I wonder if sharing makes it easier

I don’t really like to talk about this, but sometimes I wonder if sharing makes it easier to live with.

I live with my wife and our four kids—two boys, two girls, ages 10 to 17. We bought our house in Willow Creek about ten years ago. A nice place, four bedrooms, two baths, and a big backyard. It was an older house, built in the ’70s, sitting at the edge of town near an old train line that hasn’t run in years. It was a great deal at the time, so we took it.

We should’ve asked why it was so cheap.

The first strange thing happened just two weeks after we moved in. We came home one evening to find every chair in the kitchen stacked on the table, perfectly balanced. We blamed the kids at first, but they swore they didn’t do it. Then the lights started flickering, doors would open and shut on their own, and the air would randomly turn freezing cold—even in the middle of summer.

But the worst part? The noises.

Soft whispers in the middle of the night. A faint hum of music, like an old radio playing somewhere in the walls. And tapping. Always the same pattern—three slow knocks.

One night, my wife was cleaning in the bedroom when the TV switched on by itself. Then off. Then on again. It wasn’t the remote. It wasn’t a power surge. I saw it happen too.

Our dog started acting strange, barking at empty corners, refusing to enter certain rooms. One night, I woke up to go to the bathroom and saw something in the reflection of the shower glass—a woman, barely visible, just standing there. I bolted back to bed. When I finally worked up the courage to check again, she was gone.

Things got worse after that.

One evening, I opened the pantry to start dinner and found every single item flipped upside down. Milk left in the fridge would spoil overnight. Bread would mold in a day. Our plants never lasted more than a few weeks before withering.

Then, my oldest son told me he saw something. A mist, floating near his ceiling. My daughter started hearing whispers at night, a voice she couldn’t quite understand. We tried to ignore it, thinking if we didn’t acknowledge it, maybe it would stop. And for a while, it did.

Until the night I felt it.

I was lying in bed, half-asleep, when I felt the mattress shift. Like someone had just sat down at the foot of the bed. My heart stopped. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

I just waited.

Then, after what felt like forever, the pressure lifted.

We still live here. Selling isn’t an option—we’re stuck. And most days, things are quiet. Just the occasional flickering lights or that quick shadow in the corner of your eye.

But every now and then… I still hear the tapping.

Three slow knocks.

And I know it’s still here.