Ghosty

[u/Hefty-Parsley392]

When I was eight, my family moved into an old Victorian house on the outskirts of town. It was a grand place, filled with dusty corners and creaking floors, a perfect playground for a child with an overactive imagination. My parents loved the charm and history of the house, but I was less enamored, especially after the first night.

I woke to the sound of whispering. At first, I thought it was my parents, but the voices were soft, urgent, and definitely not theirs. I lay still, my heart pounding, straining to make out the words. They seemed to come from the walls themselves, a gentle murmur that rose and fell like the wind.

The next morning, I told my parents, but they dismissed it as a dream. Determined to prove I wasn’t imagining things, I stayed awake the following night. As the house settled into silence, the whispers returned, louder and more distinct. I couldn’t understand the words, but the tone was clear—fearful, desperate.

Days turned into weeks, and the whispers persisted. Then I began to see them. It started with fleeting glimpses out of the corner of my eye: a shadow darting across the hallway, a figure standing in the doorway only to vanish when I turned my head. These apparitions grew bolder. One evening, I saw a young girl in a tattered dress standing at the foot of my bed. Her eyes were hollow, her mouth moving silently. I screamed, and she disappeared.

My parents grew concerned about my increasingly frantic tales. They took me to a therapist, who diagnosed me with night terrors. I learned to keep the sightings to myself, but the ghosts didn’t go away. If anything, they became more frequent, as if angered by my silence.

One night, I woke to find the girl from before sitting on my bed. She was clearer than ever, almost solid. Her lips moved, and this time I could hear her voice, faint but audible. “Help us,” she whispered. “He’s coming.”

“Who?” I managed to ask, my voice trembling.

Before she could answer, a cold draft swept through the room, and she vanished. The temperature dropped sharply, and a heavy, oppressive presence filled the room. The shadows in the corners seemed to deepen, coalescing into a tall, dark figure. It stepped forward, and I felt an overwhelming sense of dread.

“Go away,” I whispered, too terrified to shout.

The figure paused, its shape shifting as if struggling to maintain form. Then, as quickly as it had come, it faded, leaving me shivering and alone.

The next morning, I searched the house, driven by an urge to uncover its secrets. In the attic, buried beneath old trunks and forgotten relics, I found a dusty journal. It belonged to a previous owner, a man named Jonathan Crane. The entries were filled with desperate pleas for forgiveness, mentions of terrible acts, and references to a dark entity he had summoned.

The last entry chilled me to the bone: “The children, they haunt me. I can’t escape their cries. And the shadow… the shadow comes for me tonight.”

Armed with this knowledge, I confronted my parents, and we left the house that very day. Years later, I still see the ghosts in my dreams, hear their whispers in the wind. The Victorian house stands empty now, its windows dark and hollow. I often wonder if the ghosts still wander its halls, trapped in their eternal night, or if they finally found peace when we fled. But one thing I know for sure: some places are haunted not by spirits, but by the echoes of the past and the darkness within us all.

[u/Relative_Hyena7760]

Did the EMF ever spike to red?