By Shannan North, Licensed Associate Real Estate Broker
The following is a true ghost story from Brown Harris Stevens Agent, Shannan North, a lifelong Hamptons local with deep family roots in the area, who has spent her life surrounded by the charm, and the mysteries, of the East End. Growing up along the quiet waterfronts and winding back roads of North Haven, she’s seen firsthand how the past lingers here, sometimes in the most unexpected ways. This story, drawn from her own childhood memories, is one of those tales.
There’s an old waterfront house in North Haven where my family used to gather every Christmas. The kind of place that looks beautiful in the daylight, all shimmering water views and warm firelight, but takes on a different feeling after dark.
Every holiday, we’d dare each other to take the “Ghost Walk”: from the back staircase to the front staircase, alone. The hallways creaked, shadows moved just a little too much, and every single time, someone swore they heard or saw something.
Years later, my cousin moved into the newer wing of that same house with his Doberman. One night, around 2 or 3 a.m., they woke to the sound of bottles breaking in the kitchen. The dog went berserk. My cousin rushed in… nothing. No mess, no broken glass, just silence. It happened again. And again.
Not long after, it was my job to clean the house. I was twelve or thirteen, blasting MTV just to drown out the creaks and whispers. I’d vacuum like my life depended on it, singing along to Joan Osborne, pretending I wasn’t terrified.
Then came the sighting. My big, tough cousin, who isn’t the type to believe in ghosts, was backing out of the driveway one evening when he saw a figure standing in the upstairs window of the old part of the house. A man’s silhouette, still and watching.
That was enough for the family to call in the pros. Yes, actual ghost hunters. We hired two different companies. Two different teams came and stayed overnight in the “active” bedroom, the same one where the figure had appeared.
Both teams said the same thing: There was a presence in the house. An older man. The former owner.
His name was Rocky.
The investigators couldn’t have known, but there was an old photograph hanging in the back stairwell. It was the house in its original form, and in it, the man himself: Rocky, the first owner. They had mentioned that Rocky was not a fan of other people touching his things or changing his house. That’s why he would throw bottles around at early hours of the morning.
Learning that, I changed my cleaning ritual. Before vacuuming or dusting, I’d call out softly,
“Hey, Rocky. It’s just me. I’m here to clean. Don’t worry, I’m not changing anything.”
And you know what? He left me alone. No more footsteps. No more broken bottles. Just peace.
Decades later, that same family still lives there. Their children are grown, their grandkids visit for holidays, and no one’s ever mentioned Rocky again.
Maybe he finally made peace with the living residents of the house, or maybe he’s still there, quietly watching over the home he loved, occasionally throwing a bottle or two when someone rearranges his things.
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