Ghost in White at Grandma's Inn

Table of Contents

Haunted Inn Mystery in Vermont

I had never believed in ghosts until I spent a week at my grandmother’s old countryside inn. It was a quaint, two-story Victorian house turned guesthouse, nestled in the quiet hills of Vermont. My parents had sent me there for the summer—“for fresh air,” they said. But no one mentioned the inn’s sinister history.

The first night was calm. I had a small room on the second floor, with lace curtains and a creaky oak floor. The scent of lavender hung in the air. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until I was brushing my teeth and saw something in the mirror—a faint, white figure standing by the hallway door behind me.

I turned around quickly. No one was there. I laughed it off. Maybe it was just a reflection, a curtain, a trick of the light. Ghosts aren’t real, I told myself.

The next morning, I asked Grandma about it.

"Have there ever been... strange things here?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

She stopped stirring her tea. "Strange how?"

"I thought I saw someone in white last night, maybe a guest?"

She gave me a long look. "No one else is staying here this week. All the rooms are empty."

I shrugged it off again. But I kept remembering those eyes in the mirror. Hollow, sad eyes. The kind that seem to look through you.

That night, I locked my door. I even wedged a chair under the knob, like they do in the movies. I was being silly, I knew. Still, when I woke up at 3 a.m. to the sound of someone humming outside my door, my blood went cold.

I sat up, listening. A soft, gentle melody. A woman’s voice. It was beautiful, haunting even. Then I noticed—there were no footsteps. No creaks. Just humming.

I crawled to the door and pressed my ear against it.

"Hush little baby..." the voice sang, drifting off into silence.

I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

In the morning, I asked Grandma if she heard anything strange. She shook her head and told me to stop letting my imagination run wild. “Maybe lay off the horror podcasts,” she suggested.

I decided to search the inn. I checked every guest room, every closet. Nothing. But when I opened the door to the attic stairs—something I hadn’t noticed before—I felt a sudden drop in temperature.

The stairs creaked loudly with every step. Dust filled the air. The attic was full of old furniture, boxes, and cobwebs. But then I saw it—an old rocking chair, swaying slightly as if someone had just been sitting there.

On the floor beneath it, a white ribbon. Old, frayed, and stained at the edges. I picked it up and heard something behind me: footsteps.

I turned. No one.

"Who's there?" I called, my voice shaky.

Silence.

Then, a whisper: "She never left..."

I bolted down the stairs, the ribbon still clutched in my hand.

That night, I dreamed of the woman in white. She stood at the edge of my bed, singing the lullaby. Her face was pale, lips cracked. She reached for me with skeletal hands.

When I woke up, the ribbon was on my pillow.

I confronted Grandma. "I think this place is haunted," I said. "There’s a woman in white. I saw her. She left this ribbon."

Grandma sat down slowly. "You weren’t supposed to go into the attic," she murmured.

"Why? Who is she?"

She sighed. "Her name was Lillian. She was my sister."

My heart stopped. "What?"

"She died before you were born. She... she was sick. Lonely. Sometimes I hear her too. Singing. She loved that lullaby."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn’t think she’d show herself to you. She never has before."

I stood up. "Grandma, she’s angry. I think she wants something."

Grandma nodded solemnly. "She wanted to leave this place. She never could. She died in that attic, alone. I was too afraid to open the door when she knocked that night. I thought she was just hallucinating again."

The room felt colder. I looked to the doorway—and there she was. Lillian. The woman in white. Staring at us with empty eyes.

I froze. But Grandma stood up, slowly walking to her.

"Lillian," she said, voice trembling. "I’m sorry. I was afraid."

The ghost’s lips moved, almost a smile. Then she vanished.

The air warmed. The silence lifted.

That night, the humming didn’t return. And in the morning, the ribbon was gone.

I thought it was over. Until I checked my suitcase.

Tucked inside, folded neatly, was a white dress. Lillian’s.

And pinned to the collar, a note written in old ink:

*“You’re part of this now.”*

I tried to burn the dress. The flames curled around it, then died out. I buried it in the woods. The next day, it was back in my closet.

Desperate, I visited the town archives. I needed answers. I found an article from 1963: “Local Girl Dies in Tragic Fire at Ashwood Inn.” That was the old name. But the article didn’t match what Grandma said.

It wasn’t illness. Lillian had set the fire herself. A suicide.

But the article mentioned something strange—an anonymous witness claimed to see Lillian walking out of the house after the fire... in white.

Had she survived? Or was her spirit never truly at rest?

When I returned to the inn, Grandma was waiting on the porch.

"You went to the archives," she said quietly.

"You lied to me," I replied. "Lillian didn’t just die. She burned herself alive."

Grandma looked away. "She was hurting. She thought the house was cursed. She said it whispered to her."

I froze. "Whispered?"

"She said it told her to stay. To never leave."

Suddenly, everything made sense. The dress. The ribbon. The haunting. Lillian wasn’t the only thing tied to this place. The house itself was alive. And it wanted company.

That night, I woke to find the white dress laid out on my bed. This time, I put it on.

I don't know why. I just... felt compelled.

When I looked in the mirror, I wasn’t myself anymore. My eyes were hollow. My lips pale. My skin cold.

Lillian stood behind me. She whispered, "Now you see."

Then she was gone. And I was still in the mirror—just me—but I felt her presence inside me.

I left the inn the next day. Or at least, I tried to.

The car wouldn’t start. My phone had no signal. Grandma was gone. The town road looped back to the inn no matter how far I walked.

The house doesn’t let you go once it chooses you.

Now, I hear the humming every night. I rock gently in the attic chair. Waiting. Watching.

If you ever see a white figure at the top of the stairs at Ashwood Inn, don’t follow. Don’t open the attic door. Don’t listen to the lullaby.

Because once you do... you’re part of it too.