The humid Bangkok night clings to you like a shroud as you navigate the labyrinthine alleyways, the air thick with the scent of jasmine and something else…something ancient and unsettling. The city pulses with a vibrant energy, a chaotic symphony of life, but beneath the surface whispers a darker melody – the legend of Bangkok’s ghosts.

You’ve heard the stories, of course. Every city has its share of restless spirits, but Bangkok’s seem to cling closer, fueled by centuries of tradition, tragedy, and unwavering belief. You feel their presence pressing in on you, a subtle chill that has nothing to do with the clammy air.

Perhaps you’re passing a san phra phum, a spirit house, normally a welcome sight, offering solace and protection. But tonight, the tiny dwelling seems menacing, the offerings of fruit and flowers decaying, a silent testament to neglect. I quicken your pace, the hairs on my neck prickling.

The ornate spirit house, a San Phra Phum, stood bathed in the perpetual twilight of the overgrown garden. Its miniature gables, painted a garish gold and crimson, seemed to mock the decay that clung to the rest of the estate like a shroud. No offerings of fruit or jasmine garlands adorned its tiny tables; only dust and cobwebs spoke of neglect. But the spirits within were far from dormant.

Locals whispered that the spirits inhabiting this particular San Phra Phum were not the benevolent guardians they were meant to be. They spoke of a tragedy, a tale of betrayal and rage that had seeped into the very foundations of the house and twisted the resident spirits into something malevolent. The owner, a wealthy merchant, had been brutally murdered within its walls, and his vengeful spirit, denied peace, sought solace only in tormenting the living.

Those who dared to trespass on the property often reported a chilling sense of being watched, a weight pressing down on them that made it hard to breathe. Shadows danced in the periphery, just beyond the reach of the eye, and faint whispers carried on the wind, promising pain and despair. Some even claimed to have seen the merchant’s spectral figure, his eyes burning with an unquenchable fire, forever bound to the San Phra Phum, a prisoner of his own rage.

The house itself seemed to feed the spirits’ dark energy. The walls creaked in the dead of night, and the windows rattled with an unseen force. The air grew heavy with a miasma of sorrow and resentment, a palpable sense of dread that clung to everything it touched. Even the bravest souls felt their courage waver in the face of such overwhelming negativity.

Children, especially, were warned to stay away. They were said to be particularly vulnerable to the spirits’ influence, their innocent minds easily susceptible to the whispers and visions that emanated from the San Phra Phum. Many believed that the spirits coveted the children’s youthful energy, seeking to drain it and prolong their own tormented existence.

The San Phra Phum remained, a dark monument to a tragedy long past, a constant reminder of the power of vengeance and the enduring presence of the unseen world. It stood as a silent testament to the fact that some spirits, once wronged, can never truly find peace, forever trapped in a cycle of anger and despair, waiting for the next unsuspecting victim to cross their path. And in the oppressive silence of the overgrown garden, the tiny house continued to watch, its golden gables gleaming with a malevolent light, promising only darkness and oblivion to those who dared to disturb its slumber.

Every product/service is selected by editors. Things you buy through these links may earn “The Spooky Cookies” a commission or revenue.

The most famous specters haunt the city’s abandoned buildings. In the heart of Bangkok sits a 49-story tall abandoned Sathorn Unique tower known locally as the Ghost Tower. This building has scratched the curiosity of many a local and tourists alike. And while there have been more than a few to explore it, it’s full dark and twisted history is not widely known. A skeletal skyscraper looming over the Chao Phraya River, is a notorious playground for thrill-seekers and ghost hunters alike. They say the construction was cursed, the spirits of those who died during its construction forever trapped within its concrete shell. You can almost hear their mournful cries carried on the river breeze. That is what we unpack in this documentary.

Written and Directed by dana blouin
Producer Jib Blouin
Original Score by Darren Hale ‪@DarrenHale‬
Assistant Producer Mark Yang
Additional Footage by Chris Parker ‪@RetiredWorkingForYou‬
Thanks to Charlie Hub ‪@TWCH‬
Special Thanks to Dr Kriengsak Chareonwongsak ‪@drdancando‬
Special Thanks to Shaun Wood from Team Farang ‪@ShaunWoodFilms‬

Every product/service is selected by editors. Things you buy through these links may earn “The Spooky Cookies” a commission or revenue.

The tale of Mae Nak Phra Khanong, the devoted wife who died in childbirth while her husband was away at war. Upon his return, she greeted him with open arms, blissfully unaware that she was already a ghost. When her husband finally discovered the truth, she unleashed her terrifying wrath, becoming one of Thailand’s most feared and revered spirits. You wouldn’t want to stumble across her shrine, especially late at night.

The humid Bangkok air hung heavy, thick with the scent of jasmine and something else… something ancient and unsettling. I’d been drawn here by the whispers, the hushed tones of the locals, the stories they told only after a shot of rice whiskey loosened their tongues. They spoke of Mae Nak Phra Khanong, a legend woven into the very fabric of the city, a ghost story that felt undeniably real.

I wasn’t a believer, not really. I was a journalist, chasing a story, hoping to find a kernel of truth within the layers of folklore. But the more I delved into the legend of Mae Nak, the more the line between skepticism and unease blurred.

It began, as most ghost stories do, with love and loss. Nak, a beautiful young woman, lived in the Phra Khanong district with her husband, Mak. When Mak was conscripted to fight in the war, Nak was left alone and pregnant. She waited for his return, her days filled with longing, her nights with fear. But Mak never came home. Nak died in childbirth, both she and her baby lost. Or so the story goes.

The air in Bangkok hung thick and heavy, a humid blanket clinging to my skin as I navigated the labyrinthine alleyways of the old city. I’d come chasing whispers, rumors of a spirit that haunted these ancient streets, a wraith known only as the Nang Nak. It was a foolish endeavor, I knew, but the lure of the macabre had always been a siren song for me.

My first night was uneventful. I wandered past the Chao Phraya River, its dark waters reflecting the city’s neon glow, a deceptive beauty masking the undercurrents of something ancient and unknowable. I visited the Wat Mahabut, the temple dedicated to Nang Nak, a place steeped in sorrow and offerings of colorful toys for her stillborn child. I felt nothing, saw nothing, only the oppressive humidity and the judging stares of the locals who knew better than to trifle with the unseen.

But the whispers persisted, growing louder with each passing day. They spoke of a woman, abandoned by her husband, dying in childbirth, her love so powerful, so unwavering, that it anchored her spirit to this realm. They said she waited, eternally, for his return, her devotion twisted into a possessive rage.

Then came the second night. I was back in the alleys, the city hushed around me, the only sound my own ragged breathing. I passed a crumbling shophouse, its windows like vacant eyes, when I saw her. Just a glimpse, a fleeting impression of a woman in traditional Thai dress, her skin pale as moonlight, her eyes…empty.

I froze, my blood turning to ice. Logic screamed at me, telling me it was a trick of the light, a shadow playing games. But the air had grown colder, the scent of jasmine, said to be her favorite flower, clinging to the back of my throat.

Then, a voice. Soft, melodic, but laced with an unbearable sadness. It called my name, or at least, what sounded like my name, twisted and distorted by grief. I ran. I didn’t stop running until I reached the safety of my hotel room, the city lights a weak shield against the darkness that had brushed against me.

I still didn’t know if I believed in ghosts, but I knew I believed in the power of stories. The story of Mae Nak Phra Khanong was a story of love, loss, grief, and ultimately, acceptance. It was a story that had resonated through generations, a reminder of the enduring power of the human spirit, even in the face of unimaginable tragedy.

And as I walked away from the temple, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Mae Nak was still watching, still listening, still waiting for her beloved Mak to return. Perhaps, in a way, he already had, in the hearts of all those who kept her story alive. The mystery of Mae Nak Phra Khanong remained, a haunting whisper in the humid Bangkok air. A whisper I knew I would never forget.

I don’t know what I saw that night, or if I saw anything at all. I left Bangkok the next morning with more questions than answers. But the image of those empty eyes seared into my memory. I came seeking a story, and I found something far more sinister, a glimpse into the abyss of undying love and its terrifying consequences. And I know, with chilling certainty, that Nang Nak is still waiting, her sorrow echoing through the silent streets of Bangkok, a constant reminder that some spirits never truly rest.

Every product/service is selected by editors. Things you buy through these links may earn “The Spooky Cookies” a commission or revenue.