The Wrong House

In the summer of 1998, when I was thirteen, my older sister Mira and my cousin Elena and I would spend every night awake in our attic bedroom, playing games and talking until the sun crept over the rooftops of our suburban street. Our house was old, with creaky floorboards and a basement that smelled of damp earth, but we were never scared of it. That summer, we were fearless.

One particular night, we were in the middle of a heated game of Risk, the map spread across Mira’s bed, the lamp casting long shadows across the slanted ceiling. It was just past two in the morning, the world outside silent except for the occasional chirp of a cricket. Then, three soft knocks sounded on our door.

We froze, looking at each other. Our parents were asleep downstairs, and our younger sister, Lily, was in her room at the end of the hall. Elena, ever the brave one, got up and swung the door open. The hallway was empty, lit only by the dim nightlight at the stairs. ‘Probably a raccoon on the roof,’ she said, but her voice wavered. We shrugged and went back to rolling dice.

Thirty minutes later, as I was about to launch an invasion from Kamchatka, the knocks came again. Three, light, precise. I jumped up this time. I opened the door quickly, but nobody was there. The hallway was silent, the air still. I walked to Lily’s room, the floorboards groaning under my bare feet. Peeking in, I saw her fast asleep, her soft breaths rising and falling. I headed back, puzzled.

As I passed the small attic alcove where we stored old boxes and the fireplace that was never used, a loud crash made me jump. I looked over and saw the heavy iron fireplace tool stand, which had been leaning against the wall, now lying on the floor, its poker and shovel scattered. It was solid iron, too heavy to fall on its own. My heart pounded as I ran back to the bedroom, my voice shaking as I told Mira and Elena what I’d seen. They paled, their game forgotten.

We tried to convince ourselves it was a draft, a faulty balance. But the unease settled over us like a cold blanket. We sat in a huddle on Mira’s bed, whispering, our eyes darting to the door. Then, the knocks came again, not three, but six, in rapid succession, and this time, the door creaked open a few inches on its own, revealing only darkness beyond.

Mira screamed, and we all piled under the bed, hearts racing. From our hiding spot, we saw the door slowly swing wider, and in the dim light, we saw a shadow on the floor, shaped like a tall, gaunt figure, cast from the hallway where nothing stood. It stretched and wavered, then receded as if the thing had stepped back.

We stayed there, trembling, until the first light of dawn. When we finally crept out, the door was closed, and the fireplace tools were back in their stand, neat and undisturbed. We never spoke of that night again, but we never slept in that attic either. Years later, we learned that the previous owner of our house had a daughter who died in that attic, and that she had a habit of knocking three times before playing tricks. We had believed we were safe, but that night we had invited something else into our lives. The wrong house, my grandmother used to say, holds its own secrets. We had moved into the wrong house, and we had brought it with us.