Roger Perrin didn't believe in ghosts. Not till the night he saw his wife standing there,
stiff as a corpse, staring at something he couldn't see.
The lantern light flickered, throwing shadows long across the walls, but Caroline didn't
move, didn't blink. Then, in a voice that weren't quite her own, cold as a winter grave,
she whispered, she's here. The air in that house turned thick, like it had been holding
its breath for centuries, waiting on them to come.
The voices started soon after, calling out from the dark, slipping between the floorboards,
breathing against the backs of their necks. The girls woke up screaming about whispers
in their rooms. The stink of rotten flesh crept through the halls, and something unseen
began pulling the blankets straight off their beds in the dead of night.
The house at 1677, Round Top Road, weren't just haunted. It was alive. It was hungry,
and it had been waiting on them.
Welcome to Kentucky Melodies America's scariest stories, where we bring you ghostly legends,
spooky haunts, and bone-chilling tales from all over this great land. These stories will
have you looking over your shoulder all night. So, pull up a chair, dim them lights, and
let's dive into the eerie and unexplained.
Long for the parents ever set foot on that land, the ground had already soured, soaked
through with blood, sorrow, and things best left forgotten.
About sometime in the 1700s, that house sat heavy on Arnold Land, stretching wide across
the countryside yet never outrunning what lingered there. The earth beneath it carried
a sickness, like a wound that refused to scab over. War had come and gone, leaving behind
echoes of men dying with their mouths still open. Winters had crept in cruel, stealing
the breath of little ones before they ever got to grow. And then there was the kind of
dying folks didn't speak on. Bodies dragged out of the brook, men found hanging in the
rafters, eyes bulging wide like they'd seen something they couldn't unsee.
And in the midst of it all, there was Bathsheba Sherman. She didn't live on that land, but
her name rotted into it just the same. The town women spoke of her in hushed tones, claiming
she'd done things unnatural, that she'd offered up her own child to something dark and hungry.
Said she bore the devil's mark, that her very breath could spoil milk, make crops with her,
send livestock dropping stone dead. She passed like all folks do, but the ground
didn't take her easy. Weren't no peace in her rest, just a name that wouldn't die,
a shadow that stretched long after her body went cold. No law ever branded her a killer,
but still death followed her name like a stray dog that refused to leave. Folks tried to
let the past lie, but some stains ain't meant to wash out. And whatever took root in that
land, whatever curled itself round that house, it never did let go.
When Roger and Carolyn Perrin first laid eyes on that old farmhouse in 1971, it felt like
the kind of place where a family could put down roots, where five little girls could
run barefoot through the grass and fall asleep to the sound of crickets singing outside their
windows. It was meant to be a fresh start, a quiet, simple life away from the world's
troubles. But dreams don't last long in a place where the walls remember more than
they should. At first, the strangeness came soft, like a whisper through the rafters.
Doors that had been shut tight in the evening would be standin' open by mornin', their
old hinges groanin' like they was complainin' about somethin'. Things would go missin',
a hairbrush here, a book there, only to turn up in places they had no business bein'.
Carolyn started wakin' up with bruises, dark welts bloomin' along her arms and legs like
she'd been gripped by hands that weren't there. The girls began murmurin' amongst themselves
about a woman in the shadows, a shape just beyond the candlelight, watchin' them when
they thought no one else was. Sometimes, in the dead hush of night, voices would call
out their names from empty rooms, pullin' them from their sleep with an icy dread settin'
in their bones. Then the house quit pretendin'. The air turned foul, thick with the stench
of rotten flesh, driftin' through the halls with no source, no reason. The warmth of a
fire or the summer sun didn't matter. The cold would roll in, sudden like, settle in
their bones, the kind of chill that felt like someone was breathin' right against the back
of their necks.
Carolyn started changin'. Her days were spent pourin' over old records, diggin' into the
history of the land, her hands shakin' as she traced the name Bathsheba Sherman over
and over again on yellowed pages. She became convinced that Bathsheba hadn't just died
on that land. She was still there, watchin', waitin', filled with a spite that stretched
beyond the grave.
Then came the night that broke her. She'd been sittin' in the parlor, the glow of a
single lamp stretchin' long shadows across the walls when she felt it before she saw
it. The air round her thickened, like somethin' was pushin' its way into the room. And then,
there it was, a woman twisted and wrong, her skin saggin' in places it shouldn't, her
mouth pulled into a snarl, her eyes nothin' but black, empty holes. Carolyn couldn't move,
couldn't breathe. The thing leaned close and its voice slid into her ear, soft as a lover's
whisper but thick with venom. Leave or die.
Roger found her there, curled up in the chair, her breath comin' in short, panicked gasps,
her hands clamped over her ears like she was tryin' to block out a sound that had already
sunk its way too deep into her mind. Desperate, the parents reached out to Ed and Lorraine
Warren, the ghost-hunters folks had been whisperin' about for years, the ones who had seen things
no godfarin' person ought to.
The moment Lorraine stepped inside, she went pale. She told him flat out, somethin' was
there and it weren't friendly. What happened next would be written into the kind of history
that don't fade.
The seance started like any other, but it didn't take long for the house to turn against
them. The air snapped tight, a pressure like a storm buildin' just beneath the roof. Carolyn
let out a shriek so raw, so inhuman, it rattled the glass in the windows. Then she was writhin'
on the floor, her body twistin' in ways no human body should ever bend. The Warrens would
later say she was possessed, just for a moment, just long enough for the thing inside her
to make itself known, before it released her, leavin' her crumpled and gaspin' on the hardwood
like a rag doll someone had thrown aside. The Warrens told them they needed to leave,
that the house wasn't gonna stop, but the parents couldn't. They'd sunk too much into
that place, had nowhere else to go, so they stayed, holdin' on, and during nearly a decade
a torment.
By the time they finally left in 1980, they weren't the same family that had walked through
that door nine years before. They didn't talk much about what happened in that house, but
even years later, when the wind howled just right, when the shadows stretched long across
their bedroom walls, they could still hear it callin' to them from the past, and they
never did look back.
After the parents packed up and left, leavin' that old house to whatever ghost still lingered
inside, had changed hands more than a few times. Folks came and went, most of them refusing
to stay long, though not all of them were willing to say why.
Then came the suck-cliffs, a quiet sort that kept to themselves, tendin' to the house
like it was any other home, like the past didn't carry no weight. They stayed nearly
forty years, long enough for folks to start wonderin' if maybe the house had settled,
if maybe the things that stirred in the dark had gone quiet at last, but quiet don't always
mean peace.
The suck-cliffs would later say they never saw much out of the ordinary. Just little
things, things easy enough to explain away. A door here or there that didn't stay shut,
a whisper now and again that might have just been the wind, and sometimes just before driftin'
off to sleep they'd catch a shadow shiftin' in the corners of their vision, but by the
time they turned to look, it'd be gone.
Then in 2019 the Heinzen family came along, and with them the house woke up again. Corey
and Jennifer Heinzen weren't like the others. They came lookin' for ghosts, and the house
was more than happy to oblige. Cameras were set up in every corner, every hallway, every
creakin' doorway. And it didn't take long before they caught somethin' watchin' from
the shadows.
They recorded voices that had no bodies to speak em'. Doors slammin' shut with no hands
to push em', the kind of things that don't leave room for doubt. The Heinzen swore the
house was still very much alive, that whatever had made the parents' lives hell all them
years ago was still there, still watchin', still waitin'. The house had just been buyin'
its time.
By 2013 the story of the Conjuring house had been whispered through dark hallways, scribbled
in books, and spoken in hushed voices round campfires. But that year it hit the big screen,
and the world ain't never looked at that house the same since. The Conjuring brought
the parents' nightmare to life, a tale loosely stitched together from their time in that
cursed home.
Directed by James Wan, the film wasn't just another ghost story. It dug its claws deep
into folks' imaginations, pullin' in millions at the box office and setin' the stage for
a billion-dollar franchise. And that was just the beginning.
Four movies followed, each one pullin' deeper into the twisted world of hauntings, demons,
and things that ain't supposed to walk this earth.
2016 saw the Conjuring too, diving into another warren case, another house where the past
refused to stay buried.
2021 brought the Conjuring. The devil made me do it, stretchin' the franchise even
further into the darkness.
And between all that, there came the Annabelle films, tellin' the tale of that cursed doll
sittin' behind glass, just waitin' on some poor soul to let it loose.
Even now, another Conjuring film looms on the horizon, stirrin' up speculation about
what horrors might come next. But somethin' happened in the wake of all them films, the
house itself changed.
Before it was just an old farmhouse in Rhode Island. It's past known only to the folks
who dared to dig deep enough. But now, now it was a pilgrimage site, drawn in ghost hunters,
skeptics, thrill seekers, and folks who just wanted to stand in the shadow of somethin',
they weren't quite sure they believed in. They came to see if the stories were real,
to test their courage, to hear the whispers for themselves. And whether they left convinced
or not, one thing was for damn sure. Nobody walked away from the Conjuring house untouched.
By 2022, a woman by the name of Jacqueline Nunez, a real estate developer out of Boston,
laid down $1.525 million to claim the house as her own. But she didn't buy it to live
in. She bought it for the ghosts. She aimed to keep the doors open, letin' investigators
and thrill seekers alike come wander through its halls, listenin' for the voices in the
walls, waitin' to see if the shadows might move for them.
But a place like that don't change hands easy. And with new ownership, trouble came knockin'
right along with it. By the time 2024 rolled in, the Conjuring house weren't just haunted
by spirits anymore. It was haunted by somethin' worse. Accusations, resignations, legal fights,
all of it spread like wildfire. The folks who'd worked closest to the house, the same investigators
who once swore by its hauntings, walked away. They warned of somethin' else stirin' in
the house now. But it weren't ghosts they was talkin' about. Words like harassment
and erratic behavior started makin' the rounds. Lawsuits piled up. Talk of unpaid wages led
to threats of takin' things to court. Police got involved. Some even claimed Nunez was
forced into hospitalization. Though, whether it was done out of concern or somethin' darker,
well, that depended on who you asked. By November of 2024, the Burlville Town Council
had had enough. They revoked the business license, effectively shuttin' the place down.
No more ghost hunts, no more overnight stays, no more curious souls trendin' through them
old wooden halls. But even after all that, Nunez refused to close the doors completely.
She kept the bookings that were already set, kept tellin' folks that the spirits inside
weren't done speakin' just yet. And maybe she was right. Maybe the house never really
needed a license to do what it does best, because long after the lawsuits have settled,
long after the doors are shut for good, the legend of the conjuring house will keep whisperin',
floatin' through the air like a voice from the dark, and it'll never go quiet.
Times marched on, wearin' down the trees, crackin' the roads and changin' the faces
of the folks who come and go. But the conjuring house still stands, like it always has, unmoved,
and touched by time, as if it's holdin' on to somethin' the rest of the world forgot.
The past don't fade here. It lingers, coiled up in the walls, woven into the floors, hummin'
through the rafters like an old song nobody remembers the words to. The whispers still
drift through the dark, slidein' through doorways, hidein' in corners, waitin' on someone foolish
enough to listen too close, and anyone who crosses that threshold don't leave the same,
if they leave it all.
Is the house truly haunted, or is it something worse? The weight of every fear-drenched breath,
every shuttered prayer, every story whispered in candlelight, givin' it a life all its own?
Maybe it don't need ghosts to be what it is. Maybe the legend alone is enough.
Now I gotta ask, what do you think? Do spirits linger long after their bodies have gone to
dust? Can a house soak up pain, fear, and death till it breeze on its own? Or is it all just
stories and shadows, tricks of the mind fed by the darkness? If you stepped inside, would
you hear the whispers? Would you feel the cold grip of something unseen? Would you dare
to spend a night inside, alone, listenin' to whatever still lingers in the dark?
Once, if you had the nerve, you could book a stay inside the conjuring house, step across
its threshold, and face whatever still lurked in the dark. Folks came lookin' for ghosts,
and the house never disappointed. But now, with all the turmoil and trouble, the doors
have been forced shut, its website gone silent, and its future hangin' in the balance. But
the ghosts? They ain't gone. They're waitin' in the empty halls, hidin' in the corners
where the lantern light don't reach, and the second that door opens again, the second
some poor souls let back inside, they'll be waitin' to welcome them home.
But be warned, some places don't just let you leave. Is the story really over? Or does
the conjuring house still wait, hungry for the next soul foolish enough to step inside?
Maybe the ghosts are real. Maybe it's just shadows and stories. But what if it ain't?
What if something is still watchin', still whisperin', still waitin', for you? A house
like this don't stay quiet for long, and neither do we.
If you love tales of hauntings, folklore, and the things that go bump in the night, then
you best stick with us at Kentucky Melody, where the stories never stop, and neither
do the ghosts. Subscribe to our YouTube channel, follow us on social media, and check out our
podcast for more Spine Chillin' Tales from the Shadows. But be careful, some stories
have a way of followin' you home. And just when you think you're safe, that's when you
hear the whisper behind you.