Thai Ghost Stories 5
Thai Ghost Stories 5: This story continues from Episode 3, “Who Was in the House?” Back then, I told you about the music that used to play from the third floor — from my older brother’s bedroom — even when no one was home. It wasn’t a song I recognized. It wasn’t 90s pop. It wasn’t something from the radio.
It sounded heavy. Strong bass. Aggressive drums. The kind of music my brother loved — bands like X Japan, heavy metal, intense and emotional.
The strange thing is this:
I didn’t know the song. But I remember the atmosphere of it.
It didn’t feel like random noise.
It felt intentional.
As if something upstairs wanted to be heard.
And that was only the beginning.
Thai Ghost Stories 5
My boyfriend once dreamed that a small child jumped onto his chest.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak.
In Thai belief, we call this “ghost oppression” — what some cultures call sleep paralysis.
But that night felt different.
He woke up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, hands ice cold.
He said it didn’t feel like something sitting on him.
It felt like something pressing down.
Watching.
He refused to sleep in my bedroom after that.
Then one night, it happened to me.
I was five or six months pregnant, suffering from severe acid reflux. I couldn’t lie flat, so I slept sitting up against the headboard in total darkness.
In my dream, I saw a baby clinging to the ceiling.
A normal baby. Not pale. Not horrifying. Just… real.
Too real.
It made a sound — not “Mom”… but something like “Hey… hey…”
Not crying.
Calling.
Then it jumped down toward me.
In my dream, I kicked. Hard.
And I woke up — violently.
My leg had actually kicked forward in real life.
My heart was racing. I couldn’t breathe. My stomach hurt from the sudden movement.
For a split second, I wasn’t sure which part was the dream.
I didn’t just see it.
My body reacted.
And that was when I knew —
this was no longer just imagination.
The Babies Who Watched the Stairs
After I gave birth, my sister-in-law gave birth just ten days later.
The two babies grew strangely connected.
When one cried, the other cried.
When one got sick, the other followed.
At first, we thought it was coincidence.
But then they began to do something that unsettled us.
They would lie there — only three or four months old — and suddenly smile at the same time. Laugh at the same time.
Not looking at each other.
Looking past each other.
Toward the staircase.
Slowly, their eyes would track upward — step by step — as if something invisible was walking up the stairs.
Not floating.
Walking.
And every single time their gaze reached the top…
My bedroom door upstairs would open.
Then close.
Not slammed.
Closed.
Deliberately.
“Click.”
A pause.
“Bang.”
Every time.
The Truth About the Mattress
One day, my brother finally spoke.
He had brought home a small folding mattress from a temple in Saraburi. A donation from grieving parents whose young daughter had passed away.
She had fallen asleep on that mattress… and never woke up.
Her funeral rites were completed. Cremation. Ashes scattered.
But no one had said goodbye to the mattress.
No prayer.
No blessing.
No farewell.
My brother brought it home because it was still new.
And he often unfolded it to sleep near the babies.
When folded, it was stored in a cabinet — directly above my head while I slept.
Above my head.
That was when we realized:
Everything started after the mattress arrived.
Not before.
After.
The Doll That Smelled Like Baby Powder
In my upstairs bedroom, I collect stuffed animals.
Only two dolls looked like human babies. I never liked them. They felt like they were staring at me. So I locked them away inside my wardrobe.
One of them always smelled like baby powder.
Soft. Sweet. Fresh.
The scent of a child.
Even though I never sprayed perfume.
Never used powder.
Never took it out.
No matter how long it stayed inside that dark cabinet…
The scent never faded.
Sometimes I would open the wardrobe just to check.
And the smell would be there.
As if someone had just been holding it.
Thai Ghost Stories 5: The Girl in the Flared Skirt
My aunt believed in spirits deeply. She took the mattress to her house, placing it in a room filled with guardian child spirits.
Soon after, strange things happened there too.
A light switch was slapped off violently.
Not flickering.
Not a power cut.
A sharp sound.
As if someone was angry.
Then her daughter said she saw a young girl — wearing a flared skirt — run past and into the spirit room.
The same room where the mattress had been placed.
After that… the sightings stopped.
My aunt later said calmly,
“Haven’t seen her in a long time. She’s probably been reborn.”
Maybe she has.
Or maybe…
She simply stopped letting us notice her.
The Question That Still Remains
Looking back now, one question lingers.
Why didn’t we contact the girl’s parents?
Why didn’t we tell them what had been happening?
Why did we only focus on removing the mattress from our home… instead of returning it to where it belonged?
The events may have stopped.
The door no longer opens.
The babies grew up.
Life moved on.
But sometimes, late at night, when the house is quiet —
I still think about the mattress.
And I wonder…
If she ever truly found her way home.
Or if she simply followed the last place she remembered.
