The Tale of my Haunted Prius

So, I was living in this old townhome in Mariemont, right? Had been there for about five years, and yeah, weird stuff happened sometimes. Nothing too out of the ordinary—just the usual old-house weirdness. The house creaked at night, like it was alive in a way. Shadows in the hallways would hang around a little longer than they should, like they were waiting for something. And don’t even get me started on the whispers. Sometimes, I’d hear them through the vents—just faint murmurs. Nothing you could make out, but enough to make you pause, wonder if you were hearing things. But, whatever. It’s an old house, right? They all do that.

Then, one morning, after a night shift, something really weird happened.

I got home, backed my Prius into the garage like always, locked it up, shut the garage door, and went inside. No big deal. The night before had been stormy, but by the time I got home, the skies were clear, crisp. I went to bed and slept like a rock.

The house was oddly quiet, almost too quiet, like it was holding its breath. The shadows on the walls seemed a little more pronounced than usual. But, again, nothing I hadn't gotten used to.

That afternoon, I stepped outside, and—my car isn’t in the garage. It’s sitting outside in the alley, right in front of the garage, and it’s facing the wrong way. Like, if I had parked on the street, I never would’ve left it in that position. It was just… off. The angle was all wrong. The whole thing threw me off. I stood there, staring at it, trying to figure out how I could’ve done that. But no, I’d backed into the garage, hadn’t I? I was sure of it.

At first, I thought maybe I was just exhausted when I got home and had a lapse in memory about where I parked. But then I checked the dashcam footage—and that’s when things got freaky.

The footage showed exactly what I remembered: me backing into the garage, turning the car off, getting out. And then? Nothing. No footage of it being moved. No sign of anyone breaking in. Just… nothing. It’s like that entire part had been erased. Or didn’t happen. Or my car just apparated outside.

I checked everything. The car was still locked, like I left it. The seat, the mirrors, everything—exactly the same. If someone had gotten in and moved it, something should have been off, right? But no. It was like it had never been touched. Except for one thing.

When I turned the car on, instead of my phone connecting to Bluetooth like it always did, the radio kicked on. And it wasn’t just any station—it was static. The kind of static that feels too thick, like it’s got weight to it. And then, through the static, I hear this voice. It wasn’t like a normal DJ or anything. It sounded… weak, like an old, frail voice. But what really got me was how it didn’t sound quite right. It was slower than normal, too drawn out, like it was trying to speak but couldn’t quite form the words.

It sounded almost like it was in a different language. Something vaguely German, but not exactly. I couldn’t place it, but it didn’t feel right.

The voice, with its strange gibberish said something like “For mach der bluht… shan der gluck.” I don’t know. I couldn’t make it out, I don’t speak German or whatever language was being spoken.

And then—nothing. Static. Complete silence.

I just sat there, frozen for a second, staring at the radio. My heart was pounding in my chest, my palms sweaty. I reached for the dial, and when I turned the station, the static didn’t stop. I turned the volume down, hoping to just make it go away, but the feeling, that feeling of being watched, stuck with me.

I kept trying to brush it off, like maybe it was just some weird interference or a glitch with the radio. But it didn’t sit right with me. Not at all.

I told a few people about it. Most of them laughed, said I was probably just too tired and forgot where I parked. But when I told them about the missing dashcam footage, their faces went blank. They didn’t have an answer for that.

I even tried looking up any ghost stories about the place—googling about urban legends, looking up about old crime stories from the neighborhood, anything that might explain it. Found nothing. No tragic deaths, no local hauntings, nothing. It was like the house had been scrubbed clean of any history.

But, here’s the thing: after that day, the radio went back to normal. I switched it back to Bluetooth, and everything was fine. Music, podcasts, the usual stuff. But every now and then, every once in a while, I’d hear something. Just faint, but enough to make me double-check the audio. A strange voice—quiet, garbled, like it was trying to be part of whatever was playing, but not quite fitting in. It would happen when I was listening to the radio or even streaming from my phone, in the background, buried under the normal sounds. It sounded almost like whispers, or maybe someone trying to speak from far away. I couldn’t make out the words, but I knew it wasn’t just interference anymore. It felt deliberate, like it was trying to get through to me. Like it was still there.

But, looking back, I can’t shake the feeling that whatever was going on with that house—whatever had been creeping around in the shadows and whispering through the vents—had something to do with the car, and with that damn radio.

To this day, I still don’t know what the deal was. Maybe it was just some mischievous spirit messing with me. Maybe it was a warning about something I couldn’t understand. Or maybe—just maybe—it was something else entirely.

All I know is that my car moved on its own, and the radio played a message from nowhere. And whatever did it? It wanted me to notice.