Scared to sleep in my own room

March 2, 2025

by Rogelio

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (418 words)

"I’m Emma, and when I was little, I lived with my mom in my grandparents’ house in Maple Ridge. It was an old, quiet house, full of history and creaky wooden floors. I loved it, but even as a child, I always felt like I wasn’t alone. One night, when I was about seven, I […]"

I’m Emma, and when I was little, I lived with my mom in my grandparents’ house in Maple Ridge. It was an old, quiet house, full of history and creaky wooden floors. I loved it, but even as a child, I always felt like I wasn’t alone.

One night, when I was about seven, I was too scared to sleep in my own room. It always felt… wrong. Like someone was watching me. So, I curled up in my mom’s bed instead. The room was dark and silent, except for the occasional hoot of an owl outside.

I don’t know what woke me, but I suddenly opened my eyes and found myself staring at the bedroom wall. Everything felt still—too still. Then, I heard it. A slow, quiet creak.

The bathroom door.

It was right next to my mom’s room, and I was certain we had shut it before going to sleep. I lay there frozen, barely breathing. The door creaked again, just slightly. I reached out and gently shook my mom’s shoulder. She woke up instantly.

“Mom,” I whispered. “The bathroom door…”

She frowned but sat up. I followed her as she got out of bed, my little heart hammering in my chest.

And there it was. The bathroom door. Wide open.

Mom and I stared at each other. We both knew it had been shut. She hesitated, then tried to act normal. “Must be the wind,” she muttered.

But the window was locked.

That was just the first time. After that, things got worse.

Every time we took pictures inside the house, strange orbs would appear, floating in the background. Our dog would stand at the entrance of the walk-in closet, growling at nothing. And once, when I was sleeping in my own bed, I woke up in the middle of the night.

There, in the corner, stood a boy.

His shadowy figure barely visible, his face hidden in darkness. My whole body froze as he stepped toward me, silent, staring. Then, just as he reached my bed, he collapsed.

And vanished.

Later, I learned something chilling.

The house was built over an old boarding school that had burned down over a century ago. Some children had never made it out.

My grandparents still live there, and I visit all the time. But no matter how much I love that house, I will never sleep alone there again.

Because the ghost of that boy is still there. Watching. Waiting.

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