Downtown Wake Forest’s buildings and sidewalks have seen well over 100 years of history—and they have some eerie stories to tell!
Each season of the "Spirits of Wake Forest" ghost walk, new tales are brought to life while others are retired from the tour. Want to revisit some of those chilling classics? You can read a selection of retired stories from past tours below.
Be sure to join us this upcoming season to experience the current spine-tingling stories!
Previously Told Tales
"The Beanie Baby Mischief of Sweetie’s Candy Shop"
143 Wait Ave.
Years ago, nestled inside the Powers-Barbee building, there lived a cheerful little candy shop called Sweetie’s. It was the kind of place that made children press their noses to the glass and grown-ups feel like kids again. But behind the sugary scent and colorful shelves, there was a mystery that never quite left the building.
Each night after closing, the staff would tidy the shop, carefully arranging their beloved display of Beanie Baby stuffed animals. During the day, they’d been tossed and tumbled by tiny hands and curious visitors, but by closing time, every plush bear and bright-eyed critter was back in its place.
That is—until morning.
Without fail, the staff would arrive to find the Beanie Babies in disarray. Some were slumped against shelves, others scattered across the floor, as if they’d been moved mid-play. No signs of a break-in, no alarm triggered. Just a silent mess.
Puzzled, they turned to the security footage. But instead of answers, the cameras offered only strange “spots” on the screen—flickering orbs of light and quick shadows that danced past the lens.
Was it the spirit of a former resident? A lonely ghost seeking company in a candy shop filled with joy and laughter? Or was something else stirring after dark—something mischievous, perhaps even a little bit menacing?
Whatever the cause, the Beanie Babies never stayed put. And Sweetie’s never quite slept alone.
“Beauty and the Boo”
111 S. White St.
The Wilkinson Building, one of Wake Forest’s oldest structures, has a long and eerie past. Once a doctor’s office and funeral parlor, it’s no surprise whispers of hauntings linger within its brick walls.
Not long ago, Jubilation Skincare & Massage moved into the back of the building. On move-in night, the owner and her friends heard children laughing and a baby crying—but all the nearby businesses were closed, and they were alone. Weeks later, strange flickering lights, late-night security alerts, and ghostly orbs caught on camera confirmed something was off. One orb moved on screen just as a distorted sound echoed through the footage.
She wasn’t alone in her experience. Employees at The Burger Shop recalled similar encounters—like a chair mysteriously kicked over in a locked room.
Jubilation has since moved out. But the spirits? Many believe they never left.
If you pass by after dark, listen closely… the Wilkinson Building still has stories to tell.
“Felipe, the Phantom of the Pizza”
143 S. White St.
As the sun dips below the horizon and the streets of Wake Forest grow quiet, a soft glow still shines from the windows of the local Domino’s Pizza. The ovens hum, the smell of garlic and melted cheese drifts into the night air, and the final pizzas of the evening are boxed up for delivery.
But once the rush is over… things start to change.
Employees have grown used to the oddities that unfold after closing time. A door creaks open in the back—slowly. Then, moments later, it clicks shut. No footsteps. No voices. No one nearby.
And yet… they’ve heard them. Whispers. Soft and low, barely more than a breath. Just out of earshot, just enough to send a shiver down the spine.
No one’s ever seen anything. Not really. But the staff agree: something—or someone—lingers in the quiet corners of the pizzeria once the world outside has gone to sleep.
They’ve even given their unseen guest a name: Felipe.
Not a menacing spirit, but a mischievous one. A friendly phantom who seems content to roam the kitchen tiles and peek through the swinging doors—never making a mess, never causing real harm. Just… watching. Whispering. Reminding the closing crew that they’re never truly alone.
Now it’s tradition. New hires are told about Felipe on their first late shift, and seasoned employees nod knowingly when the doors sway without reason. “That’s just Felipe,” they’ll say with a smile—though they still glance over their shoulder.
So if you find yourself craving a midnight slice and step inside the Wake Forest Domino’s, keep your ears open. And if you hear a whisper with no source, or a gentle door creak when no one’s nearby… just smile and say hello.
"Grounds for Haunting at Piedmont Federal Bank"
302 S. Brooks St.
Tucked along the quiet streets of Downtown Wake Forest stands a building older than most of the town’s pavement—a place where dollars and cents have exchanged hands for well over a century. Piedmont Federal Bank, formerly known as Wake Forest Federal, isn’t just the town’s oldest community bank… it’s also home to something else. Something… restless.
Long after business hours, when only one or two late workers remain, strange things begin to stir. The coffee maker suddenly turns on by itself. Kitchen cabinets, long thought to be still and silent, fling open and slam shut with force. Always the kitchen. Always near the coffee.
If you're walking by in the evening, take a glance at the building. If the light in the kitchen is on—don’t look away too quickly. Some say that’s when he’s most active.
You see, decades ago, a particularly frugal employee worked in that very building. Known for his penny-pinching ways, he brewed the office coffee each morning… but never with fresh grounds. No, he insisted on reusing the same grinds, day after day—believing it a brilliant cost-saving measure. While coworkers groaned over the bitter brews, he stood by his methods with pride.
That man has long since passed, but his spirit may not have moved on—at least, not completely.
Today, the staff prefer a better cup of coffee. Fresh grounds. Fresh pots. Every day. But perhaps not everyone approves.
Some say the old employee’s ghost still haunts the breakroom, slamming cabinets and activating the coffee maker—not out of menace, but in protest. A stubborn soul from beyond, trying to remind everyone that good coffee shouldn’t come at such a steep price.
So, the next time you find yourself near the bank, and you catch the scent of brewing coffee when no one’s around—or hear an unexpected slam from the back room—pause for a moment. You just might be in the company of Wake Forest’s most frugal spirit.
“Shadows at the Depot”
121 Front St.
On the edge of Downtown Wake Forest sits an old brick building—the town’s last passenger depot. It may look harmless, but those who step inside often feel otherwise.
During a paranormal investigation conducted in 2023, the team described the energy as “potent and powerful,” with a thick, uncomfortable presence hanging in the air. The back room was especially chilling.
Dark shadow figures moved across the walls—quick and silent, then gone. But not imagined. Everyone saw them.
Many believe they’re spirits of travelers who never made it to their final stop.
The trains may have left Wake Forest long ago—but something else stayed behind.
"The Ghost Behind the Bar"
158 S. White St.
Tonic, Bar and Social Club is known for its good vibes — clinking glasses, craft cocktails, and music that fills the air on lively weekends. But behind the laughter and neon lights, one bartender discovered that something else might be enjoying the party, too.
One quiet evening, with the crowd still trickling in, the bartender slipped into the back storage room to put away a stubborn piece of bar equipment. She hoisted it up to a high shelf, dusted off her hands, and turned to leave—only to hear a thud behind her.
The item was back on the floor.
Frowning, she picked it up and placed it back on the shelf. Turned around. Thud. Again, it fell. A third attempt, same result. By now, a little irritated, she looked over her shoulder and snapped, “Would you knock it off??”
This time, the item stayed.
Smirking at her small victory, she headed back to the bar, confident she'd handled whatever odd trick the room was playing. But later that night, when she returned to grab something else, she barely crossed the threshold before—WHACK! The same item tumbled down and smacked her squarely on the head.
These days, she tells the story with a laugh, rubbing her temple at the memory. A coincidence? Maybe. But she’s convinced Tonic has a spirit who just enjoys a little fun—and knows exactly when to deliver the punchline.
“The Murder That Came to the Window”
353 S. White St.
Once, nestled in the heart of Downtown Wake Forest, there stood a bank—SunTrust, a place of order, numbers, and quiet routine. But for those who worked behind its polished counters and frosted glass, the days were rarely as uneventful as they seemed. Because at this bank… “murders” happened almost every day.
Not the kind that draw sirens or headlines. No, these murders came on wings.
A gathering of crows—called a murder—would arrive without warning, as if summoned from some shadowy page of folklore. Day after day, the black birds would descend and perch along the front windowsill, tapping their beaks lightly—rap, rap, rap—against the glass. Each time, employees would look up from their work only to meet rows of unblinking eyes staring back at them. Calm. Still. Ominously silent.
Not a caw. Not a flutter. Just cold, unwavering stares.
Folktales have long whispered that crows are omens of death. That they carry messages from beyond, or bear witness to things unseen. The employees of SunTrust never heard one utter “Nevermore,” but they joked—nervously—that perhaps they didn’t need to. The birds said enough with their silence.
Even after all these years, some of the former bank staff still speak of those strange visitations. They remember the eerie chill that followed the soft tapping of beaks, and how the air would still, just for a moment, as if the world paused to listen.
And though the bank is no longer open, passersby claim the crows still return—especially on overcast days. They gather quietly at the windows, waiting. Watching.
So if you find yourself walking downtown and you hear a light tapping from the pane behind you… don’t look too quickly. You may just find yourself face to face with a murder of the most unsettling kind.
"The Regular at Freddy’s"
308 E. Roosevelt Ave.
At Freddy’s Bottle Shop, the shelves are lined with craft brews, the lights glow warm and inviting, and the front door bell chimes just like it should—maybe a little too often.
The owner spends a good bit of time in the back room, handling deliveries or sorting stock. But more often than not, the familiar chime of the front door alert echoes through the space, signaling that a customer has arrived. Dutifully, he steps out to greet them—only to find the store empty.
No footsteps. No voices. No trace of anyone at all.
At first, he searched the street, thinking maybe someone changed their mind or walked away too quickly to notice. But time after time, the result was the same. The bell would ring, and the space would remain still.
Eventually, he stopped being surprised.
Now, when the door alert goes off with no one in sight, he just steps into the front room and calls out, “Welcome to Freddy’s!” with a friendly grin. After all, just because his most loyal visitor never shows their face doesn’t mean they don’t deserve a warm hello.
"The Restless Guest of the Wilkinson Building"
203 Wait Ave.
Standing tall since 1899, the Wilkinson Building has seen more than its fair share of life—and death. Once a doctor’s office and later a funeral parlor, its very bones are steeped in stories of injury, illness, and sorrow. Today, it houses cheerful spots like Las Margaritas, The Lemon Tree, and the Burger Shop. But beneath the clatter of cutlery and hum of conversation, whispers of the past still echo through its walls.
Locals speak of unexplained footsteps pacing the upper floors, soft knocks on locked doors, and disembodied voices floating down empty hallways. The current shopkeepers may not share many ghost stories—but the building hasn’t always been so quiet.
Back in the early 2010s, a boutique named Mimosa called the Wilkinson Building home. One night, long after closing, the owner stayed late to restock. The shop was quiet, the streets outside nearly empty. As she sorted her merchandise in the stillness, a sudden chill brushed past her, and a wave of unease crept up her spine.
Without warning, neatly stacked papers scattered across the floor, tossed by an unseen force. Boxes shifted around the shop as if nudged by invisible hands. She froze, heart racing, but the sensation that surrounded her wasn’t hostile—it was playful, almost childlike. Still, she wasn’t alone.
Though shaken, she returned the next day and the one after that. The strange presence never harmed her, but it lingered, always just out of view. Some say it was a spirit left behind by the building’s darker days—perhaps a patient of Doc Wilkinson who never fully healed, or a soul brought to the funeral parlor but not quite ready to rest.
Whatever it was, it made itself known.
And maybe, just maybe, it still does.
“The Scent of Rose”
410 S. White St.
At the base of Powerhouse Row, where bricks meet buttercream and ovens hum with life, something sweet lingers in the air—and it’s not just the cupcakes.
Inside Plant Cakes Bake Shop, the staff speak of a spirit named Rose. They gave her the name after the soft, floral perfume that seems to drift through the space at random—delicate, unmistakable, and never from a bottle on the shelf.
Rose doesn’t frighten anyone. She plays little games instead. A ruler goes missing mid-measure. A whisk vanishes, only to reappear hours later on a windowsill or behind a stack of pans. The motion light in the office flickers on… even when the room is empty.
But the bakers don’t mind. They’ve grown fond of her.
Whenever that sweet floral scent wafts through the kitchen, they smile and say, “Hi, Rose.”
And just like that, she’s part of the team—an invisible guest with a love for pastries and a flair for the mysterious.
"The Sweet Tooth at The Cotton Company"
306 S. White St.
In a cozy little classroom tucked at the back of The Cotton Company’s gallery, one of the resident artists kept a simple jar of Tootsie Pops on her desk — a cheerful offering for guests, students, or the occasional sugar craving.
But one morning, something peculiar caught her eye. A lollipop had been delicately unwrapped, its glossy wrapper placed neatly beside it, and a bite — a small, clean chunk — was missing from the candy. Odd, she thought. The classroom door had been locked tight, just as it always was when she left.
Curious and concerned, she reviewed the building’s security footage. Nothing. No person had stepped foot into the room. No movement. No explanation.
She wondered — could it have been a mouse? A bat? She searched every corner for cracks, holes, or any small passageway that could explain the strange intrusion. But the room was sealed tight, clean, and undisturbed. There was no way in, at least not for any living creature.
Still unsettled, she threw the candy away and brushed off the incident. But the next morning brought the same discovery — another Tootsie Pop, unwrapped with care, and bearing the bite of what could only be described as a child’s small teeth.
It happened again.
And that was enough. Not wanting to tempt fate — or whatever spirit might be snacking while she was away — the artist quietly removed the candy jar from her desk for good.
Was it the ghost of a young visitor from years past? A lingering soul with a sweet tooth? Or perhaps one of the former warehouse workers or longtime customers, now departed, still wandering the halls and aisles they once knew so well?
At The Cotton Company, the past never feels too far away — and some guests, it seems, aren’t quite ready to leave.
