That’s what I kept thinking as we walked the streets of St. Louis, our guide spinning yarns that danced between history and folklore. Not all the places we discussed were still standing — some had been paved over, their bricks long gone — but that didn’t seem to matter. The stories filled the empty spaces, stitching the past into the present.
The evening began with a history lesson — the mound builders. The guide described how these early inhabitants shaped the land along the Mississippi, building earthen mounds that once towered over the landscape. These weren’t just piles of dirt; they were ceremonial spaces, burial grounds, and places of reverence. And yet, when St. Louis began expanding, many of those mounds were flattened, their earth repurposed to level streets and fill empty lots. Stories persist that these disturbed mounds left more than just soil unsettled. Some say the city’s lingering unease — those unexplained chills, the shadowy figures seen out of the corner of one’s eye — can be traced back to the spirits displaced when those sacred sites were destroyed.
It's hard to know how much truth lies in that tale, but it makes for a good story — one that carries a quiet lesson about what happens when we treat history as an inconvenience rather than a foundation.
Chestnut Valley’s ghost stories were less subtle — louder, grittier, fitting for a district known for saloons, brothels, and back-alley schemes. The guide painted the place in detail — smoke curling through the air, the flicker of dim lanterns, the constant clatter of dice bouncing across worn tabletops. But it was the story of Lena that stayed with me — the brothel worker who vanished one night, her disappearance never explained. Some say her shadow still lingers near the site of her old workplace. No one can quite describe her face — some say it’s veiled in shadow, others claim she has no face at all. It’s unsettling, yes, but there’s a tragedy tucked inside the horror — a woman whose life ended quietly, unnoticed, until her ghost began to demand attention.
And then there’s The Exorcist. The tour guide took their time with this one, recounting the chilling tale of Roland Doe and the exorcism that unfolded in St. Louis. The Alexian Brothers Hospital, where the final rites were performed, was torn down in 1978, but stories of unexplained happenings lingered long after. Nurses once whispered about an empty gurney that seemed to move on its own, rolling to the very room where the exorcism had ended. Lights would flicker in patterns, as if spelling out something no one wanted to hear. Our guide didn’t try to convince us the devil had walked those halls — they didn’t have to. They simply told the story well enough that I found myself walking a little faster when we passed the empty lot where the hospital once stood.
The story of Jackson Camp was more solemn than spooky. After the Civil War skirmishes in St. Louis, soldiers from both sides were hastily buried in shallow, poorly marked graves. As the city grew, their resting places were forgotten — and some say those forgotten soldiers still stand guard. Residents have reported hearing boots marching in step through the dark or spotting shadowy figures lingering in alleys, wearing uniforms tattered with time. The story itself carries a quiet warning — that the past, ignored long enough, can rise to demand its due.
And finally, there was Millionaire’s Row, or what’s left of it. Most of those towering mansions are gone now, swallowed by the steady march of progress. Yet the stories remain — a cursed home where one family after another faced ruin, a shadowy figure that appeared at an upper window long after the house had been abandoned. When the building was finally demolished, the stories didn’t stop. People claimed to see that same shadow — not behind glass, but standing in the open air, watching from the vacant lot where the house had once stood.
I don’t know if those stories are true. Maybe the guide didn’t know either — or maybe they did, and just didn’t care. Because the truth isn’t always the point. A good ghost story doesn’t need to be true to teach us something — about the fragility of memory, about the weight of forgotten lives, or about the way the past never really lets go.
That’s the real magic of a ghost tour. It reminds us that history isn’t just a collection of dates and facts; it’s a patchwork of stories — some true, some twisted with time — but all of them important. Whether they’re meant to teach, entertain, or frighten, the best stories linger long after the tour ends. And that night in St. Louis, I walked away believing that even if the ghosts weren’t real, the stories surely were.