Turkish Urban Legends No. 1: The Haunted Bathhouse of Eskişehir
Among the urban legends that emerged in Turkey during the 2000s and beyond, the story of the “haunted bathhouse” in Eskişehir stands out as perhaps the most intriguing—and certainly the one that has secured the firmest foothold in popular culture. What sets this tale apart from other paranormal urban legends is its remarkable success in spreading through word of mouth, far outpacing similar creepy stories of its era. In fact, this legend achieved such notoriety that it was even featured in a sketch on “Kime Diyorum Ben” (Who Am I Talking To), one of the most popular talk shows of its time, hosted by comedian Şahan Gökbakar. Of course, this level of mainstream exposure may have diminished some of its frightening power.
The episode of comedy show “Kime Diyorum Ben” featuring a sketch about the haunted bathhouse legend of Eskişehir.
However, what makes this legend particularly worthy of examination is the fact that it spread primarily through word of mouth in an age when mass communication tools were already ubiquitous—almost as if we had been transported back to the early 1900s. Add to this that the story takes place entirely in an urban city center, and you have something genuinely fascinating on your hands.
So What Exactly Is This Haunted Bathhouse Legend?
When you search for “haunted bathhouse in Eskişehir” or similar terms online, you’ll notice that most of the news articles date back to 2007. Anyone who was attending middle school or high school in Eskişehir during that period will likely remember the rumors that circulated around campus: stories about djinn sightings at a bathhouse in the Hamamyolu district, or about djinn tormenting someone there, or—most disturbingly—that one of the bath attendants (or perhaps all the staff) had reversed feet. Unlike the “Apartment No. 129” or the “Antalya haunted house” claims that emerged later in the 2000s (which we’ve discussed on our podcast), this was a genuine folk legend that grew and spread organically through the community.
To briefly summarize the story: an unnamed individual visits the thermal bathhouse late one night. While being scrubbed by the tellak (traditional bath attendant), he notices the man mumbling something in an unfamiliar language. After a while, growing increasingly uneasy from these strange mutterings, the visitor glances down and realizes the attendant’s feet are reversed. Terrified, he tries to flee, only to discover that the other staff members in the hotel lobby also have reversed feet and grotesque appearances. He eventually throws himself into a police station for safety. While there are minor variations in different tellings, virtually everyone who lived in Eskişehir during that time heard some version of this story. As I mentioned at the beginning, it became famous enough to be featured on national comedy programs.
How Does an Urban Legend Get Born?
So what’s the origin of this haunted bathhouse legend? The first possibility that comes to mind is that it might have been planted by competitors of the bathhouse in question (which we won’t name here). After all, once the rumor emerged, the situation escalated to the point where the Eskişehir Mufti’s Office felt compelled to issue a statement declaring the claims baseless—and even the Eskişehir Chamber of Commerce had to release an official denial. That alone gives you a sense of how far the story had spread by 2007.
However, as we discussed on our podcast, there’s something about this theory that doesn’t quite add up. After the rumor emerged, it spread through the city so rapidly that, according to a hotel manager interviewed in another news piece from the period, people were calling the hotel asking about the incident and had become afraid to visit bathhouses altogether. In other words, if the goal was to sabotage a competitor, the campaign backfired spectacularly, people weren’t just avoiding one specific bathhouse; they were avoiding bathhouses in general.
Whether this originated as a commercial smear campaign, a spur-of-the-moment tall tale someone told their friends without anticipating it would snowball, or some kind of bizarre publicity stunt, a legend is a legend. And this particular urban legend, built around a paranormal bathhouse, proved remarkably successful in spreading through word of mouth, eventually reaching national prominence.
Below, you’ll also find “Halis Hamamı” (Halis Bathhouse) story, a fictional piece we wrote inspired by this famous legend.
Halis Bathhouse
I was exhausted, and just as filthy. The dust that had clung to my sweat was stinging my eyes. The hardest part of working at the wholesale warehouse was these monthly overnight inventory sessions when the trucks came in. Otherwise, the job wasn’t particularly demanding. But these nights really wore you down. Being someone who appreciates life’s pleasures, though, I’d found a way to make even this bearable. The trucks would arrive at night, and the unloading, stocking, counting—all of it would stretch until dawn. The moment the work was done, I’d head straight for the bathhouse. There were plenty of them around here—the area was called Hamamyolu, “Bathhouse Road,” after all—but out of all those bathhouses, I always went to Halis Hamamı. Not because it was anything special, but probably out of habit inherited from my father. God rest his soul, he always used to bring me here. First I’d get a proper wash and scrub, then sip my soda in the cooling room. After that, I’d head to the börek shop for some pastry, go home, and crash. That was my plan for wrapping up another exhausting shift with a touch of pleasure. But after what I experienced, those things could only ever be reminders of horror.
I walked through the bathhouse door and said, “Peace be upon you, Akif abi.” I left my wallet and phone on the counter. Akif abi, normally a cheerful, joking man, was silent this time. I tried to ask how he was doing, but the moment he handed me the key, he turned his back. I didn’t press it and walked away, grabbed the slippers, and headed to the cooling room. Not a soul in sight. At this hour, the regular crowd of uncles and grandfathers should have already finished bathing and settled in for their usual chat. I should have been marveling at what ungodly hour they’d woken up to get here. But like I said, not even the staff were around. I put on the slippers, grabbed the towels, and went downstairs. The peştemalci—the attendant who hands out the loincloths—wasn’t at his post either, but that wasn’t much of an issue since I preferred going in wearing shorts anyway. Not wanting to linger in this strange silence, I pushed open the bathhouse door. The sight that greeted me left me stunned. If upstairs was deserted, down here was packed. The pool was teeming with people. This pool’s going to be filthy, no way I’m getting in, I thought, and started looking for an empty spot. Just then, one of them climbed out of the pool and walked past me. My eyes caught his feet. At first, through the steam, I couldn’t quite make out what I was seeing. But I looked more carefully and realized his feet were reversed. The man noticed me staring and fixed his eyes on me. Terrified and bewildered, I looked away and turned around. What I saw when I turned around frightened me even more. Everyone had gotten out of the pool and was staring at me. All of their feet were reversed. They weren’t moving. Neither could I. I wanted to scream, but it was as if an invisible hand was clamping my mouth shut. In a sudden burst of will, I bolted through the door and tried to race upstairs. My bare, wet feet slipped on the marble steps and I tumbled down, striking my head against the stone floor. When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the ground. The bathhouse door was ajar, and I could see inside. There was no one there. I scrambled to my feet and hurried up the stairs—more carefully this time, but quickly. The moment I entered the cooling room, I went to the locker where I’d left my clothes, but the door was open and it was empty. I shouted for Akif abi and ran to the entrance area. Akif abi had returned to his usual self—cheerful again, the opposite of how he’d been that morning. He looked at me, laughed, and said, “What’s wrong, nephew? You’ve come out in nothing but your underwear.” “Akif abi, there are men down there—their feet are reversed,” I said, frantic. Akif abi laughed. “Oh, them? They’re my buddies, don’t worry about it. Reversed feet, you say? Like this?” And he showed me his own feet. The instant I saw them, I bolted for the door. As I was running out, Akif abi grabbed my right shoulder and tried to stop me, but I managed to break free and threw myself into the street. Every shop was closed. Not a soul in sight. I don’t remember how long I ran. I finally stopped to catch my breath at the tram station and spotted the kiosk behind it was open, so I took shelter there. I never went back to that bathhouse. I never even walked past it again. Even though years have passed since it happened, I’ve never been able to forget. How could I? The burn mark on my right shoulder is still there—and every now and then, it still flares up.
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