Tales of the bridge being haunted stretch back almost to its construction, when it loomed over the river in a dull matte black, long before it was repainted in its current, deceptively cheerful blue. Witnesses still report sightings of a man in a tweed suit and cap, silently pacing the pedestrian walkway … but it has been over 20 years since pedestrians have been allowed on the bridge.

During WWII, Windsor was home to No. 7 Elementary Flying Training School. Young men from across Canada arrived to begin the first steps of their journey to becoming pilots. They flew fragile Fleet Finches and Tiger Moths, circling over the fields of Essex County.

The training was dangerous. For many cadets, Windsor became their final posting. They were sons, brothers, and friends—gone before their time. Though they never fought in Europe, their sacrifice here was part of Canada’s war effort. The Canadian Aviation Museum remembers them, not only as names in a record book, but as lives cut short in service.

Yet some say their stories are not entirely finished.

·         People have claimed to hear the sputter of a Finch circling above, only for the skies to remain empty. Sometimes, the sound ends with an eerie silence—as if an aircraft had just struck the ground.

·         In the Tiger Moth on display, volunteers occasionally find the seatbelts buckled tight, as though a cadet has strapped in for a flight that never was.

·         Guests have reported fleeting figures—young men in wartime flying coats and helmets—standing at the edge of the hangar, only to vanish when approached.

The ghosts of No. 7 EFTS are said to linger not in sorrow, but in determination. They remain cadets forever, tied to the field where they once dreamed of flying. So, as you walk among these historic aircraft, if you feel a sudden chill, or hear the faint drone of a long-silenced engine, pause for a moment. You may not be alone. Perhaps the fallen of No. 7 EFTS are still with us—flying, watching, and reminding us of the price of freedom.

Information provided by the Canadian Aviation Museum

Despite the charm of the Heritage Village, some believe that something supernatural dwells inside the Waggott House. Visitors have reported sudden drops in temperature — icy chills that permeate the building, even on the hottest summer afternoons. One employee claimed the lamps inside refuse to stay lit. Staff would watch from outside as the lights went out - one by one – as if some invisible presence was moving through the building.

For more scary stories in the Heritage Village, check the website for details on Wicked Wednesdays Hunted Heritage Tours and The Last Howl Murder Mystery.

From eerie sounds and mysterious shadows to inexplicable occurrences, The Capitol Theatre has long been rumored to be haunted. It's said that the spirits of circus performers and seamstresses roam the halls, devoted to safeguarding the theatre against any harm.  If you ever have the misfortune to be alone on the main stage at night, avoid letting your gaze wander to the balcony unless you're ready to face the man in the top hat who wanders around the upper levels. But have no fear, the spirits aren't dangerous. That is, unless you pose a threat to The Capitol. While the identities of The Capitol ghosts largely remain a mystery, who's to say that there aren't supernatural forces at play... especially in long forgotten spaces like the abandoned projection room.

A Native American legend tells of Ottawa Chief Sleeping Bear who had a daughter with breathtaking beauty. Desperate to protect her from the eyes of suitors, he wrapped her in a blanket, placed her in a canoe, and set her adrift in the Detroit River. But her beauty did not go unnoticed. Even the Wind longed to see her face. But the curious gust that blow off the blanket, also blew the canoe into the grasp of kidnappers. The howling Wind chased them down and sent the daughter back to the Chief.

Determined never to lose her again, the Chief brought her to Belle Isle and pleaded with the Great Spirits to protect her forever. The Spirits granted the girl immortality and surrounded the island with snakes to protect her from harm. To this day the Chief's daughter still wanders Belle Isle, robed in white.

According to legend, if you stop your car on the bridge facing Tanglewood Drive at the stroke of midnight, honk three times and wait in silence… you might see her…slowly beckoning you to follow her into the woods.

Between 1859 - 1870, this site was home to the Malden Provincial Lunatic Asylum, where nearly 240 patients were treated. At that time in history, hydrotherapy, shock therapy, drug therapy and lobotomies were commonly used to treat what was considered to be mental illness.

Visitors to the fort have reported glimpses of a ghostly woman in a long white dress, believed to be one of the asylum’s residents, standing silently on the bastion, her gaze fixed out over the water. Others have heard the sound of footsteps, and have seen the ghostly figures of child patients running down the halls.

Over 20 years ago, a visitor stood frozen outside the soldiers’ barracks, unwilling to step inside. Though she was correctly assured that no one had been killed in that room, she whispered, "I sense a great presence of sickness here". The barracks had once served as a military hospital – a place that would have seen much sickness and disease.

Do the restless spirits of former asylum patients or the lingering ghosts of soldiers reside here? Or are these unsettling occurrences nothing more than the dark echoes of disturbing parts of the Fort’s history playing with our imagination?

One late summer afternoon in 2017, a gentleman walked into The Gibson Gallery. He asked if there was an event happening in town as he had spoken to a woman sitting alone on a bench outside —dressed in period clothing, as if from another century. The gallery director assured him there was no one in costume on the premises that day. Curious, they stepped outside together—only to find the bench empty, the woman vanished as if she’d never been there. Yet, the man was able to describe the woman in detail, recalling the pattern of her dress and the parasol resting beside her.

After the man left, the director called around town —no one had staff dressed like that on that day. Was she a spirit, waiting endlessly for a train that never came? We may never know.

You may have heard whispers of Colonial soldiers, muskets clutched tight, running through the shadows of King’s Navy Yard Park under the ghostly moonlight. But what if I told you there’s a darker tale that lurks in the park?

Back in 1868, King’s Navy Yard was very different from the peaceful park you see today. The once-bustling shipyard had been abandoned, and the water’s edge had turned into a dangerous place. One dark evening, Captain Oliver P. Miner made a fatal mistake. Earlier that day, he’d been flaunting a large amount of money around town. Ignoring warnings, he chose to walk through the abandoned Navy Yard, where three figures emerged from the darkness and attacked him. Sadly, no one saw Captain Miner alive again.

Flash forward to a more recent time, during an evening at the River Lights Festival. Amid the festivities, a photographer focused his camera on a shimmering light display shaped like a soldier. As he snapped the shots, a sudden warm breeze brushed over his shoulder and skimmed across his cheek—like a breath from someone standing just behind him. But when he whipped around, no one was near.

Later, when he developed the photos, something chilling appeared. Amid the bright lights, a smoky figure emerged—an unmistakable silhouette of a man staring directly into the camera - from up close. His battered nose, mouth, and hollow eyes were eerily clear. And on top of his head was a sharp ridge that resembled the hat of a soldier long gone.

Could this ghostly image be none other than Captain Oliver Miner, a restless spirit caught between worlds? Where every flicker of a shadow in your photo… every breath of wind on your neck… is his way of letting you know: he never left.

Once a courthouse, a prison, and the site of executions, Mackenzie Hall is now said to be one of the most haunted sites in Windsor. One man, sipping wine in the gallery, reached for his glass—only to watch in stunned silence as it slid away from him. There was no one nearby.

Another occurrence happened when a lone staff member was preparing coffee at a small side table. She stepped away briefly, and when she returned, the entire table had shifted across the floor, the coffee machine dragged so far it had yanked its own cord from the outlet. No one else was in the building.

A worker fixing lighting on the second floor had carefully positioned a ladder beneath the fixture before heading downstairs to grab some tools. That’s when he heard it—a deep, scraping sound overhead, slow and deliberate, like something heavy being dragged across the floor. The building was empty. Remembering the stories of the so-called “dragging ghost,” he made the decision to lock up and leave. The next morning, when he returned and opened the building, he found the ladder—not where he had left it, but moved across the room.

Not sure if you believe the stories about Mackenzie Hall? Maybe it’s best if you visit… if you dare.

There are whispered tales of restless spirits haunting the Duff Baby House. Shadows of figures have been seen in the third-floor windows, and many who dare to tread those upper rooms speak of a chilling, unsettling presence that clings to the air.

A caretaker, stopping by one evening to pick up some papers, brought his dog along. Though the house was silent to human ears, the dog’s growl shattered the quiet, its fur bristling as if sensing a hostile presence nearby. Could it have been warning against the ghostly dog said to roam these halls? Visitors have reported hearing the faint padding of paws on the wooden floors, scratching at doors, and the protective barking when strangers come to visit.

And then, there’s the spirit glimpsed on the stairwell—a mischievous, playful boy whose laughter seems to echo just beyond hearing.

Dare to visit the Duff Baby House on free open house days and see if you can catch a glimpse of these restless souls.

Park House Museum is one of the most haunted buildings in Amherstburg. Many have reported sightings, even those who are unaware of the spirits that still reside in the building.

One of the best known tales from Park House happened on a quiet day at the museum. The curator was working in the basement. When she returned to the main floor, she was startled to see a group of visitors descending the stairs from the second floor. She apologized to the visitors for not being able to guide them through the museum. The visitors smiled and shook their heads. They said a woman in a black dress had already toured them through the upstairs rooms, sharing vivid stories and details about the history of the building. Puzzled, the curator told them she was the only staff member in the building that day. The visitors exchanged uneasy glances before quietly leaving…who was the mysterious woman in black?

After the stunned visitors left, the curator made her way upstairs to investigate. The rooms were empty—no sign of anyone. Even more unsettling, it would have been impossible for anyone to leave the building unnoticed.

Locals say the spirit of Mrs. Park still lingers on the second floor of the museum.  Strange happenings are far from rare: doors creak open and slam shut on their own, footsteps echo down the back staircase, and soft singing drifts through the halls. The cradle has been seen rocking gently by itself, and table settings mysteriously shift as if guided by invisible hands.

At one afternoon tea held outside on the lawn, a young girl kept asking to go upstairs: “The lady upstairs keeps asking me to come up and play.” But the second floor had been closed for the event—no one was there.

Be sure to stop by for a ghost tour in October and perhaps you will see some of the strange happenings for yourself…or be followed by the shadow that descends the staircase.

In the middle of the Detroit River lies a small island - just over 100 acres.  “A cursed island that has never been settled". In the 18th century, it was a popular fishing spot for the Indigenous people and the French settlers, and was therefore named Peche Island. It wasn’t until the 1800s that Peche Island finally saw its first permanent residents.

The Curse: In 1833, Hiram Walker’s sons bought nearly the entire island, except for 4 acres belonging to Leon Laforet. When Leon died, he left the land to his widow Rosalie. Supposedly, the Walkers sent thugs to Rosalie’s home who pushed their way into the house, threw money on the table, and forced her to sign over the deed. When she left, Rosalie issued a chilling curse saying, ‘No one will ever do anything with this island.’ The Walkers didn’t think anything of it and began building a summer mansion on Peche Island, but a series of misfortunes would soon befall them.

Hiram Walker’s son, Willis, died suddenly at just 28 years old. Not long after, Hiram himself became gravely ill, succumbing to a stroke in 1899. A few years later, his daughter sold the property to the Windsor Detroit Ferry Co. They had plans to turn the island into a resort – but fate had other plans. That very same year, the company’s president mysteriously died. Then, in 1929, the mansion burned to the ground.

Over the years, Peche Island fell into disrepair. In the 1950s, a plan to build housing collapsed due to the instability of the land. Then, in the 1960s, another company took a chance with plans to develop a ski resort, but bankruptcy forced them to abandon the island as if some unseen force was determined to keep Peche Island untouched.

Today Peche Island remains undeveloped, with no plans to do so.

Is it Rosalie’s curse that has condemned development of the island? Or is it merely a string of tragic misfortunes masked as coincidence? It is up to you to decide.

There’s an old story about a boy who used to mock an elder from the nearby Indigenous community—a man who walked with a distinct limp.

One afternoon, while the boy was home alone, the limping man appeared. He didn’t say much—just asked to speak with the boy’s parents. The boy explained they were out. The man turned and limped away.

When the parents returned later that day, the boy told them about the visit. But instead of concern, they looked at him in horror. “Don’t lie,” they said. “We were just at his funeral.”

Across the street from Prosperity Place stands The Barrel House—a historic tavern with one particularly unusual regular: the ghost of Simon Girty.

A Loyalist from the 1700s, Girty still patrols the premises, watching over the tavern’s more unruly guests. Bartenders have reported drinks mysteriously sliding away from intoxicated patrons—just out of reach, as if someone unseen is trying to cut them off. Footsteps echo upstairs when no one is there.

Customers about to get into fights have been shoved apart—hard. Others have stumbled or fallen backward as if pushed, only to find no one behind them.

Despite the unsettling moments, the spirit doesn’t seem malevolent. Just… watchful. Protective. So if you ever find yourself at The Barrel House, keep your manners in check—and don’t forget to raise a glass and toast to Simon Girty.

He’s probably watching.

A man once shared chilling tales of his time as a gravedigger at the historic River Canard Cemetery in the 1920s. With no modern tools, every grave was dug by hand. He spent many hours working alone through the night in the darkness of the cemetery, with only a flickering lantern for light. From the shadows, he heard whispers—voices murmuring conversations, and agonized groans. Yet, no one was ever there.

Records of the graves were often inaccurate, and on more than one occasion, he unearthed a coffin buried where he thought a new grave should be. This is when the talking and groaning would be at its highest - angry, restless spirits disturbed by the intrusion. The noises sometimes grew so intense and disturbing that the gravedigger was forced to abandon his work and return only under the safety of daylight, haunted by what lurked beneath the soil.

Information courtesy of River Canard Canoe Co.

Texas Road is steeped in chilling legends - a place where shadowy figures and creepy feelings are commonplace. Mysterious lights glow through the night and strange sounds echo through the air. Many believe Texas Road to be one of Essex County’s most haunted locations.

It’s said that in 1881, a man’s body was found abandoned in a ditch along Texas Road. Since then, legend has it that his restless spirit haunts those who pass by that area around the cemetery. Travelers also report glimpses of a lantern swinging wildly in the darkness, the gallop of ghostly horses echoing through the night, and the chilling crack of a whip wielded by a headless horseman.

There are also dark stories about the bridge on that lonely stretch of road. One night, a couple was driving when the boyfriend suddenly lost control, crashing their Jeep. His girlfriend was thrown through the windshield and into the nearby creek. Distraught, the boyfriend returned to search for her—but she was nowhere to be found. In his despair, he tragically took his own life. Legend says that his spirit haunts the bridge, forever searching for her.  Drivers tell of a Jeep—its single headlight piercing the darkness—chasing them off the road, though no Jeep is ever seen coming around the bend in the road.

Possibly the victim of a farming accident, a decapitated woman in white roams the cemetery searching for her missing head. She appears on foggy nights in the graveyard wearing a dress covered in blood. Many motorists have claimed to see a mysterious figure in a shroud walking along the side of the road, only to vanish as their car gets closer.

PLEASE NOTE that the Cemetery on Texas Road is private property. Trespassers may be fined or prosecuted.

James Gordon moved into this house in the early 1800s, but many believe spirits from the past have never truly left. Staff members still speak of the spirit of Gordon’s wife, who died here at the young age of 25. Piano music drifts from the upstairs parlour—though the piano itself has long since been removed.

One morning, a staff member opening the building was startled by the sound of glass shattering and loud crashes coming from the empty parlour. No one else was there.

Footsteps climbing the stairs is a common occurrence, though no one is seen. Some who have gone up the stairs have reported a cold rush of wind brushing against their backs, as if an unseen presence is gently guiding them to the second floor—yet when they turn, there is no one there.

With over 200 years of history in this building, the house has seen many strange occurrences. Between 1932 and 1934, it served as a maternity house, and in a small room to the left—the former birthing room—babies’ cries still echo faintly in the silence. Figures of soldiers, dressed as if from the War of 1812, have been spotted wandering the corridors.

Perhaps the most unsettling event happened one afternoon after a meeting: a staff member entered an office just in time to see a desk slowly hover off the floor—then gently settle back down as if nothing had happened.

Are there spirits present in the Gordon House? Stop in this Visitor Centre and decide for yourself.

Just down the street stands the Artisan Grill—charming on the outside, with a chilling past. Built in 1867, it once operated as The Horseman House, a hotel with long-term apartments. But behind its walls lies a story of injustice and lingering unrest.

While the Horseman family was away, their daughter was left in charge of the hotel’s restaurant. One quiet evening, as she closed up alone, she was assaulted by one of the building’s tenants. A man was swiftly arrested, convicted, and hanged for the crime. Justice, it seemed, had been served.

But years later, another tenant—on his deathbed—confessed to being the true culprit.

Now, they say the Artisan Grill is haunted by the spirit of the wrongly convicted man. Staff report strange happenings: belongings moved with no explanation, doors that open and slam shut on their own, and—most disturbingly—the sound of a man shouting in the upstairs rooms late at night, when no one is there.

It’s as if he’s still trying to prove his innocence… or perhaps seeking vengeance. Either way, something in that building has never found peace.

There’s a legend that the spirits of three sisters still linger in this house—which now serves as a Bake Shoppe. When something is left too long in the oven and burns, it mysteriously reappears later, perfectly cooled, sitting patiently on the counter.

Some believe the sisters quietly watch over the baking, lending a helping hand from beyond and ensuring no treats go to waste.

Within the original 1894 section of the Canadian Club Brand Centre there are stories of a spectral woman who silently roams the hallways. She does not speak. She does not threaten. But she does not want you there.

Many claim she gently, but unmistakably, urges visitors to leave. A hand on the shoulder. A firm but guiding pressure on the back. Some say they’ve felt her just as they were preparing to enter a room—as if she’s steering them away from something unseen.

In 2002, a visitor leaving the dining room let out a piercing scream. Pale and trembling, she described the sensation of hands on her back, pushing her toward the exit. When she turned to look, the dining room was empty—but in the hallway, she saw a figure seated on one of the antique loveseats.

When she blinked, it was gone. She left immediately.

Security guards, too, have reported encounters—ghostly figures drifting down corridors during late-night patrols. Shadows where there should be none.

The catering company that serves Willistead Manor has a strange and chilling pattern—and it begins in the basement.

Over the years, two different managers have entered the storage room beneath the manor, only to emerge shaken, pale, and unwilling to ever return. Both had gone down simply to retrieve a trolley—an everyday task. But both were gone far longer than they should have been. And both, without explanation, quit on the spot as soon as they came back upstairs.

Neither would speak of what they saw down there. They just left.

Staff still have to use the basement. Fortunately, whatever haunts the shadows seems to single out managers. Could this be the story of a ghost with a deep resentment toward those in charge? Whatever it is, the basement of Willistead Manor remains a place of dread—authority figures beware.

Security guards have whispered about the east wing of the building. Late at night, when the corridors are empty, the distinct sound of footsteps can be heard pacing floors. Each time the sounds are reported, the area is searched—nothing is ever found.

Years ago, an unknown man hanged himself in the turret on the third floor, northeast corner. They say he used to walk the corridors at night, and maybe, just maybe, he still does.

Could the footsteps belong to him?