And since then, whispers claim copies of the tape still surface in forgotten boxes at yard sales, old thrift shops, or attics.

If you ever find one, whatever you do—don’t watch it.
Because if you see him… he’ll see you too.

And an unplugged, broken TV.

The screen displayed one message:
"Do you see me now?"

The VHS tape was sent to state investigators, but somewhere along the way, it disappeared.

When officers went to his last known address, the house was long abandoned. Inside, they found a single, old wooden chair in the middle of a room. Beneath it—a dried, dark stain.

"That’s Darren Cole," he whispered. "He disappeared in ’86."

A check of missing person records confirmed it. Same name. Same face. Vanished without a trace six years earlier.

There was no return address, no fingerprints, no clues. The department ran the tape through every possible analysis, but the audio carried distortions not linked to any known recording equipment.

The strangest part? A rookie officer recognized the man on the tape.

The man in the chair raised his head. His eyes were missing. Blood streaked down his cheeks.

Then the screen cut to black.

Curious, the chief played it. The screen showed static, then a dimly lit room with a wooden chair in the center. Tied to it was a man, head slumped forward.

A voice, soft and wrong, whispered from the tape: "Do you see me now?"

n 1992, a local police department in Maine received an unmarked package. Inside was a single, unlabeled VHS tape.

Case #25 - The Whispering Tape

But sometimes, employees report strange elevator malfunctions—doors opening to dark hallways, a faint ringing phone in the distance.

And a shadow watching from where no floor should be.

They stared at him.

"Sir, this building has no 7th floor."

He turned. The elevator panel skipped from 6 to 8. No 7th button. No record of it ever existing.

He quit the next day.

The doors finally shut, and he hit the lobby button. When he burst out of the elevator, shaking, he told security what had happened.

The line went dead.

Panicked, he ran back to the elevator, slamming the button. The lights dimmed. A shadow loomed at the end of the hall—tall, shifting, featureless.

It was slightly open.

A terrible curiosity pulled him forward. Inside, the room was empty except for a desk with an old rotary phone. It began to ring.

He picked up.

A distorted voice whispered: "You’re not supposed to be here."

The lights flickered. The hallway stretched too long, the walls warped as if they were breathing. The office doors were unmarked, except for one at the very end.

In 2017, a night janitor at the Halverson Building in Seattle took the elevator to the 7th floor. He had cleaned it a hundred times before. But when the doors opened, he stepped into something wrong.

Case #24 - The Missing Floor