The Ghost in the Old House

When I was younger, around 12 or 13, my family moved into a very old house in a small, quiet town. It was one of those houses you see in movies—creaky wooden floors, tall windows, and a long, dark hallway leading to the bedrooms. It had been abandoned for years before we moved in. From the moment we stepped inside, something felt… off. But we were excited for a fresh start, so I brushed it off as nerves.

The first night, I couldn’t sleep. It was a still night, yet I kept hearing strange sounds—footsteps above my room, like someone was pacing back and forth in the attic. I asked my parents if anyone had been up there, but they assured me the attic was sealed off. We hadn’t even opened it since moving in.

Over the next few weeks, small things started happening. Lights would flicker in certain rooms, doors would creak open by themselves, and the air would suddenly feel icy cold. My parents always found a rational explanation—bad wiring, drafts, or just an old house settling. But deep down, I knew something was wrong.

One evening, I was in my room doing homework when I heard soft knocking on my bedroom door. I assumed it was my little sister, but when I opened the door, no one was there. The hallway was empty. Feeling uneasy, I went back to my desk and continued working, but the knocking started again, this time louder. I called out for my parents, but the house was eerily silent.

That night, I had the most vivid dream—or at least I thought it was a dream. I woke up in my bed, paralyzed, unable to move or speak. At the foot of my bed stood a shadowy figure, watching me. It didn’t have a face, but I could feel its gaze—heavy and cold. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. The figure slowly moved closer, and I could hear its footsteps on the wooden floor. It leaned over me, and I felt its breath on my neck. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished, and I could move again.

Shaken, I ran to my parents' room, but they told me it was just a nightmare. They didn’t believe me. But after that night, things escalated. My sister started seeing shadows in the corners of her room, and my mom would hear voices calling her name when no one was around. My dad, the skeptic, dismissed it all—until one night when he came face to face with whatever was haunting us.

He was walking down the hallway late at night when he felt someone tugging at his shirt. Thinking it was one of us, he turned around, only to find no one there. But when he looked down, he saw a small handprint on his shirt—like that of a child. We didn’t have any young children in the house. He never mentioned it again, but I could tell by the way he avoided that hallway at night that he believed me now.

We lived in that house for two years. The haunting never stopped, but we learned to live with it—almost as if we were sharing the space with something unseen. When we finally moved out, the new owners didn’t stay long. They left after just three months, claiming the house was cursed.

To this day, I still get chills thinking about that house. I’ve told the story to friends, but most think it was just my imagination. But I know what I saw, what I felt. Something was in that house with us, and it still haunts me.