The Sunlit Room

In the summer of 2012, my cousin Leo and I decided to try something we had read about on a ghost-hunting forum: Electronic Voice Phenomenon, or EVP. We were in my grandmother’s old farmhouse, which she had left to my mother, and we had chosen the upstairs study—a room filled with old books and dust, with a single window that let in the afternoon sun. It was a perfect day, not a cloud in the sky, and no chance of rain or storms. We wanted to eliminate any possible interference, so we turned off our phones, unplugged the lamps, and even covered the window with a heavy blanket to block out the light. The room became dim, almost twilight, despite the bright day outside.

We sat on the floor with a digital voice recorder between us, the red light blinking patiently. We had prepared a list of questions, but as the minutes stretched into an hour, my mind began to wander. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of the old house. Leo, ever the joker, tried to lighten the mood, but his whispers seemed to get swallowed by the stillness. I felt a growing unease, as if we were being watched, but I chalked it up to the eerie atmosphere we had created.

After about forty minutes, we had gotten nothing but blank static. I was about to suggest we give up when a strange thought popped into my head—a phrase I had never said before. Without thinking, I spoke it aloud: “If you are here, please make a sound.” My voice was steady, but my heart was racing. Leo shot me a look, half amused, half nervous. We waited, holding our breath. Then, a soft thud came from the corner of the room, like a book falling to the floor. We both spun around, but the corner was empty, the books neatly stacked on their shelves.

We exchanged glances, trying to convince ourselves it was just the house settling. But the silence returned, heavier than before. I picked up the recorder and pressed stop, then played back the last minute. We heard my question, then a burst of static, then a faint, almost imperceptible whisper that was not our voices. It sounded like the word “touch.” Leo’s face went pale. We replayed it several times, but the whisper was too faint to understand clearly. Now we were both scared, but also intrigued.

Emboldened, we decided to continue. I asked another question: “What do you want?” Seconds later, the blanket covering the window fell to the floor, letting in a blinding shaft of sunlight that made us squint. The sun was still high, and the light seemed to flood the room, chasing away the shadows. We jumped up, startled, and I blurted out, “If you are here, touch one of us.” The moment the words left my mouth, I felt a cold, gentle pressure on my left shoulder, as if a hand had rested there for a brief second. Leo saw me flinch and asked what was wrong, but I was too stunned to answer.

Then, the room changed. The temperature dropped drastically, and the sunlight streaming in seemed to dim, as if a cloud had passed over, but the sky outside was still clear. The old wooden floorboards began to groan, and the books on the shelves shook, some falling to the ground. The air filled with a musty odor, like decay, and we heard a low moan that seemed to come from the walls. Leo grabbed my arm, and we ran out of the room, down the stairs, and into the bright, warm kitchen, our hearts pounding. We did not stop running until we were outside, standing in the middle of the lawn, drenched in sweat.

We never listened to the full recording from that session. We turned off the recorder and never touched it again. But for weeks afterward, I would sometimes feel a cold spot in my grandmother’s house, especially in that study, even on the hottest days. And sometimes, when the sun was high and the sky was clear, I would catch a faint whisper in my ear, the same word: “touch.” To this day, Leo refuses to speak about what happened, and I have never set foot in that room again. The sunlight still seems to avoid that corner where the sound came from, as if a permanent shadow lingers, waiting for someone to ask the wrong question.