The Old Station House

My family moved into the former railway station when I was thirteen. For the first few days, everything was peaceful. Then the noises began. The old conductor’s stool in my sister’s room would spin on its own. At first it was just a slow turn, but soon it was whirling constantly.

We were told never to go into the attic, but my sister and I were too curious. We climbed the narrow stairs one afternoon. The moment our hands touched the dusty railway timetables stacked there, the air turned cold. Old tools and pieces of track flew toward us, and a furious voice shouted for us to leave.

After that, the house grew angry. We heard heavy footsteps pacing above us at night. Plates would slide from the kitchen counters and shatter. Long scratches appeared on the outside of our windows, and pale faces would peer in from the darkness. The presence in the house seemed to focus its anger on me. I would wake with deep bruises on my arms, though I never felt a thing.

My sister and I asked our neighbor, a kind minister, for help. He gave us two small silver bells and a book of blessings. We thought these might calm the spirit. We tried to return to the attic, but we only made it halfway up the stairs before the screaming started again, louder than before, demanding we go away.