I had the perfect plan: hop over to Kefalonia, stay in a cute Airbnb, live my best "Mamma Mia" fantasy, maybe add another bucket-list destination to the trophy wall.
Instead, I rented a house straight out of "The Conjuring", discovered that Mercury was definitely in retrograde, and now wake up at 3 a.m. thinking about porcelain dolls named Agatha who want my soul.
And now, lucky you — you get to live it too.
Story time, kids. Buckle up.
I just wanted a cute Airbnb in Kefalonia, but apparently, I also booked 50 dolls and a witch
Kefalonia, a lush island floating in the Ionian Sea, had been on my radar forever. I’d seen the jaw-dropping photos, the turquoise waters of Myrtos Beach, the dreamlike glow of Melissani Cave, the pastel charm of Assos village, and beaches so unreal they could’ve been AI-generated.
It was August 2018, the peak of summer, and I was finally making it happen. My local friend Kostas was on board, ready for an island adventure. There was just one tiny issue: every single accommodation on the island was booked.
Hotels in Greece can be… hit or miss, and back then, Airbnb was just starting to catch on, especially in the Ionian Islands. After hours of scrolling through listings that screamed “1970s motel energy,” I was ready to give up.
Then I saw it.
“Fairytale House.”
Charming name. Cozy vibes. Cute decor. Or so I thought.
I start flipping through photos — wait a second… are those… dolls?
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “Just four or five. I’ll shove them in the closet. No big deal.”
Without another thought (and clearly without common sense), I smash that "Book Now" button.
This was it — my perfect Greek island escape.
Spoiler alert: it was actually the beginning of my horror movie era.
Our Airbnb host pulled up looking like a Victorian witch, and things only got creepier from there
Kostas and I land at the world’s tiniest airport, grab our bags, and head outside to meet our Airbnb host. We look around…
“Is that her driving up?” Kostas asks, pointing.
“No… it can’t be…” I whisper, already getting chills.
A beat-up car — the kind that looks like it hasn’t been washed since the 1970s — sputters toward us. The driver’s door creaks open, and out steps an elderly lady with a massive gray bun shaped like a helium balloon on top of her head. She’s wearing what can only be described as a Victorian-era mourning gown and a smile full of yellowed teeth.
I glance around for signs that we’ve accidentally landed in Salem instead of Kefalonia.
We pile into her car and drive through the island’s winding roads in eerie, movie-scene silence.
“Come inside, come inside,” she says warmly, helping us with our luggage up a few narrow flights of stairs. She unlocks the door and swings it open to reveal what can only be described as a collector’s fever dream.
Not one.
Not two.
Not even three.
But fifty-something dolls — sitting, standing, and staring right at us.
Porcelain. Marionette. Tiny. Life-sized. Each one frozen in a look that said, "Welcome, mortal."
It was like my childhood nightmares had come to life — complete with glassy eyes and judgmental smirks.
Didn’t realize “charming décor” meant the décor could charm back.
I thought the dolls were the creepiest part of the Airbnb, until I noticed the witchcraft books
“Sally,” Kostas whispers while the Airbnb host rambles in the background.
“Did you actually look at the pictures before you booked this place?”
“Of course I did!” I hiss back.
“Did you not see the dolls?”
“I saw four in the photos! I didn’t know there were a hundred of them!”
The host leads us into the bedroom, and somehow it gets worse. Two single beds made of stone (and also covered in dolls) have been pushed together to make one. The sheets are dusty, the pillows flatter than pancakes, and the room smells like a mix of mothballs and unsolved crimes.
“Have a nice stay,” she says sweetly before leaving us alone with our new roommates.
Forget sage, this Airbnb needs to be pressure-washed with holy water.
Kostas freezes, eyes locked on a wall of thick black books with gold-foil lettering. “Do you see this?” he whispers. “It’s all witchcraft. Greek witchcraft. She’s a witch!”
And that’s the moment we both silently agreed: we’d checked into "The Conjuring: Mediterranean Edition".
Our Airbnb host refused to let us leave, and honestly, I thought she might turn us into dolls
Kostas starts frantically making phone calls while I bust out my laptop, desperately hunting for backup hotels — on a fully booked Greek island in August. After scrolling for what felt like centuries, I finally find one available room on the complete opposite side of the island. Victory? Maybe. But now came the real challenge: how do we cancel this Airbnb without summoning the wrath of the witch?
Kostas calls her back, saying something “urgent” has come up. Moments later, we’re all sitting awkwardly around the dining table, surrounded by a small army of dolls, as he carefully explains that we’ve decided not to stay because the place doesn’t match the photos.
That’s when I notice it.
Her tone sharpens. Her gray bun starts to unravel. Her face turns crimson.
This witch is about to unleash some serious Mediterranean hell.
Her tone sharpens. Her gray bun starts to unravel. Her face turns crimson.
This witch is about to unleash some serious Mediterranean hell.
“You cannot cancel!” she suddenly screams in Greek. “You must stay at least three nights!”
Not a f*ing chance. Three nights here and we’d need a priest and a therapist.
“We don’t want to stay in a house filled with creepy dolls,” Kostas says as calmly as possible.
“These dolls are antique!” she snaps. “Other guests love my dolls! How dare you insult my dolls!”
I swear one of them blinked. Or maybe even took a step toward us. Hard to tell, I was too busy planning our escape route.
After hours of arguing with a witch and customer support, we finally escaped our chucky Airbnb
I pull up Airbnb support and get on an extremely awkward phone call with a Southern lady who can’t pronounce “Kefalonia” correctly and also can’t seem to believe that we are trapped inside a living dollhouse with a witch who might turn us to stone at any moment.
“Ma’am, can you show me photos of the dolls, please?” the support agent asks. “I need proof that the house is not as depicted in order to issue a refund.”
I grab my phone and tiptoe toward the bedroom, trying to sneak a photo of one of the dolls sprawled across the bed. She literally laughs in my ear.
After nearly three hours of tense negotiations with both the Airbnb host and support, we finally win a full refund — minus the first night — and are freed from the Chucky mansion. Victory never felt so sweet.
Next mission: grab our rental car and finally explore this stunning island… without being cursed, hopefully.
We finally got free from the witch’s Airbnb only to discover the island had no cars
“What do you mean there are no cars available on the island?” I spit in my broken Greek.
Two hungry, exhausted travelers stand in a tiny roadside car rental office, our luggage piled at our feet.
“We’re fully booked for three weeks,” the clerk shrugs. “Only scooters available.”
Now, picture this, because it’s truly absurd: I’m carrying a fully packed carry-on, a large weekender bag, and a massive backpack. Kostas has a mini suitcase and a Navy SEAL–sized pack.
Our original plan? Rent a car, travel in comfort, enjoy the island.
Reality? Figure out how to cram all this onto a scooter.
Reality? Figure out how to cram all this onto a scooter.
“Do you at least have something above 600cc?” Kostas pleads.
“Let me show you what we have,” the owner says, leading us to a lineup of pathetic little scooters that might as well be glorified bicycles.
Desperation kicks in.
“I’ll take it.”
And so begins the most ridiculous game of human-and-luggage Tetris in history: five pieces of luggage, two beefy adults, stacked, duct-taped, and worn in ways that defy physics — one bag on the floor, two strapped to the back, my backpack on me, Kostas’s worn in reverse.
We zoom off, Kostas pedaling like a mad Greek stuntman. Despite my discomfort, hunger, and exhaustion, I get excited — finally, we can see the island and hit the beaches. I even start planning bikinis in my mind.
Then the scooter starts to sputter. Slow down. Choke.
I hear Kostas swearing under his helmet.
MAAAAALLLLLLLAAAAAKKKAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!
No gas.
Stranded.
Completely screwed.
Stranded.
Completely screwed.
After a haunted Airbnb, a witch, and a scooter disaster, Kefalonia finally rewarded us
“They lied about the gas!” Kostas yells, kicking the scooter as it tips over with all of our luggage. That’s when it hit me: the witch had definitely put a hex on us. She’s probably in her kitchen right now, stirring a cauldron with a strand of my hair, laughing at our complete breakdown.
Even the cats on Kefalonia looked like they’d seen something terrifying.
At that moment, I realized we had two options: succumb to the evil curse… or fight for our right to reach the goddamn beach.
I’ve got to hand it to Kostas. This Greek Navy SEAL wasn’t taking any nonsense. He marched all the way back to the scooter rental, got a jerrycan, fueled the bike, and off we went again — to the hotel, to unpack, to dance naked while burning sage and singing Greek folk songs.
And then we finally got to enjoy the beauty of Kefalonia. It’s a wild, untamed island. Xi Beach might as well be on Mars. Myrtos Beach glows interplanetary blue from the hilltops. Assos Village is an architectural marvel. The island is literal food for the eyes.
By the end of our six-day trip, Kostas and I were closer than ever after surviving a haunted dollhouse, a witch’s curse, a broken-down scooter, and the temptation to just give up.
Is Kefalonia as stunning in real life as in the photos? Absolutely. Does the island need an exorcism? Also yes.
All I can say is: if you’re planning a trip here, pack an evil eye the size of a satellite dish.