I used to live in a haunted house

The story I’m about to tell happened in a small village, on the Russian border. I was about 7 or 8 years old when my family moved to a house that was built by the previous owners. By the time we moved in, the house was about 70 years old or so. The house had a main floor, an attic and a basement, where the sauna was. I always hated going in the basement alone and didn’t enjoy going to the attic either.

I will start with my mom’s experience. I was 16 and we had already moved out of the old house when she told me about this. She said that she never felt welcome in the house, and she was slightly afraid every time she was inside alone.

One day, when she went to get something from the attic, she heard a box fall off onto the floor on its own. This obviously scared her, especially since she knew she was alone in the attic. The attic had 2 windows and only one light bulb, leaving a greater half of it completely dark at night and during the winter. Due to the darkness she couldn’t see which box fell down, or why it did that. I’m kind of happy she didn’t tell me this before we moved out, even though I was super interested in paranormal things as a child, and still am.

The next incident involves my little brother and me. We shared a bedroom and had a bunk bed, my brother sleeping in the top. One night when we were laying in our beds, trying to sleep, my brother spoke. “There is a little dot of light moving around the wall”. I was absolutely terrified. Yes, I loved scary, paranormal things, but didn’t want to experience such a thing right before sleeping. Still, I opened my eyes, but as expected, didn’t see any light sources in the room. “It is just a headlight of a car that’s driving by” I told my brother. There was a road right next to our house, but it was not busy at all, and it was simply impossible for a headlight to shine in our room through the curtains. I don’t know if my explanation calmed my brother down or not, because I turned around and continued sleeping.

The last thing that I know of happened to me. My parents, little brother and our dog were all outside. I was inside, playing a text based role-playing game on a laptop. What a nerd, yeah I know. The laptop was unsurprisingly on top of a table. Now, I have to describe this table a little bit, as it is important to know what it was like. The table was extendable, it was basically in two parts, and a third one could be installed in the middle. Underneath the tabletop was a frame, that also was in three parts. For some reason, the frame of the extension part was able to move around, as if it had hinges. If the frames moved, they would make some noise, and this is important.

So, I was happily playing inside, actually in the middle of writing, when it happened. The table started shaking violently. It made the loudest noise it possibly could. The loose frame was rattling underneath the table. At first I was dumbfounded, I was not expecting this. Then I stood up, took the laptop with me and just stood there, staring at the table. I had no idea of what was happening, but I didn’t feel afraid or scared. I was actually curious. Why did my table start shaking, what was shaking it, do I need to do something about it? Not too long after the shaking just stopped, as suddenly as it had started. I put the laptop aside and decided to investigate. I tried shaking the table myself, but I couldn’t produce as loud and fast rattling as the table did. So I couldn’t have possibly been the one shaking it, right? Then, what did shake it? Nothing else in the house was shaking, and strong enough earthquakes don’t really happen in here. I also checked later, and there weren’t any kind of earthquakes around the area. It couldn’t have been a train, the tracks were way too far away, and once again, nothing else was shaking. This is the most intense paranormal thing that has ever happened to me.

As I’m writing this now, I’m half expecting my table to start shaking, and full hoping it wouldn’t. Ever since we moved out of that house, nothing of this kind has happened to me again, but I will forever remember these few happenings. I still enjoy scary and paranormal things, but I’m not so keen on having first hand experiences with those things, again.

The Wicker House

Of course everyone claiming residence in Arthur’s Wake knows tales associated with the Wicker House. It seems that every small province plays host to some structure of ill repute which, as if by supernatural magnetism, draws rumor of ghosts and bogies, wrapping the timber and stone of its foundation in a shroud of darkness and horror. In Arthur’s Wake, the Wicker House fills this odious task.

Scant days after arriving in town, while taking the time to familiarize myself with the local watering hole and its residents, I became introduced to the well known superstitions surrounding the Wicker House. As a man of science, I knew any truths to be found in these outlandish stories were likely embellished to points unrecognizable. Nothing was first hand; all experiences were from a friend who knew a fellow who may have seen something. It is the provincial mind which transforms wild dogs into wolves that walk like men and interprets astronomical phenomena as harbingers of certain doom. Still, my curiosity sufficiently piqued, I endeavored to better inform myself upon the subject through more objective means. To my great surprise, while failing to confirm the more supernatural claims of the tales, the town records in the basement of the local library did provide aspect to a most sinister reality all their own.

The house was built in 1920 by the millionaire Tomas Wicker who, in addition to being both a successful oil prospector and fishing magnate, was by all accounts completely insane. No one knows what first drew Wicker to Arthur’s Wake. Some speculate this as the first outward sign of his impending madness. What is known was that the foundations of the house which would come to assume his name were poured almost immediately upon his arrival.

The structure was supremely modest for a man of Wicker’s means, rising a mere two stories in height and composed of scarcely a dozen rooms plus cellar and attic for storage. The house was built on Blackwood Drive, a major tributary of the town’s main street, and close to the industrial center, such as it was. The plot itself consisted of about a quarter acre, the yard home to a few blossoming trees and a small garden, the whole of which was surrounded by a high wrought iron fence accessed by a similar gate. The posts of this formidable perimeter were topped by wicked spikes to discourage would-be trespassers. Construction concluded rapidly and the autumn of 1920 saw Wicker take up residence in the house accompanied by a maid, groundsman, and his wife.

The lady of the house quickly became the subject of gossip among the townsfolk. During the construction Wicker had boarded his wife in parts unknown. None could recall when she arrived at the house; one day she was simply there. As the groundskeeper cared for the exterior yard and garden and the maid handled all domestic chores including trips to market, the lady was herself never seen to exit the house. Due to this complete lack of socialization, the townsfolk did not learn so much about the woman as her Christian name. The servants themselves shed no light upon the subject. The man hailed from a remote part of the Dark Continent and the woman appeared to be a mixed-breed, vaguely of the Orient. Wicker had acquired the service of each while abroad for business dealings and neither spoke a word of English. Naturally, the Lady Wicker was the object of most persistent rumor.

Early speculation was she suffered from some exotic malady which left her drawn and bedridden. These theories were repudiated by those few who would occasionally spy her from the street. In each case she was seen exclusively at night, staring forlornly through the second story window of what was assumed to be her bedchamber, lit only by candlelight from within and to all appearances the picture of health. Additionally, there was little chance the typically damp and sunless climate of the Wake would be prescribed to improve one’s constitution by even the most inept of physicians. As common folk are wont to do, with a logical explanation absent more fantastic theories were crafted. Some began to speculate the woman was a witch, others an enslaved angel won by Wicker whilst dicing with Satan. What all who observed her agreed upon was her singular beauty.

I gleaned much of this information from archives of the local paper, especially one curiosity piece which was accompanied by a photograph of the lady in question. The scene was just as I had heard described, the single lonely prisoner peering through the window and across that terrible iron fence into the darkness of the night. The photograph was muddled due to the quality of the prehistoric equipment and the lack of natural light, effectively obscuring the lady’s features. Indeed it was difficult to distinguish whether the blurred form was in fact human, though it did project an impression of unmistakable femininity. And yet, even through that grayish haze I could perceive a certain piercing, almost hypnotic quality of her eyes.

Wicker himself was something of a mystery though considerably less so than his bride. An attractive man, tall, dark haired and well featured, many a young woman found herself undeniably jealous of the seldom observed Lady Wicker. Though often away for long periods on business excursions, at home Wicker would frequent the only drinking establishment in the Wake, an illicit locale consistently ignored by the well-bribed police force charged with upholding Prohibition. Although he had no one in town that might be explicitly named ‘friend’ Wicker was known to purchase drinks for the house on his occasions of patronage and was as such engaged in conversation by no few number of fellow revelers.

It never took long for Wicker’s tongue to be sufficiently loosened at which time he would regale his latest passel of hangers-on with fantastic stories of his journeys abroad; forbidden hoodoo rites in the Caribbean, strange tribal sacrifices in the heart of Africa, dead men who walked in Eastern Europe, and countless others, each one stranger and blacker than the last. Though Wicker never spoke of his wife directly, these tales only served to expound upon the rumors of her origins.

Things progressed much in this way for some five years. Wicker would travel and carouse upon his return. The servants went about their business without comment or complaint. The townsfolk gossiped. The lady remained a shut-in. The horror occurred without warning.

The events that took place on the eve of Samhain in the year 1925 have gone down in the history of Arthur’s Wake as unembellished fact. Among the town records I discovered the report of the patrolmen dispatched to respond to the disturbance at the Wicker House. The narrative was itself accompanied by the most gruesome of photographs from the scene in question. I will summarize their contents directly.

Tomas Wicker returned from his latest trip abroad on the thirty-first of October. Having stopped briefly at home, he arrived at the aforementioned drinking establishment in a clearly agitated state. The always impeccably dressed Wicker was sloppily garbed, one shirt tail hanging out of his trousers, shoes scuffed beyond repair. It was obvious he had not recently bathed or shaved, his well-groomed hair was mussed, and his eyes were bloodshot and wild. Approaching the bar he seized an entire bottle of liquor, took several long swallows without use of a glass, and ignored all attempts of other patrons to engage him in conversation. Taking a final drink from the bottle he placed his wallet and the entirety of its contents on the bar, smashed the now almost empty receptacle upon the ground and exited with the astonished eyes of all present following him. That this entire portion of the episode occurred within a completely illegal establishment is not lost on me, although it apparently was on the investigating patrolmen. As I have said, they were well bribed.

That no mortal eye remains which observed what happened next is surely proof of a merciful God. The two patrolmen who first came upon the scene were summoned by terrified reports of shrill cries and demonic cackles. Long-term veterans and hard men both they were nevertheless ill prepared for what they would soon find at the Wicker House. Armed with a lantern and clubs in hand the men carefully approached the dwelling now ominously quiet.

The great iron gate was open askew as was the oaken door at the top of the steps leading to the interior of the house. Receiving no response to their shouted inquiries, the patrolmen cautiously entered the foyer and proceeded to search the ground floor. They found the first horror in the kitchen. The maid had been tied with thick hemp rope to a large table, limbs spread and secured to each of the four legs. She was naked, the butcher knife which had been used to slit her throat permanently sheathed in her heart. Glistening blood dripped from the cruel altar, slowly pooling on the floor while tell-tale splatters painted the walls like macabre decoration. The patrolmen shared a glance of mutual, unbelieving dread, tightened their grips upon their clubs and continued to search the premises in complete, terrified silence.

Having determined the cellar empty through a brief yet understandably taut examination, they exited the back door to the yard and discovered the groundsman’s body. A thick wooden stake had been erected in the center of the garden and crossed by a perpendicular beam. The man hung naked, suspended from the crossbeam by spikes harshly driven through his wrists and ankles in a grotesque simulacrum of Christ’s crucifixion. He had been disemboweled, ropey innards pouring out of his belly dripping blood and excrement.

Horrified, the patrolmen reluctantly agreed that a premature conclusion of their search to summon reinforcements would provide a very dangerous murderer a chance at escape. The men reentered the house and agonizingly proceeded up the winding stair to the second floor. Systematically they searched each room, uncovering nothing until only one remained; the bedchamber of the elusive Lady Wicker.

Eyes wide, heart pounding wildly the lead man slowly eased the latch. Raising their clubs the men burst through the door and stopped dumbfounded. The room was completely dark and empty, devoid of trappings or furniture of any kind. By the thin beam of their lantern light the men saw that strange occult symbols had been scrawled on every surface of the room though those on the far wall had been somehow marred. Of the murderous Tomas Wicker or his mysterious wife there was no sign.

A noise from above alerted the men to their quarry’s location. Returning to the hall, they spied a trap door operated by a string which, when pulled, revealed a ladder leading up into the lightless storage space of the attic. The two patrolmen stared at the entrance yawning black and wide as the maw of some infernal creature, beckoning fools to wander to their doom. Unable to decide who would proceed first, the men threw evens. The unlucky loser took the lantern and ascended the ladder.

He stopped halfway through the aperture, lantern held high to better diffuse its light and ready to beat a hasty retreat to the relative safety of the hallway below. The attic was in a state of disorder, strange souvenirs of Wicker’s trips abroad stacked haphazardly throughout. The constable slowly played his beam about, gradually revealing each disjointed mound of clutter. At last the light fell upon the attic’s far corner revealing the huddled gibbering mass of the man they sought.

Or what had been the man. Indeed whatever reason serves to separate man from beast had, sensing it was no longer a suitable dwelling place, fled the form of Tomas Wicker. The handsome features were gone, replaced by deeply sunken cheeks and a hideous grin. As the patrolman stared terrified, he could see the creature was covered in the blood of his victims left below. Hands about his knees, Wicker slowly rocked, babbling to himself.

Joined by his fellow, the constables steadily advanced. Arms outstretched they readied to seize the thing that had been Tomas Wicker when his mad eyes shifted upon them and the muttering stopped. In a moment of seeming clarity he whispered, “She’s gone,” before emitting a maniacal howl and leaping to his feet. Taken aback, the patrolmen hesitated, affording the lunatic room to bound past them to the window and hurl himself through the glass. His desperate shriek gave way to a sickening thud.

The men rushed to the broken window. Far below by the light of the moon they saw the body of Tomas Wicker jerk spastically, impaled by the wicked spikes atop the iron wall. By the time the patrolmen descended from the attic, the hideous motion had mercifully stopped.

The remainder of the report is, compared to the extraordinary events that had thus far taken place, remarkably mundane. Determining that the murderer was indeed dead the patrolmen called for reinforcements. The house was searched in detail and much speculation was made regarding the fantastic totems and fetishes populating every nook and cranny. All who set foot on the premises were in unanimous agreement that Tomas Wicker was unequivocally mad. Most confounding of all, there was no sign to what fate befell the mysterious Lady Wicker. Taking the lunatic’s final utterance as related by the patrolmen, the investigators deduced that the lady, tired of being regularly abandoned, had fled to parts unknown during Wicker’s latest trip abroad. Upon his return the shock had been enough to push the man into a murderous rage. Since virtually nothing was known of the woman, neither whence she came nor even her proper name, no search was mounted and the case dismissed.

It is from this point that the tale departs from the realm of logical reason to instead delve into the twisted byways of urban legend. About a month after the death of Tomas Wicker was when the disappearances began, the investigation of which ultimately lead to my arrival in Arthur’s Wake.

Parents would put their children to bed at night and find them gone the next morning. Exhaustive searches of the Wake uncovered nothing. Strangers new to the town were accosted, imprisoned and, in one instance, lynched by a frightened mob. Some questionable “evidence” was found on the man’s body after the fact and, with the suspect too dead to proclaim his innocence, the police happily declared the case closed. That the pattern of disappearances has continued for more than sixty years would suggest they were mistaken.

I have been unable to identify the first to claim seeing a strange light emitted from the long abandoned window of the Lady Wicker’s bedchamber, nor the one who swore he heard the sound of children playing as he hurriedly passed the accursed house. I do know that the tales have spread and grown to the point they are not so easily dismissed. Shortly, I will ascertain any truth to them that may be.

I turn off the small audio recorder I have been speaking into and place it in my pocket as I make the turn onto Blackwood Drive. Heaven only knows for whom I make these notes. A lifetime of chasing ghost stories, of hunting down tales of creatures that delight the imagination and offend the sensibilities, has thus far provided me no hard evidence of the existence of some supernatural realm dwelling in the darkened shadows of our world. Indeed, each investigation only further affirms what I have long determined: the human mind is a miraculous thing in its unabashed propensity to deceive itself. And yet … I abide. Perhaps this will be the time my perseverance is at last rewarded with even a bare glimpse of that other place; a place every man knows yet none have seen but in their blackest nightmares. A place of monsters.

Slender tendrils of fog quest hungrily between my feet like living things as I approach the ruins of the Wicker House. Pushing through the rusted iron gate, I am reminded that, despite my misgivings, I too am human, my mind as readily capable of deception as any other. Indeed, making my way up the front path, a trick of the moonlight suggests a soft glow emanating from the second story window as if from a candle lit within and, were it not impossible, the visage of a beautiful woman stares down and smiles at me approvingly. My hand tightens on the knob as children’s laughter reaches my ears. I open the door.

The Pedophile Attic Creepy Stalker

I was 11 years old when I moved to the Massachusetts area from the New Hampshire area. I was an awkward girl and didn’t make friends easily.

Everything in the house had carpet except for the attic. It took a pull down ladder to get up into and it gave off an unfinished creepy vibe off. Also, it was in my room so it creeped me out even more.

One day, I was left home alone on a Friday Night. My parents were out and my little brother to a friend’s house. I invited a friend over to my house because I was so bored.

Soon after, she came and we started making cookies and making popcorn to watch a movie. As we were watching the movie, I heard footsteps coming from upstairs. I dismissed them at first thinking it was just outside, but after the footsteps came back, it worried me.

My friend then left around 9:30 pm and left me all alone in my big house with creepy footsteps. Me being a stupid 12 year old, I went upstairs with a bat and just went off to bed. But I couldn’t sleep.

So, I took a shower and after I started changing did i see a flash. It alarmed me and freaked me out. I screamed and cried but it fell on deaf ears because no one was home and wouldn’t be home till sunday morning.

I went over to the phone and debated on calling the police but thought against it, multiple times.

So I went back into my room cautiously and heard the footsteps again. They were unmistakably coming from the attic, in my room. I was freaking out and cried silently as I got into bed. I saw another flash of the camera. This went on for the rest of the night.

Saturday early morning the next day, I had had enough and ran to the room across and dialed 911. I was grateful to see the police at my doorstep within minutes.

I took them to my room and showed them the pull down rope to pull down the ladder. They pulled the door down and went up the stairs and were shocked at what they saw. They took pictures and showed me. There were pictures of me all over the walls and some blood and some of my clothes and my personal diary that I thought I lost.

I was horrified and shocked and passed out. As the ambulance that was called shortly after I had passed out, one of the officers spotted a man lurking near the house. They arrested him and pulled up his record. He had an assortment of charges, ranging from sexual assault to murder.

After I recovered from my fall, an officer told me that the man they had arrested after I passed out was indeed the man who was staying and living in the attic. They assumed he started living there as soon as my family moved into the house.

Turns out, the man living upstair in the attic had been stalking me and following me wherever i went undetected. Also, that he was a registered sex offender and had his plans on taking away a child’s innocence such as myself at the time.

I decided after that whole incident happened, that I moved out of that room and went to another room. My old room where this happened is currently unoccupied since the police has put their caution tape all over it since it’s still a scene of disturbing and what could’ve been an unforeseen demise to my death.

The Soldier in my Attic

This story is about what happened to my brother in the attic of my old house.

When I was 8 years old I lived in a long row of red brick terraced houses in the city of Manchester, UK. These houses were built during World War 2 and were one army barracks and home to soldiers and their families.

If you’ve ever watched the TV soap ‘Coronation Street’ you’ll know what type of houses I mean. The whole street looked like an L.S. Lowry painting.

The house was set over three floors, the living room, kitchen and bathroom on the first floor, my bedroom and my parents bedroom on the second, and the attic had been separated into two bedrooms for my brothers.

On the night this happened my eldest brother, who was 19 at the time, was staying at a friends house, my parents were at my nana’s house who lived next door but one, so my brother who was 17 was left looking after me.

It was around 9pm that I was sent to bed as I had school the next morning. About twenty minutes later, I was already asleep by then, my brother told me he went to be after checking on me.

He sat in his room playing on his PlayStation 1 until he fell asleep around 11pm. By then my parents were already home.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, something woke me up. Groggy and tired I sat up in my bed and looked towards my door.

I should mention that I used to dream vividly as a child and had gotten used to seeing things when I was in that world of between consciousness and dreamland. So much so that I used to have full blown conversations with someone in my dreams while I was half awake, and my parents would come in my room to find me muttering to myself.

So something woke me up, I peered around my room for a second which was lit up dimly by my night light, before I looked at my door which was half open.

I saw a man. A soldier. He was wearing a khaki uniform, I’m not sure whether it was one of the camouflage ones as he was covered in mud. It was all over his clothes drying and cracking, all over his hands, on his face and under his chin.

He looked at my and asked me a question.

“Do you know where my mam is?”

I replied saying that I was sorry but I hadn’t seen his mother. He just looked and me and nodded and then walked away, I heard our attic stairs squeaking as weight was put on them.

I lay back down, falling back to sleep when I heard a scream and then rapid footsteps down both sets of stairs. By the time I had gotten out of bed the front door slammed and my dad was halfway down the stairs shouting after my brother. My mum had ran up the stairs to the attic but found nothing, just my brother duvet balled up in the corner of the room.

That night my brother went to his girlfriends and begged his girlfriends parents to let him stay. He stayed on their sofa for 4 days before my parents convinced him to come home.

In those 4 days I had told my mother countless times that the soldier went up the stairs to the attic but she just shook it off as one of my dreams.

When my brother came home he finally told everyone what happened.

He said he had been asleep when he was awakened by his duvet falling off him. Without opening his eyes he grabbed his duvet and pulled it up to his chin. Seconds later the duvet was roughly dragged off him and my brother shot up only to come face to face with the soldier.

My brother immediately thought it was one of our older brothers friends just fucking with him, so he went through shove the soldier away while cursing out our older brother. Except when he pushed the soldier he said his hands went straight through his chest.

For a minute he was shocked and looked up at the soldier, he said the soldier was looking down at my brothers arms through his torso with a look of horror on his face. This in when my brother started screaming and ran down the stairs.

No one believed either me or my brother.

The weird thing is that wasn’t the only strange thing that happened in that house. I guess there was multiple ghosts or spirits in that house because although many things happened after that, I never saw the soldier again.