Merry Go Round Gone Wrong
In Bakersfield, the Merry Go Round Antique Mall is a treasure trove of old relics and forgotten memories. Locals speak in hushed tones about the mall’s mysterious tunnels, rumored to stretch far beneath the town. Most dismissed these tales as mere urban legends, but the curiosity of one man, Daniel, would lead him into a nightmare he could never have imagined.
Daniel was a historian with a penchant for uncovering hidden truths. He had heard whispers of an ancient tunnel system beneath the mall, rumored to lead to a long-lost part of the town. Intrigued, he decided to explore the mall after closing hours, having convinced a worker to let him investigate. Equipped with a sturdy flashlight, a map, and a notebook, Daniel ventured into the labyrinth connected to the antique displays.
The mall was eerily silent as he navigated through the dimly lit aisles. As he explored the entrance to the tunnels, he noticed an old, ornate mirror with a peculiar crack. Something about it drew him closer, and upon closer inspection, he discovered a faint outline of a door behind it. Excited by his find, Daniel carefully moved the mirror, revealing a narrow, wooden door.
He pushed the door open, revealing a steep staircase leading down into darkness. Taking a deep breath, he descended into the unknown. The air grew colder, and the musty smell of earth and decay filled his nostrils. At the bottom of the stairs, he found himself in a narrow, brick-lined tunnel, an offshoot of the main tunnel system. His flashlight beam danced across the walls, illuminating strange, ancient symbols etched into the bricks.
Daniel pressed on, the thrill of discovery outweighing his growing unease. The tunnel twisted and turned, sometimes narrowing to the point where he had to squeeze through. Hours passed, and Daniel began to worry he was hopelessly lost. Just as panic began to set in, he saw a faint light ahead.
Hurrying toward the light, he found himself in a small chamber with an old, rusted iron gate. Beyond it, he could see the familiar streets of Bakersfield. Relief washed over him as he realized he had found a way out. He pushed open the gate, its hinges groaning in protest, and stepped into the cool night air.
But as he emerged from the tunnel, something felt off. The streets were eerily quiet, and an unnatural fog hung heavy in the air. He walked through the deserted streets, noticing that the buildings seemed different, older. The town appeared frozen in a bygone era. He tried to find familiar landmarks, but everything seemed slightly distorted, like a forgotten memory.
As he wandered, he came across a newspaper stand. The paper’s date read July 24, 1924. An article caught his eye, “Indian Bob” Baptista is Dead at Hanford.
<<Click to view the original newspaper.>>
Panic gripped him as he realized he had somehow stepped into the past. Desperate to find a way back, he retraced his steps to the tunnel entrance, but it had vanished, replaced by an unbroken brick wall.
Daniel worked his way back to the gate, but it was blocked by a large man in traditional Tache tribe garb. “It is time for us to dance,” the man said as he took Daniel’s hand.
The townspeople of modern-day Bakersfield eventually noticed Daniel’s absence. Search parties scoured the mall. A few peeked in the tunnel. They heard music and saw two men dancing in a circle, but the images vanished as soon as anyone stepped into the tunnel. The story of Daniel’s disappearance became another legend, a cautionary tale whispered by those who dared to explore the antique mall.
And on certain nights, when the fog rolls in thick and heavy, some claim to see two men dancing in a circle around the streets of old Bakersfield. Observers have described them as “one happy and in some sort of costume and one who appears to be in great pain.” Others have described the second man as having “his eyes filled with a desperate plea for help.” Some say Daniel is still looking for the tunnel that led him out, hoping against hope that he can find a way back to the present, back to a world that has moved on without him.
Padre Hotel Horror
“This looks like the cover of, like, a horror movie poster,” said Jack Osbourne, host of the Travel Channel’s “Portals to Hell” series, when he saw the Padre Hotel in December 2020. Mr. Osbourne believed there were ghosts of children who perished in a fire in the 1950s, but he could not find records of the fire. He was searching for the wrong fire, in the wrong year, with the wrong family.
In 1944, the Padre Hotel in Bakersfield stood as a testament to luxury and opulence, attracting guests from all over the country. Its seventh floor, known for its elegant suites and panoramic views of the city, was particularly sought after. The Thompson family, comprised of parents Margaret and William and their two children, Alice and Tommy, had checked in for a week-long stay, seeking respite from the pressures of wartime life.
The Thompsons were a picture-perfect family. Margaret was a devoted mother with a warm smile, and William, a respected engineer, had a quiet strength about him. Alice, just eight years old, had a love for drawing, often seen with a sketchbook in hand. Tommy, six, was an energetic boy, fascinated by the world around him. They were looking forward to their stay, filled with plans to explore the city and enjoy the hotel’s amenities.
One chilly October night, as the city slept under a blanket of stars, a sinister event began to unfold. It started with a faint, acrid smell of smoke wafting through the air. At first, it was barely noticeable, blending into the background of the hotel’s usual scents. But soon, the smell grew stronger, more pungent, and unmistakable.
The fire started in the kitchen on the ground floor, a small spark that quickly grew into a raging inferno. By the time the alarm was raised, the flames had already climbed the building’s interior, reaching the upper floors with terrifying speed. Panic spread through the hotel as guests scrambled to evacuate, the smoke thickening and the heat intensifying.
On the seventh floor, the Thompsons were jolted awake by the sound of the fire alarm and the frantic shouts of other guests. William, ever the protector, rushed to the door, only to be met with a wall of thick, black smoke. The flames were quickly consuming the hallway, cutting off any chance of escape.
Desperation set in as the family realized they were trapped. Margaret clutched Alice and Tommy close, trying to shield them from the smoke that was quickly filling their suite. William attempted to break a window, but the old glass panes resisted his efforts. The heat grew unbearable, and the smoke choked the air, making it difficult to breathe.
As the fire raged on, the family huddled together, their fear palpable. Margaret whispered soothing words to the children, trying to keep them calm even as her own terror mounted. Alice, clutching her sketchbook, drew a picture of their family, the last testament of her innocent hope. Tommy, too young to fully understand, cried softly, his small hand gripping his mother’s tightly.
The fire brigade arrived, but the flames were already out of control. The seventh floor was an inferno, and the rescuers couldn’t reach the trapped family in time. The building’s old structure and lack of modern safety measures only exacerbated the situation.
In their final moments, the Thompsons clung to each other, their love and bond unbroken even in the face of such horror. The fire claimed their lives, leaving behind only the charred remnants of their suite and the haunting echoes of their last moments together.
In the years that followed, the Padre Hotel was restored, its façade hiding the dark history within. But those who know the story of the Thompson family say that on certain nights, when the air is still and the hotel is quiet, the faint sound of children’s laughter can be heard on the seventh floor. Some claim to have seen a shadowy family, their forms flickering like flames, lingering in the hallways.
Guests who stay on the seventh floor sometimes report a chilling presence, a cold draft that seems to come from nowhere, and the unmistakable scent of smoke. They say the spirits of the Thompsons remain, forever bound to the place where they met their tragic end, their story a haunting reminder of a night when fire and fate conspired against them.
Kern Highschool Graveyard
Kern General Hospital was built in 1875 in the heart of Bakersfield. By 1892, the hospital stood as a beacon of hope and healing for the city’s residents. Its sprawling grounds and towering structure seemed to promise solace and recovery. However, beneath the surface, hidden from the eyes of the public, lurked a dark and sinister secret.
In that era, Bakersfield was a bustling town, yet not everyone could afford the luxury of medical care. Kern General Hospital, overwhelmed by the influx of patients, began to take in those who had nowhere else to go—the poor, the homeless, and the forgotten. These people, lacking the means to pay for their treatment, often met with tragic ends.
Patients who had no family or means to pay their bills sometimes seemed to vanish overnight. Their names were quietly erased from records, and no mention was made of their deaths. The hospital’s night staff wheeled gurneys covered with white sheets out onto the hospital grounds, but the gurneys came back empty.
There were often whispered conversations between orderlies. They spoke of “the burial ground,” a secret place where the bodies of the forgotten were laid to rest, buried unceremoniously on the hospital grounds.
A hospital cleaning lady, Eleanor, was determined to uncover the truth. Eleanor waited until the dark of night when the hospital was at its quietest. She crept out onto the grounds where the orderlies took the dead, the dim lights casting long, eerie shadows.
Eleanor peeked over a small wall to watch the orderlies who had recently took a body onto the grounds. The sight that greeted her was horrifying. The yard was filled with rows of shallow graves, hastily dug and marked with crude wooden crosses. The air was thick with the stench of decay. It was clear that this was the final resting place for those who had been forgotten by society and discarded by the hospital.
As Eleanor stood frozen in shock, she heard a faint whispering sound. Turning around, she saw shadows moving at the edge of her vision. The temperature dropped even further, and she felt a cold, clammy hand brush against her arm. Panic surged through her as she realized she was not alone.
The whispers grew louder, forming words she could barely comprehend. “Why?” they seemed to ask. “Why were we forgotten?” The shadows coalesced into ghostly figures, the lost souls of those buried in the chamber, their eyes filled with sorrow and anger.
Eleanor backed away, her mind racing. She had to get out, to tell someone, to make sure these people’s stories were known. She went to the hospital administrator, who assured her that arrangements were being made.
The hospital was demolished in 1893 to make room for the Kern High School, which was later renamed Bakersfield High School.
The hospital graveyard is in the land now known as the Quad. The bodies remain.
Ghosts of some of these forgotten patients now haunt the school and the Quad. Some students have claimed to see spirits floating in the air, and most faculty avoid walking through the Quad.
When the Television is Watching You
Highway Patrolman John Kegg had always been a night owl, often staying up late watching old horror movies. It was a stormy night, and the wind howled outside his small, cluttered apartment. The flickering light from his television cast eerie shadows on the walls as he surfed through the channels.
John had just settled on an old black-and-white film when a loud crack of thunder rattled the windows, and the TV screen abruptly turned to static. Frustrated, John got up and smacked the side of the TV. The screen flickered, and for a moment, he thought he saw a dark figure standing in the static. He blinked, and it was gone.
Sighing, he decided to open up the case to see if he could figure out what was wrong. As he removed the back of the TV, the static returned, even though the TV was unplugged. It grew louder, almost deafening. The screen seemed to pulse with a strange energy. John froze, his hand inches from the screen.
The static swirled violently, and the dark figure reappeared, clearer this time. It was a woman, her eyes hollow and her mouth twisted into a sinister grin. John’s heart pounded in his chest as he tried to step back, but he was unable to move.
The woman in the TV leaned forward, pressing her hands against the screen. The glass began to crack, spiderwebbing out from where her palms pressed. The woman’s head pushed through the glass, and with a sickening crunch, she crawled out of the television.
Her body was emaciated, her skin pale and translucent, and her long, black hair dripped with a dark, oily substance. She moved with unnatural jerks and twitches, her eyes locked onto John.
“No… this can’t be real,” John whispered, backing away.
The ghostly woman opened her mouth, and a chilling, guttural laugh echoed through the room. She reached out with bony fingers, and the air grew cold. John felt a pressure on his chest, making it hard to breathe. He stumbled backward, crashing into a bookshelf.
“Please… no…” John gasped, but the woman advanced relentlessly.
She grasped his throat with icy hands, her touch burning like dry ice. John struggled, clawing at her hands, but his strength was fading. His vision blurred, and the last thing he saw was her malevolent smile.
John Kegg’s lifeless body was found the next morning. The television sat silently in the corner, its screen dark and empty. No one ever figured out what was wrong with the TV or why John had opened up the case.
The next night, the landlord claimed to see John mount his motorcycle and drive away. Now, from time to time, drivers report seeing the distant image of a man on a motorcycle wearing an old highway patrolman’s uniform, but the image fades as the motorcycle approaches, and parts from an old broken television are found alongside the road.