The Handprint on the Second-Floor Wall

I suppose I should start by saying that if this turns out to be nothing, I apologize for the fuss, but I need to write it down because I can’t trust my own memory anymore. The events began last autumn, shortly after we moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of the Cranston woods. The house had been vacant for years, and the real estate agent was a little too eager to sell, but we needed space and the price was right. My room was at the end of the upstairs hallway, overlooking the overgrown garden. From the first night, I felt uneasy there, like the room itself was holding its breath.

It started with temperature swings that made no sense. I’d be lying in bed, reading, and suddenly the air would turn icy, even in late October with the heating on. Then, just as abruptly, a wave of heat would wash over me, making me throw off the blankets. I’d get up and check the vents, but they were clear. The thermostat on the wall would read a steady 68 degrees, but I knew it was lying. I began to dread going to sleep, and I’d often lie awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house groan and settle.

My sister, Lila, had an experience that shook her. She was in her room, which is across the hall from mine, doing homework. She’s a practical girl, not prone to flights of fancy, but she told me later that she saw a shadow of a hand on her wall. Not an actual hand, but the shadow of one, as if someone was standing just out of sight, casting it against the plaster. The only window was on the opposite wall, and the afternoon sun was streaming in from the south, so the angle was wrong for any casting. She screamed, and I ran in, but by then, the shadow was gone. She described it as shapely, with long fingers, and it seemed to be pressing flat against the wall, like someone trying to feel for something behind it.

My own oddities were less visual but equally unnerving. My bedroom door opens outward, so when I lay in bed, I had a direct view of the landing and the top of the stairs. Several times, I caught movement in my peripheral vision—a figure, hunched and shuffling, would cross the landing and start down the stairs. But when I turned my head fully, there was nothing but empty air. I started to keep the door closed, but I could still hear sounds: soft footsteps that paused outside my door, and once, a faint whisper that might have been my name, but I’m not sure.

The footsteps were the worst. They would start in the attic, directly above my room, and make their way down the hidden staircase that led to the hallway. The old wood would creak in a pattern: three steps, a pause, then five more, as if whoever was walking was testing each board. I’d lie there, under my covers, heart pounding, counting the steps until they stopped outside my door. And then, silence. But I could feel something outside, waiting, listening. I began to sleep with the light on, and I’d stare at the crack under the door, half-expecting to see a shadow blocking it.

One night, I mustered the courage to act. I heard the footsteps coming up the stairs, and this time, instead of waiting, I threw open my door, ready to confront whatever was there. The landing was empty, but at the far end, near the attic access, I saw a shadow that detatched itself from the darkness and slipped into the crack under the attic door. I stood there, shaking, for a long time. Then I noticed the wall beside me, and my blood ran cold. There, on the pale yellow paint, was a handprint. Not a shadow, but a dark, oily mark, as if someone had pressed a grimy hand against the wall and then vanished. The fingers were long, and the palm was broad. It was placed at shoulder height, as if someone had leaned against the wall to listen at my door.

I called my parents, but by the time they came, the print was gone. They patted my shoulder and said it was just a shadow or a trick of the light, but I saw their faces. They were as uneasy as I was. Lila confessed that she’d seen the same kind of handprint on her wall a few weeks ago, but she’d scrubbed it off. She said it came back every night, in the same spot, and she’d taken to sleeping with a towel over her head, just to avoid seeing it.

We tried to research the house’s history. The previous owner was an old man named Elias, who had died alone in the attic. The neighbors said he was a recluse, a retired carpenter, and he’d been found clutching a photograph of a woman we couldn’t identify. The real estate agent had mentioned he’d ‘passed tragically’, but we never learned the details. The more we dug, the more we realized that the house had a reputation. People said it was ‘stubborn’, as if it didn’t want to be lived in.

But the final straw came on a moonless night in November. I was lying in bed, eyes wide open, when I heard the familiar footsteps. This time, they didn’t stop at my door. They continued, slowly, down the hall toward Lila’s room. I heard her scream, and I ran out. I found her in the corner of her room, pointing at the wall. There, in the pale moonlight, was a handprint, but this time, it wasn’t a shadow or a mark. It was a hand—solid, flesh and blood—pressing against the wall from the other side, the fingers splayed, the knuckles white. It moved, sliding up the wall as if whatever it was attached to was rising, and then it vanished.

We left the next morning. We told the real estate agent we couldn’t stay, but we didn’t explain why. We moved into a small apartment in town, and I thought I could forget about it. But last week, I was unpacking a box in my new bedroom, and I felt a cold draft. I turned around, and for a split second, I saw a hand pressed against the window glass, long fingers spread, palm facing me. It was gone in an instant, but the glass was frosted in the shape of a handprint, even though it was summer.

I’m writing this now, and I’m looking at that handprint on the window. It’s still there. My parents think I’m being paranoid, but Lila knows. She came into my room last night and whispered, ‘It followed us.’ She’s sleeping in my room now, and we’ve pushed all the furniture against the door. But I can hear it in the walls, that familiar pattern of steps, three then five, and I know it’s just a matter of time before it finds a way in. I don’t know what it wants, but I do know that every time we leave a place, it comes with us. It’s not the house that’s haunted. It’s the hand. And it wants to hold something, but it’s not sure what.