Wings of Fire & Whispers of the Desert Phoenix Ghost Tour

Teeter House

Rosson House

St. Mary's Basilica 

Hilton Garden Inn

Hotel San Carlos 

Melinda's Alley 

Renaissance Phoenix Downtown Hotel

The Crescent Hotel

The Crescent Hotel stands like a sentinel above Eureka Springs, stately in stone yet weighted with the shadows of its past. Tonight, I walked its halls, past the grand staircase and beneath the stained-glass windows that still catch the light like jewels. The air smells faintly of wood polish and old stone — reminders that this place has been lovingly restored. Much of the Crescent’s tragic past has been scrubbed clean, but something lingers — not in the walls, but in the stories whispered through them.

The ghost tour winds its way through the Crescent’s history — a tale that began with elegance and ambition, only to unravel into something far darker. There’s something tragic about a place that’s worn so many faces — a grand hotel for the wealthy, a women's college, and finally, Norman Baker’s so-called "cancer hospital." Baker turned this place into a house of false hope, peddling cures that did nothing but hasten the inevitable. For those desperate enough to believe him, the Crescent was less a sanctuary and more a purgatory.

Time has softened the scars. The walls have been painted, the carpet is plush underfoot, and the lobby feels warm and inviting. Yet the stories remain — the true ghosts of the Crescent. A nurse glimpsed in the hallway, her face pale as if still weighed down by the suffering she once witnessed. The playful spirit of Michael, the stonecutter who fell during construction, said to flicker lights and tug at sheets in Room 218. And Theodora, the caretaker ghost who tidies Room 419 as if still watching over those in her charge.

The tour’s final stop was the basement — the space once used as a morgue during Baker’s twisted tenure. There's no autopsy table here anymore; it’s long gone, replaced by memories retold with reverent hush. The walls are painted now, and time has done its best to reclaim the room. Yet the air in that space is different — stagnant and still, like something holds its breath. The body lockers remain, lined against the wall, their rusted doors cold to the touch. They feel like artifacts — relics not just of what happened here, but of the fear and desperation that once filled this place.

In 2019, the Crescent's ghosts took on a more physical form when a landscaper unearthed Norman Baker’s forgotten cache of medical specimens — jars filled with tumors, organs, and other grim trophies. Seeing those jars tonight, lined up behind glass, was far more unsettling than any flickering light or whispered voice. They are proof of suffering — cold, preserved evidence of lives lost not just to illness, but to deception.

I left the Crescent feeling thoughtful. The hotel stands beautiful once again, a place of laughter and warmth. Yet beneath that glow, there’s a certain sadness that clings like mist. The ghosts of the Crescent aren’t just restless spirits — they are the stories of those who came here in hope and left in silence. And no matter how brightly the lobby lights shine, those stories will always remain — the true, lingering ghosts of the Crescent. 

The Lemp Mansion

They were closed today, but standing in the shadow of the old manor house still gave me chills. The air seemed colder there, not from the wind but from something deeper — a presence that clung to the stones like ivy. The house stood quiet, its windows dark and unblinking, yet it seemed to watch me just the same.

The Lemp Mansion has earned its reputation as the most haunted house in St. Louis, not because of creaking floors or drafty hallways, but because of the weight of its tragic past — a history that settled into the walls like smoke, refusing to leave.

The Lemps were a family who built an empire — a dynasty of brewers who turned St. Louis into a beer capital. Johann Adam Lemp had the vision. He arrived from Germany in 1838, a pioneer of lager in America when the country still clung to ales and porters. His brewery thrived, evolving from a small corner shop into a sprawling complex that dominated the St. Louis skyline. By the late 1800s, the Lemp Brewery was one of the largest in the country, their lager flowing from taps across the Midwest. Their fortune seemed unstoppable.

But wealth couldn’t insulate them from sorrow. The tragedy began in 1901 when Frederick Lemp, the heir apparent and Adam’s prized son, died suddenly of heart failure at just 28. His father, inconsolable, was never the same. Two years later, Johann Adam Lemp took his own life in one of the mansion’s bedrooms, a bullet ending the grief he could no longer bear.

The family’s downward spiral continued. William Lemp Sr., who had inherited the brewery, struggled to keep the family legacy afloat as Prohibition loomed. The mansion, once a symbol of prosperity, became a mausoleum of misfortune. Elsa Lemp, William’s daughter, took her life in 1920, shooting herself in her home after a troubled marriage. William Sr., burdened by the brewery’s decline and haunted by the loss of his children, took his own life in the very room where his father had died.

The mansion became a place marked by tragedy — yet the sorrow refused to end. After Prohibition crushed the brewery’s fortunes, William Lemp Jr., known as "Billy," sold what remained of the family empire for pennies on the dollar. Despondent and broken, he too ended his life inside the mansion in 1922.

Even after the family’s fortunes were gone, the mansion’s curse lingered. Charles Lemp, the final family member to occupy the house, lived out his days as a recluse. When he too succumbed to suicide in 1949, the last living thread of the Lemp family was cut.

Four suicides — each one within the walls of that house.

It’s no surprise the mansion has earned its haunted reputation. People speak of shadowy figures glimpsed at the end of hallways, footsteps echoing in empty rooms, and doors that lock themselves without warning. Some claim to hear the faint sound of weeping behind closed doors — the cries of a family that lost everything. Others tell of a child-like spirit, believed to be the ghost of Zeke, an illegitimate son of William Jr., hidden away in the attic because of his disabilities. The boy is said to appear at windows or tug at the sleeves of visitors as if begging not to be forgotten.

Standing in front of the house, I could feel it — not in some theatrical ghost-hunting sense, but in the way the air seemed to hang heavy, the house itself exhaling some lingering sadness. The building seemed to sag, like a man who’s been carrying a burden too long.

Looking out over the Lemp campus — the crumbling brickwork, the faded murals, the forgotten grandeur — I couldn’t help but think of what could have been. The Lemps were once titans, their brewery poised to rival even Anheuser-Busch. But while the Busch family’s empire flourished, the Lemp name dissolved into shadow, their story one of grief and squandered fortune.

Knowing we were heading to tour Anheuser-Busch soon only sharpened that feeling. The gleaming arches of the Busch brewery — proud and bustling — felt like a monument to everything the Lemps might have been. The King of Beers endures, while the Lemp legacy lingers like a forgotten whisper.

I left the mansion with the unmistakable feeling that something — or someone — had been watching me go. Not with anger, but with quiet regret. As if the house itself mourns what it once held — not just wealth, but a family who carried too much sorrow to survive it. 

US Ghost Adventures: St. Louis

If history is the art of storytelling, then a ghost tour is the craft distilled — a perfect blend of fact, legend, and performance. A good story isn’t just about what happened; it’s about how you tell it, how you shape the details to reveal something deeper. Sometimes we tell stories to learn, sometimes to entertain, and sometimes simply to feel that electric tingle crawl up the back of our neck. A ghost story, if done well, can do all three.

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. 

Cleveland Downtown Ghost Tour

1. REBOL

2. 50 Public Square, Suite 1910

3. 3rd Public Square

4. 401 Euclid Avenue (The Arcade)

5. 530 Euclid Avenue (Euclid Avenue Opera House site)

6. 1260 Euclid Avenue (Theater Royal Society site)

7. Connor Palace

8. Hanna Theatre

9. Erie Street Cemetery

10. Southern Tier Brewery Cleveland 

Our ghost tour of downtown Cleveland began at REBOL, where we gathered our courage before delving into the haunted history of this storied city. As the night fell, the shadows of Cleveland’s past began to emerge, revealing tales of intrigue, tragedy, and spectral encounters.

Our first stop was at 50 Public Square, Suite 1910. Cleveland, founded in 1796 by General Moses Cleveland, quickly grew along the southern shores of Lake Erie. As the city developed, so did its eerie stories. Public Square, the heart of Cleveland, has been a witness to many significant events and some ghostly apparitions. Late at night, some say they have seen the ghostly figure of General Cleveland himself, wandering and overseeing the city he helped establish.

We moved to the 3rd Public Square, where an unusual monument stands. Rather than glorifying the Civil War itself, this monument, designed by Levi T. Schofield, honors those who fought and worked for the cause. The "Goddess of Freedom" statue atop the 125-foot column is said to come to life under the moonlight, her eyes glowing with an ethereal light, reminding passersby of the sacrifices made long ago.

Next, we ventured to 401 Euclid Avenue, home to The Arcade. Constructed in 1890, The Arcade's opulent design belies its haunted reputation. Shoppers and staff have reported strange occurrences—unexplained footsteps, cold spots, and ghostly apparitions that vanish into thin air. The spirit of a former shopkeeper, whose tragic demise remains a mystery, is believed to linger, forever tied to this grand shopping center.

At 530 Euclid Avenue, we stood near the site of the once-grand Euclid Avenue Opera House, built in 1875. The opera house, long gone, leaves behind tales of spectral performances. On quiet nights, some claim to hear the faint strains of opera music and the applause of an invisible audience. The spirits of performers and patrons from bygone eras are said to continue their nightly revelries, unseen but felt.

Our next destination was 1260 Euclid Avenue, where the Theater Royal Society began performing plays in 1819. The site of the old Shakespeare Gallery is rife with ghostly legends. Actors from the past, still passionate about their craft, are said to rehearse their lines in the shadows. Visitors have reported seeing figures dressed in period costumes, vanishing as they approach.

We then arrived at Connor Palace, built in 1922. Named for B.F. Keith, the vaudeville and movie theater founder, the Connor Palace is not only a place of entertainment but also of hauntings. Ghostly vaudeville performers are rumored to take the stage after dark, reliving their glory days. The sounds of phantom applause and murmured conversations fill the empty theater, creating an eerie ambiance.

The Hanna Theatre, built in 1921, was our next stop. It opened with the production of "The Prince and the Pauper," and since then, tales of hauntings have persisted. The ghost of a former actress, who met a tragic end, is said to haunt the theater. Her presence is often felt in the dressing rooms and backstage, where she once prepared for her performances.

Our journey took a somber turn at the Erie Street Cemetery, established in 1826. This cemetery replaced an earlier burial ground near Public Square. As the city grew, the original cemetery became unsightly, and the new cemetery became a resting place for many of Cleveland’s early settlers. Today, visitors report ghostly figures wandering among the tombstones and strange, cold winds that chill to the bone, even on warm nights.

We concluded our ghost tour at Southern Tier Brewery Cleveland, where we gathered to share our experiences. The brewery itself, built on historic grounds, has its own tales of unexplained phenomena. Staff and patrons have reported seeing shadowy figures and hearing ghostly whispers, adding a chilling twist to the end of our tour.

Throughout our ghostly journey, we uncovered the haunted history of downtown Cleveland. The city's spectral inhabitants, from wandering founders to lingering performers, provided a glimpse into a past where the boundary between the living and the dead is thin and fragile. As we sipped our drinks at the brewery, the stories of the night lingered, leaving us with a profound sense of the mysterious and the unknown.

Memphis Ghost Tour by Backbeat Tours

Orpheum Theatre: The tour began at this historic theater, known for its ghostly encounters, particularly with a young girl named Mary who is said to haunt the theater. Hearing about Mary’s tragic past and her continued presence in the theater was both chilling and intriguing.

John Alexander Austin House: Next, we visited this beautiful yet eerie house, where the guide shared stories of its haunted history and the apparitions that have been reported there.

The Pontotoc Hotel: This location has a rich history and is known for its ghostly residents. The tales of unexplained sounds and sightings added a layer of mystery to the tour.

The Green Beetle: A stop at this historic restaurant included stories of paranormal activities and ghostly sightings that have intrigued patrons for years.

South Main Sushi (Piano): This unique location featured stories about a haunted piano, adding a musical twist to the ghostly tales.

Morris Cemetery Area: This part of town is known for the discovery of several bodies during development, believed to be remnants of an old cemetery. The stories of these uncovered graves and the spirits that may still linger were particularly spine-tingling.

The Arcade Restaurant: One of Memphis's oldest restaurants, it has stories of unexplained phenomena and ghostly sightings. Hearing about the history and the paranormal activities reported here was both fascinating and spooky.

Ernestine & Hazel’s: This former brothel turned dive bar is reputed to be haunted by the spirits of its past patrons. The guide shared eerie tales of unexplained sounds and ghostly apparitions that have been reported here.

Lucky Heart (Voodoo and Hoodoo): This stop delved into the fascinating world of voodoo and hoodoo practices in Memphis, adding a cultural and mystical element to the tour.

Back to the Orpheum Theatre: We concluded the tour back at the Orpheum, bringing the experience full circle and leaving us with a deeper appreciation for Memphis's haunted history.