When I was a kid, my parents occasionally dropped me off at my aunt and uncle’s farm for the weekend. I would spend most of my time playing with my two cousins, who were close to my age. Their farm was a vast playground with endless open spaces where we could roam freely, indulging in whatever mischief we could get away with. One of our favorite pastimes was sneaking over to the neighboring farm, about half a mile away. The place had been abandoned for years, its decaying buildings standing as relics of a time long past. For three adventurous boys like us, it was a treasure trove waiting to be explored.
My cousins used to tell me gruesome stories about the old house on the abandoned farm. The tale was a typical horror story—something about a man who lost his mind, murdered his entire family with an axe, and then hanged himself. They said his spirit returned every night, seeking new victims. Even though I knew they were probably exaggerating old rumors, the eerie atmosphere of the place made it easy to get sucked into the story.
One afternoon, we decided to play hide and seek. When it was my turn to hide, I sprinted towards a rickety old barn with living quarters on the upper level. I climbed the stairs, searching for the perfect hiding spot. The inside was a mess, with broken furniture and personal belongings strewn across the floor. I carefully stepped over shattered dishes, torn clothes, and crumbling books until I found a small room with a closet. Jackpot. The closet even had long, black dresses hanging from the rod that I could hide behind. I squeezed inside and forced the folding door shut. The only light came from a thin beam of sunlight slipping through a crack in the door, barely illuminating the dusty space.
I crouched down, hugging my knees to my chest, and waited. Time passed, but there was still no sign of my cousins. I waited some more, debating whether I should reveal myself. After nearly an hour, I started to get bored. My head drooped, and before I knew it, I had fallen asleep.
I woke with a start, disoriented and confused. It was pitch black. For a moment, I couldn’t remember where I was or what I had been doing. Then, as it all came rushing back to me, I realized with a sinking feeling in my stomach that it was now nighttime, and I had been left alone in the abandoned house. I tried to stand, but a sharp cramp in my calf kept me grounded. As I squirmed, waiting for the pain to subside, I heard a door slam shut downstairs.
I froze.
Maybe one of my cousins had come back for me? But then I heard footsteps on the stairs—slow, heavy, deliberate footsteps, accompanied by a strange thud every other step. These weren’t the footsteps of a child. I held my breath, praying that whoever—or whatever—was out there would just go away. But the footsteps continued, ascending the stairs with that unnerving thud, pause, thud rhythm. After another moment of silence, I heard a dragging sound, like something heavy was being pulled across the floor. The footsteps and the scraping sound grew closer, wandering through the rooms. A faint, putrid odor began to fill the air, making my skin crawl.
My heart pounded in my chest as the footsteps reached the doorway of the room I was hiding in. They grew louder and closer until they stopped right in front of the closet. I couldn’t see anything through the darkness. After what felt like an eternity, the footsteps moved away, out of the room, and down the hallway. The smell lingered, and the silence was suffocating. I waited, trying to muster the courage to open the door and run for it.
Then, three things happened simultaneously: a rancid smell, like fresh roadkill, hit me full force; I heard raspy breathing right behind me in the closet; and I felt hot breath on the back of my neck. That was enough to send me into a blind panic. I burst out of the closet, relying on memory and the faint moonlight to navigate the dark house. Behind me, I could hear the footsteps again, gaining on me with terrifying speed.
My escape was clumsy, full of trips, bumps, and blind stumbles. I didn’t dare look back until I was outside, standing in the cool night air. When I finally did, there was nothing there—no footsteps, no figure chasing me. But that didn’t stop me from running all the way back to my aunt and uncle’s house.
When I arrived, a police car was parked in the driveway. My parents were there too, worried sick. They all demanded to know where I had been. My cousins had come home without me when it started getting dark, and after they couldn’t find me, they told their parents, who then called the police. The officers had already searched the entire farm by the time I returned, and they seemed skeptical when I told them where I had been.
It wasn’t until years later that one of my cousins finally told me the full story. They had been searching for me just like they said, but there was something they hadn’t told anyone. At one point, they thought they saw me standing in the window of the room where I had been hiding. But as they got closer, they realized it wasn’t me. Instead, they saw a young boy they didn’t recognize, smiling and waving at them, beckoning them to come upstairs. That’s when they ran back home, leaving me behind, asleep in the closet.
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When I was sixteen, my friends and I had this tradition of playing manhunt every Friday night. Our neighborhood wasn’t your typical suburban area. It was more spaced out, with fewer houses and a lot of open land, which made the game both thrilling and eerie. There were seven of us who played regularly: Alan, the oldest at seventeen; Dan, who was my age but a little younger; Johnny, Daniela, Nick, and Tom, who were all younger, with Tom being the youngest at twelve.
We all lived on the same block, so it was easy to get everyone together. My best friend was Dan, and we usually teamed up during the game. One night, we decided to play by Daniela and Nick’s house, but me and Dan had a plan to take it to the next level. Next door to their place was an old house that had been vacant for years. It belonged to Mr. Nelson, an elderly man who had passed away a few years ago, and no one had bought the property since. The house was perfect—dark, quiet, and filled with potential hiding spots.
As the game started, Dan and I headed straight for Mr. Nelson’s backyard. We crept around to the back of the house where the lake was and hid in some bushes. But Dan wasn’t satisfied with that. He wanted to do something a little more daring. He suggested we sneak into the house itself. I wasn’t too keen on the idea, but before I could say anything, Dan was already sliding open a window and climbing inside. I stayed in the bushes, keeping watch.
The goal of manhunt was to make it back to Nick’s house, which was considered the safe zone, without getting caught. I waited in the bushes, keeping an eye on the house and the surrounding area. After a few minutes, I saw two kids from the other team enter the backyard, searching for us. They made a lot of noise, which was a relief because it meant they didn’t know we were nearby. As they moved further down the block, I decided it was time to get Dan and make our move to the safe zone.
I looked up at the house, trying to spot Dan in one of the windows. I finally saw him—or at least, I thought I did. He was standing at an upstairs window, looking down at me. I waved to him, signaling that it was time to go, but he didn’t move. Thinking he hadn’t seen me, I ran over to the window he had climbed through and slipped inside. The house was silent, save for the creaks and groans of an old building settling into the night. I called Dan’s name, my voice barely above a whisper, not wanting to attract the attention of the seekers.
That’s when I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Dan was right beside me, crouched near the window. He put a finger to his lips and whispered, “Shh.” I asked him how he had gotten downstairs so quickly, and he just looked at me, confused. He told me he had been down here the whole time, waiting.
A chill ran down my spine as I realized what that meant. If Dan had been downstairs with me, then who—or what—had I seen in the window? We both looked up at the ceiling as a loud creak echoed through the house, followed by the distinct sound of slow, deliberate footsteps. Something—or someone—was moving upstairs.
Without another word, we scrambled out the window and ran as fast as we could back to Nick’s house. We called the game off immediately. Later, we asked Dan’s dad if anyone had moved into the old house, but he assured us that it had been empty since Mr. Nelson passed away. That night, Dan’s dad agreed to go back to the house with us to check things out.
We re-entered the house the same way, through the window, and Dan’s dad led the way upstairs to the room where I had seen the figure. The room was empty, except for a crumpled, reddish-brown blanket on the floor. It looked like it hadn’t been disturbed in years. We searched the entire house, but found nothing and no one.
Dan’s dad told us that if we ever saw anything in that house again, we should report it to the police. It’s been a few months since then, and we haven’t seen anything unusual, but I know that someone—or something—was in that house with us that night.
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another story
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When I was about twelve, I had a strange experience that still gives me chills whenever I think about it. We had just moved into a new house in a quiet neighborhood. It was a modest place, but it felt huge to me, with lots of nooks and crannies where a kid could get lost for hours. My parents were busy unpacking, so I spent most of my time exploring every inch of our new home.
One day, after school, I was alone in the house. My mom was out running errands, and my dad was still at work. I was playing in my room, building with my Legos, when I heard a faint tapping sound coming from somewhere in the house. At first, I thought it might be my mom back from her errands, so I went downstairs to see if she needed help with the groceries. But when I got to the kitchen, it was empty, and the tapping had stopped.
I shrugged it off and went back upstairs to continue playing. A few minutes later, the tapping started again, this time louder and more insistent. It was coming from the hallway outside my room. I felt a prickling sensation at the back of my neck, but I tried to ignore it, thinking it was just the house settling. But the sound continued, rhythmic and steady, like someone was knocking on the wall just outside my door.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I slowly opened the door to the hallway. The tapping stopped immediately. The hallway was empty, just as it had been before. I checked all the rooms upstairs, but there was no one there. Feeling a little uneasy, I went back to my room and shut the door behind me, deciding to focus on my Legos and forget about the noise.
As the afternoon wore on, the house grew darker, and the shadows in my room seemed to stretch longer and deeper. I was about to turn on the light when I heard the tapping again. This time, it was right outside my door, louder and more deliberate than before. My heart started to race as I listened to the sound, frozen in place. It was as if someone—or something—was trying to get my attention, demanding that I come out and see what it was.
I tried to tell myself it was just the wind or some old pipes in the walls, but deep down, I knew that wasn’t true. Gathering all the courage I had, I stood up and walked to the door. My hand shook as I reached for the doorknob, and I hesitated, wondering if I really wanted to see what was on the other side.
Finally, I mustered up the courage to swing the door open. The hallway was pitch dark, with only a sliver of light from my room spilling into it. The tapping had stopped again, and there was nothing but silence. I took a few tentative steps out into the hallway, my eyes straining to see in the dim light. The house felt unnaturally quiet, as if it were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
Just as I was about to turn back, I heard it—a faint, raspy whisper, coming from the direction of the stairs. It was so quiet that I almost thought I had imagined it. But then it came again, a little louder this time, and I could make out the words, “Come here.”
My blood ran cold, and every instinct told me to run back to my room and lock the door. But something else, some strange compulsion, urged me to go to the stairs, to find out where the voice was coming from. I took a few hesitant steps toward the top of the stairs, my heart pounding in my chest. The whisper came again, louder and more insistent, “Come here.”
I was halfway down the stairs when I saw it—a dark figure standing at the bottom, barely visible in the shadows. It was tall and thin, with long, bony fingers that it used to tap rhythmically on the banister. The figure’s head was tilted slightly to the side, as if it were watching me, waiting for me to come closer.
I froze, my legs refusing to move, and the figure slowly started to climb the stairs toward me, one step at a time. With each step, the tapping grew louder, echoing through the silent house. I couldn’t see its face, but I could feel its gaze locked onto me, pulling me closer.
Just as it reached the halfway point, something snapped inside me. The fear that had held me in place broke, and I turned and bolted back up the stairs, slamming the door to my room behind me. I didn’t stop to look back. I just ran to the corner of my room and huddled there, shaking and terrified.
I don’t know how long I stayed there, but eventually, I heard my mom calling my name from downstairs. I hesitated, afraid that it might be the figure trying to trick me. But when I heard her footsteps on the stairs, I knew it was really her. I ran out of my room and threw myself into her arms, babbling about what I had seen. She tried to calm me down, saying it was just my imagination, that the house was old and made strange noises sometimes.
But I knew what I had seen, and I refused to go downstairs alone for weeks after that. Even now, years later, I sometimes hear that tapping in my dreams, and I wake up with the same cold, creeping dread I felt that day. I’ve never told anyone else about what happened, but I still wonder what would have happened if I had gone down those stairs and faced whatever was waiting for me.
