The feeling of being watched

My father’s house is haunted. He still lives there, just like he did when we first moved in over twenty years ago. Back then, strange things started happening almost immediately. It wasn’t big things at first—just odd feelings, whispers in the dark, and the feeling of being watched.

My oldest brother, Jake, was thirteen when we moved in. Within a week, he refused to sleep alone. He would sit up at night, staring at the corners of the room, saying he could see shadows moving. He told my mother, “Something’s watching me.” She thought he was imagining things.

My other brother, Ethan, had it worse. He started sleepwalking. Almost every night, he would wander into the living room, skipping in circles, giggling at someone—or something—that none of us could see. One night, he stopped skipping, turned toward the front door, and let out the most chilling scream. He clawed at the doorknob, shouting, “I have to stop him! He’s burning!” My mother grabbed him, shaking him awake. He blinked at her, confused, and asked for a glass of water like nothing had happened.

The longer we lived there, the stranger things became. Ethan’s sleepwalking got worse. Jake’s temper became unbearable—he would lash out over the smallest things. My mother moved Ethan into Jake’s room, thinking Jake would wake up if Ethan tried to leave the house at night. I was given the smallest bedroom, next to theirs, across from my parents’ room.

Then, it was my turn.

One night, my father woke up to the sound of laughter—my laughter. He thought I was asleep, so he didn’t check on me. As he walked to the kitchen, he dropped his glass of water. He later said it felt like something shoved him. My mother woke up and turned on my bedroom light.

I was sitting on the floor, facing my open closet. Wide awake.

She asked, “Who are you talking to?”

I turned to her and smiled. “My new friend.”

Jake was standing in his doorway now. He whispered, “He’s talking to the eyes.”

The next day, my mother started asking around. She learned a little boy used to live in the house. His name? Danny. No one seemed to know what had happened to him. But one neighbor mentioned something strange—the people who lived there before us didn’t have kids. They were quiet, kept to themselves, but rumors spread that they were into dark things.

Terrified, my grandmother told my father to bless the house. “Where evil is, the holy water will stay,” she warned.

My father sprinkled holy water over every doorway, every room. When he reached the front door, the water left a mark in the shape of a cross. It never faded. It’s still there to this day.

After that, Ethan stopped sleepwalking. Jake’s anger eased—though he was still a moody teenager. But Danny, my friend, didn’t leave. He stayed with me until I was seven.

Not everything went away. Even now, strange things still happen in that house. I’ve seen two ghosts, but I know there are more. I hear one whisper my name. I smell the cologne of a man I’ve never met.

And I think my children see them too. I catch them staring at empty doorways, their eyes following something as if someone just walked by.

I’ve thought about writing down everything that happened, but I never get around to it.

Maybe some stories don’t want to be told.