The Dead of Winter Sleepover

In the winter of 1996, my friend Sarah invited me to a sleepover at her place while her dad was out of town. She lived out in the countryside, in an old farmhouse that had been in her family for generations. Her other friend, Jenny, was also coming. I had never been to Sarah’s house before, though we’d been friends for a while. That night, we arrived around 5 PM, and the house was impressive: tall ceilings, creaky floors, and the smell of old wood and dust. We spent the evening chatting and playing board games. As night fell, the house seemed to grow quieter, the silence pressing in around us.

Around midnight, Sarah got tired and pulled an air mattress into the living room, saying she wanted to sleep there because she felt safer. Jenny and I stayed up, playing video games on an old console. We were in a cozy corner with a recliner, and somehow we both squeezed into it, laughing about how ridiculous we looked. The clock in the hallway ticked loudly, and the wind outside rattled the windows.

At 3 AM, we heard a noise outside. It sounded like heavy breathing, and then something dragged across the gravel. The family dog, a golden retriever named Gus, had been asleep by the fire, but he suddenly stood up, his tail tucked between his legs, and let out a low whimper. We froze. Through the window, we saw a dark shape moving along the fence line, too tall to be an animal, too slow to be a person in a hurry. It paused, seeming to look directly at us, then continued its slow circuit around the house.

Jenny whispered, ‘What is that?’ I shook my head, my heart pounding. We watched as the shape moved to the back of the house and vanished. A few minutes later, we heard a scratching sound on the back door, almost like nails dragging down the wood. Then silence. Sarah was still asleep on the air mattress, breathing evenly. I wanted to wake her, but something told me not to.

We tried to ignore it, going back to the game, but the scratching grew louder, more insistent. Then we heard a voice, muffled, like someone calling from far away. It said, ‘Let me in.’ We both looked at each other, eyes wide. That was when the front door, which had been locked, slowly swung open on its own. The wind howled, and the door creaked, but no one entered. The porch light flickered.

I grabbed Jenny’s arm, and we ran to the kitchen, where the back door was. That door was shaking in its frame, as if something was trying to force its way in. We were terrified, but we had to wake Sarah. We shook her, and she woke with a start, looking dazed. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked. We told her, and she turned pale. She said, ‘Don’t open the doors. Whatever you do, don’t open the doors.’

We huddled in the living room, the lights flickering. Then we heard a noise from the basement, which was directly below us. It was a rumbling, like furniture being moved. And then a woman’s voice, singing a lullaby we hadn’t heard before, came from the vents. Sarah started to cry. She said, ‘That’s my mother. She died two years ago.’

We didn’t know what to do. We called for help, but the phone line was dead. The power went out. In the dark, we heard footsteps on the stairs, and then a shape appeared in the hallway. It was tall and pale, with long, thin arms. It stood there, swaying, and then it spoke in the same lullaby voice, ‘You shouldn’t have come here.’

We ran to the bedroom, barricading the door with furniture. The creature thumped against the door, over and over, and we could hear it whispering through the keyhole. It said, ‘I’m just finishing what your father started.’ And then it was quiet. We waited, shaking, for hours until dawn broke. When the sun rose, we crept out. The house was normal, but we felt a cold that never left. We never spoke of that night again. But I still hear that lullaby in my quiet moments, and I know it’s still out there, waiting.