The House on Mulberry Lane

It all started in the summer of 1988, when I was nine, living in a small, sleepy town in Ohio. My family had just moved into an old Victorian house on Mulberry Lane. The house was beautiful, with a wraparound porch and a big oak tree in the front yard, but there was something off about it. My parents loved it, though, and I tried to convince myself it was just my imagination.

One night, I was up late in my room, playing with my toys. I remember feeling a sudden, overwhelming tiredness, like all the energy had been drained from my body. I knew I had to go to bed, but I had a ritual: I had to lock my door, close my window, and turn off all the lights before I could even think about sleeping. So I did all that, and I drifted off.

When I woke up the next morning, the sun was streaming through the window, and the room was bright. I blinked, confused, because my window was open and my door was wide open. The light was on. My heart started pounding. I ran downstairs to the kitchen, where my mom and dad were having coffee, and my older sister, Emily, was eating cereal. I asked if any of them had opened my door or turned on the light. They all said no, and my little brother was too young to even walk. My dad just shrugged and said maybe I had done it in my sleep, but I knew I hadn’t. That night, I was so scared I barely slept.

The second night, I was in bed, wide awake, when I heard footsteps in the hallway. They were slow, deliberate, like someone walking in heavy boots. My blood ran cold. I pulled the covers over my head and listened as the footsteps went down the stairs. After a few minutes, I heard a crash, then another, then a series of thuds. I was frozen, too terrified to move. When morning came, I tiptoed out of my room and found the living room in shambles. The couch was flipped over, the coffee table was smashed, and the TV was on the floor, its screen shattered into a million pieces. There were pillows everywhere, and my mom was standing in the doorway, white as a sheet. She said, ‘What happened in here?’ I just shook my head, tears streaming down my face.

My dad called the police, but they found no sign of a break-in. They thought it was a prank, but who would do that? We were new in town. My parents decided it was best to stay, saying it was probably just some kids messing with the new family. But I knew better. The following week, things got worse. Objects would move on their own. I would hear my name being called in the middle of the night, but when I went to find who was calling, the halls were empty. My mother started sleeping with the lights on.

One night, I woke up to the sound of a scratching noise coming from inside my closet. I lay perfectly still, listening. The scratching turned into a low, guttural voice that said, ‘I know you’re awake.’ I bolted out of bed and ran to my parents’ room, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell them. I just said I’d had a nightmare and slept on the floor next to their bed.

The next day, while my mother was in the kitchen, she noticed that the cellar door was open. She distinctly remembered closing it earlier. She called down, ‘Hello? Is someone down there?’ No answer. She closed the door and locked it, but when she turned around, all the cabinet doors in the kitchen were hanging open, and the silverware was scattered across the floor. That’s when she finally admitted something was wrong.

We decided to move out. We stayed at my grandmother’s house for the rest of the summer, and we never went back. The house on Mulberry Lane sat empty for years. I heard later that a family who moved in after us only lasted two weeks before they left in the middle of the night, telling neighbors they couldn’t sleep because of the weeping they heard in the attic.

To this day, I still have nightmares about that house. And sometimes, in the quietest hours of the night, I think I can still hear that voice whispering, ‘I know you’re awake.’