feed. On the phone, the swing moved, but the dark figure was gone. The CCTV showed him standing there, solid and imposing, but the handheld camera captured only empty space. It wasn’t a glitch. It was a violation of perception. It suggested that some things could only be seen when they wanted to be, or perhaps, some cameras revealed things that were never meant to be seen.

Arthur stood up and walked to the door of the archive room, peering into the dark hallway of the office building. It was empty. He checked the lock, sliding the bolt home. He sat back down, his heart rate slightly elevated.

The queue of videos seemed endless. He watched a clip of two girls in a bedroom, terrified as a book flew off a shelf after they asked a spirit to knock. He watched a man named Dennis film a bathroom stall where a loud bang had originated, only for the door to slowly, clicking shut behind him as if inviting him to stay.

Then came the basement footage. A couple, already on edge, descended into a cluttered storage room. “I can’t believe you have me recording this,” the man muttered. Suddenly, loud shattering sounds erupted, violent and sharp, as if porcelain was being hurled against the walls. Objects on the concrete floor began to slide in straight, deliberate lines. The couple fled, their terror palpable. Arthur found himself checking the corners of his own room. The shadows behind the server racks seemed deeper than usual.

He clicked on a file titled Ian_Factory. This one was visually distinct. A ghost hunter exploring an abandoned industrial site, a room filled with mannequins. Their faces were warped by heat and age, looking demented in the flashlight beam. “Did you just move?” Ian asked the silent congregation. One of the mannequins rocked. Then another. Then a third shifted, sliding forward. It was a nightmare tableau, inanimate objects gaining a sudden, jerky semblance of life. Arthur felt a wave of nausea. The way they moved wasn’t fluid; it was rigid, like a puppet on strings held by a trembling hand.

Arthur tried to skip ahead, but the media player lagged, freezing on a frame from an attic video. A man had climbed up to investigate a slamming door. He found nothing. But Arthur, staring at the frozen image, saw what the man hadn’t. In the far corner of the attic, brightened by the pause screen, was a faint, human-like figure standing perfectly still. It was dark and hazy, blending into the insulation, but the outline was unmistakable. It was watching. Just like the figure in the park.

A sudden sound from Arthur’s own computer speakers made him jump. It was the next video auto-playing. A baby monitor feed. The room was dark, but the audio was picking up a noise—a hiss, a distortion, not quite static. Then, the bedroom door on the screen creaked open. No one entered. But the audio shifted, picking up soft, irregular sounds from the corners of the room. The father on the recording was hyperventilating, realizing that every night, something walked into his child’s room to watch.

Arthur moved to close the application, but his hand froze. The audio from the video had stopped, but a sound was continuing in the office. It was a faint, mechanical melody. A dollhouse tune. He looked around wildly. On his desk, a small promotional music box, a tchotchke from a horror convention years ago, sat silent. But the sound was coming from the hallway outside his office.

He stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. The music stopped.

“Hello?” Arthur called out. His voice sounded small in the empty building.

Silence.

He sat back down, his hands trembling. He needed to finish. Just a few more. He clicked a video labeled Door_Dash_Emily. A delivery driver stood on a porch. “Can you put it on the stool, please?” a voice from inside asked. It was a woman’s voice, calm but insistent. Emily refused to enter. “I’m not allowed to come inside.” The voice inside dropped its politeness instantly, snapping, “Come on, it’s not that hard.” The malice in the tone was visceral. The door had opened on its own, revealing a dark foyer, but no person. The invitation was a trap.

Arthur scrubbed through the timeline. A man named Eugene in a hallway, hearing his own nickname whispered from the dark. A woman named Monica alone in an office, lights flickering in rhythm with a humming noise she couldn’t locate. A man in a kitchen with his son, the door opening to reveal a dark figure standing in the yard for a split second before vanishing.

The cumulative effect was suffocating. It wasn’t just ghosts; it was an invasion. It was the realization that the safety of a locked door was an illusion.

The final video in the queue was labeled Siren_Woods. Pete and his wife were standing on a deck, looking at the moon. A sound tore through the night—a long, warped siren, but organic, stretching like an animal call twisted into a scream. It shifted directions, moving with impossible speed. In the second part of the clip, they were in the woods during the day. They found branches arranged on the ground spelling out “ALL OF THEM.” The siren sounded again, closer this time, vibrating through the camera’s microphone.

Arthur stared at the screen. The video ended, but the sound didn’t.

From the ventilation duct above Arthur’s head, a low, warped moan began to emanate. It sounded exactly like the siren from the video, but quieter, intimate, like a mimic trying to learn the shape of the noise.

Arthur scrambled back, knocking his chair over. He grabbed his keys and bolted for the office door. He unlocked it, throwing it open, and froze.

The hallway lights were flickering. Not randomly, but in a sequence. On, off. On, off. Just like in the video of the elderly woman with the Christmas lights, where the Santa ornament had moved on its own. At the far end of the corridor, the heavy fire door—which was always locked—was slowly, inch by inch, easing open.

Arthur backed into the office, his mind racing. He remembered the clip of the man in the basement, where the door slammed shut and trapped him. He remembered the video of the two men where a face had appeared in the interior window, peaking up and dropping down.

Arthur looked at the interior window of his office. The glass reflected the monitors. But behind his reflection, in the dark hallway he had just looked down, something pale moved. It rose slowly into view—a face, devoid of features, just a blank, pale surface where eyes should be. It lingered for a second, mimicking the movement from the video he had just watched, and then dropped below the frame.

He slammed the office door and locked it, backing away until he hit the desk. The computer screen was still active. The playlist had finished, but a new window had opened. It was a live feed.

It was a view of his own office, from a high angle in the corner.

Arthur looked up. There was no camera there. He looked back at the screen. The angle showed him standing against the desk, terrified. But in the video feed, he wasn’t alone. Standing right behind him, tall and indistinct like the figure in the attic, was a shadow.

He spun around. The room was empty.

He turned back to the screen. The shadow in the monitor raised a hand.

Arthur felt a cold breath on his neck, and then, a voice—not from the speakers, but from right beside his ear—whispered, “Babe, come downstairs.” It was the same looping, impatient voice from the video of the man in bed. It didn’t sound like a person; it sounded like a recording being played by dead vocal cords.

Arthur grabbed his phone, his fingers fumbling to dial emergency services. He looked at the screen one last time. The figure on the monitor was now closer to his digital self, its head tilted at an unnatural angle, staring.

Then, the lights in the office went out.

In the total darkness, the only sound was the hum of the computer fan dying down, and then, from the corner of the room where the filing cabinets stood, the sound of a cupboard sliding open. It was the same sound from the video of the cleaner, the repetitive, taunting slide of wood on metal.

Slide. Slam. Slide. Slam.

“It’s not that hard,” the voice whispered from the dark, mimicking the Door Dash video.

Arthur fumbled for his flashlight app. The beam cut through the blackness, shaking violently. It landed on the door he had just locked. The handle was turning. Slowly. Deliberately.

He backed up, tripping over the fallen chair. He scrambled backward until he hit the wall. The handle stopped moving. Silence returned, heavy and thick.

Then, from the darkness of the ceiling, directly above him, came the sound of scuttling footsteps. Fast, heavy, and frantic, like the thing in the attic garage. They ran across the drop tiles, stopping directly over his head.

Arthur held his breath, staring up. A tile shifted. Dust motes danced in his flashlight beam.

Knock. Knock.

Two sharp raps on the tile. Just like the girls in the bedroom had asked for.

Arthur lowered the light, his spirit breaking. The realization hit him. The videos weren’t just recordings. They were a catalog of entry points. By watching them, by acknowledging them, he had opened the door.

The computer monitor flickered back to life, bathing the room in a blue, static glow. The text on the screen didn’t show a file name anymore. It just displayed a single line of text, spelled out in what looked like digital branches:

ALL OF THEM.

The office door clicked. The lock disengaged with a snap that echoed like a gunshot. The door swung open, revealing the corridor. But it wasn’t the office hallway anymore. It was a dense, dark forest, and standing among the trees were the mannequins, their warped faces smiling, rocking back and forth in the windless air.

And then, the piano began to play.