…The Psychology Behind Why We Love Ghost Stories
I still remember the first time I scared the absolute crap out of myself with a ghost story.
I was maybe seven or eight, tucked under a blanket fort with a flashlight and a battered copy of Mystery of the Witches’ Bridge. You know the one—the one with those sketchy ink illustrations that look like they crawled straight out of a haunted fever dream. I got to one part and something about that story made my skin crawl so badly I didn’t sleep for two nights. It was also about that time that I read “The Ghosts” by Antonia Barber which had the same effect on me. I found it spine-tinglingly scary and had to start sleeping with a nightlight.
And yet… I went back for more. I always do.
So what’s that about? Why do we love ghost stories when they make us flinch at our own shadow or check behind the shower curtain at midnight like total weirdos?
Let’s dig into it.
Fear Without the Fallout
Psychologists say that part of the thrill comes from something called benign masochism—that sweet spot where we enjoy fear because it’s controlled. When you read a ghost story or watch a paranormal movie, your brain lights up like it’s under attack… but your body knows you’re safe on your couch with snacks.
Basically, it’s fear in a fun-sized wrapper (though Poltergeist was more fear than fun).
I think of it like a haunted house you walk through on purpose. You get the rush of adrenaline, the spike in heart rate, but there’s no actual demon dragging you into the basement. (Hopefully.)
It’s the same reason we scream during The Conjuring but then immediately rewatch it with friends, pointing out the moments we jumped. We like to feel brave. Or at least pretend we are.
Ghosts as Emotional Mirrors
But ghost stories aren’t just about thrills and chills. A lot of them are secretly about grief, guilt, or unfinished business.
Think about The Sixth Sense. It’s not just a ghost story—it’s a story about loneliness, about communication, about helping people find closure. Cole sees dead people, sure, but what hits me harder is how broken the living people are.
Same with The Haunting of Hill House (the Netflix version, not the old black-and-white one—though that one’s got its charm too). The Bent-Neck Lady? That twist crushed me. That entire series was basically a psychological study in family trauma dressed up in creepy ghosts and jump scares.
We love ghost stories because they haunt us emotionally. They take things we’ve buried—loss, shame, regret—and give them form. They make us look at them.
Telling Stories Around the Fire
There’s also something communal about ghost stories. They’ve been around forever. Like, literally forever.
Even ancient Mesopotamian texts mention spirits who wander the Earth. Every culture has its version of the ghost story—La Llorona in Latin America, the yūrei in Japan, the White Lady in Europe. Ghosts are the world’s oldest campfire gossip.
I grew up hearing about Resurrection Mary, the hitchhiking ghost from Chicago. My cousin swore she saw her once near Archer Avenue. Of course, she also swore she saw Bigfoot in Indiana, so take that with a salt lick.
But that’s part of it—ghost stories create shared experiences. Whether we’re watching a movie together, listening to a podcast like Lore, or swapping creepy tales on Reddit at 2AM, they give us a reason to connect (and maybe keep the lights on a little longer).
Safe Spaces for the Unexplainable
I think ghost stories also give us space to talk about the unknown without needing to solve it.
We live in a hyper-rational, hyper-scientific world. If something creaks in the house, we Google “HVAC noises at night” instead of just saying, “Welp, it’s haunted again.” But ghost stories let us suspend that rational voice. They give us permission to believe in something bigger, stranger, less tidy.
Even if we don’t believe in ghosts (I’m still undecided, personally), we’re drawn to the possibility of something more.
The Last Little Haunt
So yeah, I still love ghost stories (not surprising, given that I write them as well). Not just the heart-racing kind, but the ones that sneak up on you emotionally—the ones that leave you unsettled long after the credits roll.
There’s something oddly comforting about being scared in a safe way. Something satisfying about facing the unknown, even if it’s through the eyes of a fictional character holding a flickering lantern in some creaky Victorian house.
And honestly? I think a little haunting now and then keeps life interesting.