My parents dismissed it as small-town gossip

When I was twelve, my family moved into an old farmhouse on the outskirts of a quiet town. The house had been empty for years, its paint faded, the windows clouded with dust. The locals spoke in hushed tones about its past, warning us that the last family left suddenly and without explanation. My parents dismissed it as small-town gossip.

The first night, I lay awake in bed, listening to the wind howl outside. Then I heard it—a faint scratching sound from inside the walls. At first, I thought it might be mice, but the noise was too deliberate, like nails dragging slowly against wood. I held my breath, frozen, as the scratching moved closer, stopping just behind my headboard. Then silence.

Over the next few weeks, the house grew restless. Doors creaked open on their own, no matter how tightly we shut them. The attic light flickered, even when the switch was off. My younger sister spoke of a woman with long, dark hair who stood in the hallway at night, watching her with empty, black eyes. My parents insisted it was just nightmares.

One night, while home alone, I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. They were slow and deliberate, as if someone was dragging their feet. My heart pounded as I gripped the edge of my blanket. The footsteps stopped outside my door. Then came a soft knock—once, twice, three times. The door handle twisted. I could hear my own breathing, sharp and quick. Then, the door creaked open.

But there was nothing there.

A chilling whisper followed, just inches from my ear. “Leave… before it’s too late.”

The final night in that house was the worst. We woke to the sound of glass shattering. Every single mirror in the house had cracked, spiderweb fractures spreading across them. The house felt different—heavier, as if something unseen was pressing down on us. My mother found deep gouges on the wooden floors, long claw marks that hadn’t been there before. Then, my sister screamed. She pointed to the doorway, her face pale as a sheet. “She’s here,” she whispered.

The next morning, we packed up and left. My parents refused to talk about what happened, but I know they felt it too. Years later, I returned out of curiosity. The house stood abandoned, its windows shattered, the front door swinging open with the wind. I stepped inside just once, long enough to hear it again—the slow, deliberate scratching in the walls, waiting for someone to listen.