When I was in college, my friends and I decided to rent a cheap house for the summer. We found a place on the outskirts of town, just a little too far from campus to be convenient, but the price was unbeatable. The landlord was quick to hand over the keys, and while the house looked a bit dated in the photos, we figured it would be fine for a couple of months.
The house was larger than we expected, and the moment we stepped inside, I felt a slight unease. The air was thick, and there was an odd smell that I couldn’t quite place. My friends dismissed it, saying it was just old wood and dust, so I brushed it off too. We claimed our rooms, unpacked our bags, and tried to settle in.
By the third night, things started to get weird. I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of footsteps. They were faint, but distinct, as if someone was pacing outside my bedroom door. I figured it was one of my friends getting up for a late-night snack, so I ignored it and tried to go back to sleep. But then I heard the whispering.
It was low and indistinct, like someone was mumbling just on the other side of the wall. The pacing continued, back and forth, slow and deliberate. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding, and strained to hear better. The whispers grew louder, and though I couldn’t make out what they were saying, the tone felt… angry.
I worked up the courage to open my door and peek into the hallway. But the moment I turned the knob, the whispering stopped. The footsteps ceased. The house was silent, save for the hum of the fridge in the kitchen downstairs. I flicked on the light, but no one was there. I went back to bed, trying to convince myself I was imagining things, but I barely slept that night.
The next morning, I mentioned the noises to my friends. They laughed it off, blaming creaky floors and my overactive imagination. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about the house.
Two nights later, the pacing returned, but this time, it was in the kitchen. I lay in bed, frozen, as the footsteps thudded across the floor below me. Then the kitchen cabinets began to slam. One by one, the doors banged open and shut, like someone was furiously rummaging through them. I threw the blankets off and ran to wake up my friends.
Together, we went downstairs to check it out. The kitchen was a mess—every cabinet door was hanging open, and drawers were pulled out. Pots and pans were scattered across the floor. But there was no sign of anyone. We searched the entire house, but it was empty. No one had broken in. No windows were open.
That night, we all slept in the living room together. None of us were willing to stay in our rooms after what happened. But even in the living room, I couldn’t escape the feeling that we weren’t alone. As we lay in the dark, I heard the whispering again. This time, it was closer, like someone was standing right behind me. I held my breath, too scared to move.
The last straw came two days later. We had gone out for the day, hoping to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the house. When we returned, the front door was wide open. My heart sank. Inside, the air felt heavier than ever. And then we saw it.
On the kitchen table, scrawled in what looked like ash or soot, were the words: “GET OUT.”
We didn’t need any more convincing. We packed our bags that night and left without looking back. We never figured out what was in that house, but whatever it was, it wanted us gone.
Last winter, I had a business trip that took me to a small town in northern Minnesota. The company had booked me a room in an old hotel, one of those places that’s been around for over a hundred years. It was charming in a run-down kind of way, but from the moment I walked in, something felt… off.
The receptionist, an older woman with a faraway look in her eyes, handed me the key and gave me an odd warning. “Stay in your room after dark,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. I chuckled awkwardly, thinking she was just being quirky, but the way she stared at me made me uneasy.
I got to my room and immediately noticed how cold it was. Even though the heater was cranked up, the air had a sharp chill to it. The wallpaper was peeling, and the furniture looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 70s. I could hear the wind howling outside as snow began to fall, but I tried to settle in for the night.
Around midnight, the temperature in the room dropped even further. I crawled under the blankets, shivering, and tried to fall asleep. That’s when I heard the knocking.
It was a soft, persistent tap at the door. At first, I thought it was just someone from the hotel staff, but when I opened the door, there was no one there. I stepped into the hallway, but the corridor was completely empty, dimly lit by a single flickering bulb.
I closed the door, figuring I must’ve been hearing things. But not five minutes later, the knocking started again. This time, it was louder, more insistent. I jumped out of bed and swung the door open, expecting to catch someone, but again, the hall was empty.
I quickly shut the door, my heart racing. I was starting to get seriously freaked out. I double-checked the lock and got back into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. The knocking didn’t stop. It echoed through the room, even though I knew there was no one outside. I covered my ears, trying to block it out, but it just grew louder and louder until it felt like the walls were shaking.
Then the lights went out.
I was plunged into complete darkness. The only sound was the relentless knocking, and it was no longer coming from the door. It was right beside me. I could feel the vibration of the knocks against the headboard. Cold air brushed against my face, and I knew I wasn’t alone in the room anymore.
I fumbled for my phone, using the screen’s dim glow to search for my things. I couldn’t stay another second. As I shoved my clothes into my suitcase, I heard something that made my blood run cold—a low, raspy voice, inches from my ear, whispering my name.
I ran. I didn’t bother checking out or grabbing everything. I left that hotel and drove through the night, not stopping until I was miles away. When I finally told the company about my experience, they laughed it off and said I was probably overtired from the trip. But I know what I heard. And I’ll never go back to that town again.
It all started when my roommate brought home a Ouija board. I didn’t think much of it at first—just a stupid game she picked up for a laugh. She’d always been into creepy things, constantly talking about haunted places and watching ghost hunting shows. So when she came home with the board one night, I just rolled my eyes.
“Let’s try it,” she said, grinning. I wasn’t really interested, but she kept pushing, so I finally agreed. We set it up in our small apartment living room, dimming the lights for “atmosphere.” She placed her fingers on the planchette, and I followed suit, feeling ridiculous.
“Is anyone here with us?” she asked.
At first, nothing happened. The planchette didn’t move, and I was about to call it quits when it suddenly jerked to the side. My heart skipped a beat. My roommate giggled nervously. “Did you do that?” she asked. I shook my head.
We both stared at the board as the planchette slowly spelled out “YES.”
I pulled my hands back, not wanting to play anymore. My roommate, of course, was thrilled. She started asking more questions, but I refused to touch the board again. She tried to joke about it, but I could tell she was a little freaked out too. After a while, we decided to stop and put the board away.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt like someone was watching me. I heard soft whispers, but I couldn’t make out the words. I told myself it was just my imagination, that the stupid board had gotten in my head.
The next few days were uneventful, until one night, I woke up to the sound of footsteps. They were slow, methodical, moving from the living room toward my bedroom. My door was closed, but the footsteps stopped right outside. I held my breath, waiting. The door creaked open just an inch, then slammed shut with a force that shook the walls.
I shot out of bed, heart pounding, and rushed to my roommate’s room. She was sitting up in bed, wide-eyed. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.
We checked the apartment, but everything was normal. The door was closed, and there was no sign of anyone. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t alone.
Over the next few weeks, things escalated. Lights would flicker, objects would move, and there was always that feeling of being watched. The worst was the knocking. Every night, without fail, there would be a series of knocks on our doors, windows, even the walls. It didn’t matter what time we went to bed—the knocking always started around midnight.
One night, after weeks of torment, we decided to get rid of the Ouija board. We figured it had to be the cause. My roommate took it out to the dumpster behind our building, and for a moment, things felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted.
But that night, the knocking came back, louder than ever. And this time, it wasn’t just knocking. The whispers returned, and they were clear now. They weren’t just incoherent sounds. They were words, a voice repeating, “You invited me.”
We left that apartment a month later. Whatever we had called upon, it didn’t leave with the board. It stayed. And I can still hear its voice sometimes, late at night, whispering in the dark.
