The Hanging Man of Karrinyup

I turned fifteen in the middle of a heatwave that made the air shimmer over the asphalt like a mirage. My family had just moved to Karrinyup, a sleepy northern suburb of Perth, into a house that was too big for the three of us. The previous owners had left in a hurry, my mother said, citing ‘personal reasons.’ The walls were still the color of dried blood, and the backyard was a jungle of overgrown bougainvillea that clawed at the windows.

One night, about a month after we moved in, I woke up with a start. My heart was pounding, and my skin felt cold despite the warm night. I had an overwhelming urge to check on my parents, as if something was terribly wrong. I tiptoed down the hallway, past the grandfather clock that had stopped at 3:13 AM the day we arrived, and peered into their room. What I saw made my blood run cold.

Just beyond the foot of their bed, about a meter from the floor, a figure was suspended in the air. It was impossibly thin, like a sheet of stretched leather, and it swayed slightly, as if hanging from an invisible rope. Its head was tilted at an unnatural angle, and its limbs hung limp, like a marionette whose strings had been cut. But the worst part was its face—if you could call it that—was a featureless void, a blackness that seemed to drink in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

I couldn’t move. My legs had turned to concrete, and my breath caught in my throat. The figure didn’t move either, but its head slowly turned toward me, and I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. It was as if it was looking right through me, into some part of my soul I didn’t know existed. Then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone. I stumbled back to my room, my heart racing, and dove under the covers.

I lay there, trembling, trying to convince myself it was a nightmare. But then I saw it again—a dark shape against the wall of my bedroom. It was standing upright this time, its long arms hanging down, its head bowed. I froze, and the moment I locked eyes with it—if it had eyes—it lunged at me with inhuman speed. Its mouth, if it had one, opened into a silent scream, and I felt a blast of icy air as it passed through me. Then everything went black.

I woke up the next morning on the floor beside my bed, a thin line of drool on my cheek. My parents didn’t mention anything unusual, and I began to wonder if I had dreamed it. But the feeling lingered, a constant, prickling sensation on the back of my neck. I started leaving every light in the house on at night, much to my parents’ annoyance. They thought I was just going through a phase, or maybe they were in denial.

A few weeks later, I saw it again. This time, it was in the reflection of the hallway mirror. It was standing behind me, its long, thin fingers reaching for my shoulders. I spun around, but there was nothing there. When I turned back to the mirror, it was gone, but I noticed something on the glass: a handprint, burned into the surface as if by acid. It was far too large for any human hand.

I started doing research online, trying to find any explanation. I found a local history forum where someone mentioned the house we lived in. A commenter named ‘OldManKarrinyup’ claimed that a man had hanged himself in the backyard shed in the 1970s, and that his body wasn’t found for weeks. The shed was still there, hidden behind the bougainvillea. I never went near it, but I could feel its presence from my bedroom window.

One night, I couldn’t sleep. I heard a faint creaking sound coming from the backyard. I tiptoed to the window and saw the figure in the shed, its head swaying from a beam, just like the first time I saw it. It was as if it was reenacting its death, over and over. And then, as I watched, it turned its head and looked directly at me. Its void of a face seemed to twist into a smile. And then it vanished, leaving the shed empty.

After that, the hauntings became more frequent. I would find the kitchen chairs stacked in a pyramid, or the TV turning on by itself in the middle of the night, always showing static. I started to lose weight, and dark circles appeared under my eyes. My parents finally noticed and insisted on taking me to a doctor. The doctor could find nothing wrong, and suggested I see a therapist.

The therapist listened to my story without judgment, but I could tell she thought I was suffering from sleep paralysis and an overactive imagination. She gave me some breathing exercises and told me to keep a dream journal. But on my way home, I felt a chill run down my spine. I knew in my gut that the thing in my house wasn’t a figment of my imagination. It was real, and it was getting stronger.

One evening, I decided to confront it. I walked out to the shed, my hands shaking, but I was tired of being afraid. The door was rusted shut, but it creaked open as I approached. Inside, there was a rope hanging from a beam, and a wooden stool that looked like it hadn’t been moved in decades. I stood there, waiting, my breath coming in short gasps. Then I felt a presence behind me.

I turned around slowly, and there it was, just a few inches away. Its face was so close I could feel a cold breath on my cheeks. Its featureless void began to ripple, and I realized it was trying to speak. A voice, barely a whisper, echoed in my mind: ‘Let me in.’ I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. It reached out a long, bony hand and touched my forehead.

And then I understood. It wasn’t a ghost. It was something else, something that had been trapped in that shed for years, feeding on fear and sorrow. And it wanted to use my body to escape. I felt a surge of panic, but then I remembered something I had read online about banishing spirits: they can’t hurt you if you show no fear. So I forced myself to laugh. I laughed right in its face, a hollow, desperate sound. The figure recoiled, hissing like a burst of steam, and dissolved into the air.

I stumbled out of the shed and ran back into the house. I told my parents that we needed to move, that the house was cursed. They finally believed me when they saw the look in my eyes. A week later, we moved to a small apartment in Scarborough, near the beach. I still get nightmares, and sometimes I see the figure from the corner of my eye, but it never comes close. I keep the lights on and the curtains drawn, and I never look in mirrors after dark.

It’s been a year now, and I’m starting to feel like myself again. But sometimes, when I’m alone at night, I feel a cold breath on my neck, and I hear a faint, wheezing voice that says, ‘I will find you.’ And I know it’s not over.

I’m fifteen years old, I live in Western Australia, and I know I’m not crazy. There is something in the shadows, and it’s always watching. I just hope that one day, I’ll be brave enough to find out how to truly get rid of it.