The Voice of the Long-Gone Resident

A friend had just moved into her first house with her spouse. When I visited to help them unpack, I felt an odd chill the second I stepped inside—like invisible eyes watching. I told my friend, and she brushed it off as just the quiet emptiness of a new home.

Weeks passed, and one day I got a call from her asking my mother for help. Soon after, my mom told me there had been an accident at the house, and we had to go immediately. But when we arrived, the house was dark and silent. No lights. No car in the driveway. We knocked, but no one answered—and that was odd. So we left, uneasy.

The next morning, my mother called using their known number—and an unfamiliar woman answered. She sounded strange, like she’d been living there for years, and said there was no one named my friend at that address. She even asked if we were joking. My mom double-checked the number—it was correct. I tried calling again, but the same answer came back: “Wrong number.”

A week later I bumped into my friend at the store. I asked her about the strange calls, and she turned pale. She revealed the truth: she’d stopped sleeping in the house after she began seeing and hearing an unseen woman wandering, whispering at night, dishes clanging, water running—though it was only her and her spouse living there.

They eventually had to move out. And now, whenever I drive past that house, my skin crawls—and sometimes I swear I see a faint glow in the attic late at night.