A cavernous roller rink. One working light. The soft rush of air from skates no one can see. We take you inside a true night-shift haunting in Slidell, Louisiana, where a part-time gig turns into a brush with a story that refuses to fade. Matthew’s routine—setting chairs, sweeping floors, and racking up free pinball—collides with the unmistakable sound of laps around the rink and a cold breeze that passes at hip height like a seasoned skater hugging the rail.
When the owner shares the name Clyde, everything snaps into focus. Clyde was the rink’s most loyal regular for over twenty years, a special needs adult who found comfort and purpose in daily laps and a hot lunch. After his father’s death and a forced move to a state facility, Clyde escaped, broke into the rink he loved, and skated until sunrise. Returned to a place he didn’t want, he took his life the next night. Since then, people have heard the circle of wheels after hours, felt the familiar draft on the straightaway, and sometimes watched old machines spark to life without a coin. This isn’t a story of anger—it’s a story of momentum, of a life defined by movement that keeps tracing the same path.
Curiosity leads to a late-night seance with friends, a pizza growing cold while nerves heat up. The rink answers. Skates whisper over the boards, and a pinball machine springs awake, tallying points for hands that aren’t there. Laughter flips to panic, and a simple job becomes a door you don’t want to open again. Along the way, we explore why certain places hold on to people, how routine can be holy, and why the line between nostalgia and fear is thinner than it seems. If you love haunted places, true ghost stories, and the human truths that anchor them, this one laces tight.
Listen now, then subscribe for more dark, bizarre, and unexplained tales. Share with a friend who scares easily, and leave a review with your theory: is Clyde still skating his last, best laps?
