I was living in a hostel in my uni days and apparently it was haunted. I’d heard stories, but I didn’t believe them, because I had to live there. One of those stories concerned a student who had apparently hung himself on the third floor.

One night, my roommate and I were lying in bed and we heard a weird noise above us. It sounded exactly like somebody walking up and down the corridor of the third floor. I got up and checked the other rooms to make sure none of the other students were responsible, but they were all fast asleep.

So we yelled for the night security, he came upstairs and heard it too. His advice? Ignore it. So we sat there, listening to the footsteps go back and forth. Then my roommate had an idea: tape it. So we sat there with the recorder, wondering what the hell was really happening. Then my roommate said the fateful words: “Ever heard the saying ‘don’t cry over spilled milk?'” “Yes,” I said. “Here’s a new one: don’t cry over hanged men.” With that, the ceiling right over our heads began to pound loudly.

My roommate and I shrieked in fear and the security guard came running upstairs. We spent the rest of the night huddling on the common room sofa. We played the tape for the staff the next day, and it was agreed that the house was goddamn freaky. Oh, and I lived there for another year.