In junior year, I lived in a two story house. It was nice house. The nicest one we ever lived in actually. It was on the corner of a busy street, not far away from the high school I went too but too far to walk. We had a huge backyard for our dogs, and everyone had their own room. That was what I was excited about. I no longer had to share with my little sister, Chloe, and being a teenager that was great. I mean who wanted to share with their little sister?
Though I loved our little two story house, it was haunted.
Some weekends, it would just be me in the house. The younger three (Chloe, Kody and Camron) would be at their dad’s and Tristan would go to his cousin’s or his friends. It’d just me at the house, well and the two dogs and two cats. The dogs stayed outside while the cats were terrors.
On those weekends, I took over the living room. I brought down blankets and pillows, my paints and canvases, my laptop and had a lot of fun. I enjoyed those weekends because it was the only time I really got to myself where I didn’t have to be the responsible older sister. I could be simply a teenager.
One night I was sort of painting, sort of watching a movie (I can’t remember what movie at this time but I think it was a rom-com) and sort of listening to music. Suddenly, I heard footsteps upstairs. I paused both movie and music. I wondered if my brother Tristan had come home while I was in the bathroom and didn’t tell me.
“Tristan?” I asked into the silence.
There was no response. Only more footsteps.
Then I thought perhaps the footsteps were my kittens, Butterball and Kiara. They were ornery kittens and enjoyed playing upstairs. That was until I realized that the kittens were next to me, curled up in one orange ball and one black ball, cuddling together.
I did what every typical girl does in horror movies.
I went upstairs to check it out.
I walked slowly and carefully up the stairs, but they still creaked. I called out again. “Tristan?” Knowing my brother, he would at any moment pop out and scare the hell out of me. He was only 15 after all. He was a boy. He did things like that.
Tristan never popped out.
First I checked my room. Nope. It was good. Messy with clothes and art supplies as usual. Then I checked Chloe’s. Nope. nothing. Though she didn’t clean her room like she was supposed to but that was typical. Tristan’s room was all the way at the end, the attic between. I walked past the attic, and again, in typical girl fashion, paused mid-step and opened the attic door.
The attic was always freezing. We used it as storage. I shivered as the cold burst of wind hit me. It was even colder than usual, which was strange. It was only September. It shouldn’t be this cold. I stepped into the attic, looking around. Suddenly, I heard footsteps. I whipped around, ready to yell at Tristan.
But there was no one there.
A few days later, the same thing happened. This time I was in my room, everyone was asleep while I laid awake listening to my iPod. Then I heard the same footsteps.
A few months later, I woke up because I was thirsty. I walked out of my room and down the stairs. I saw a little figure on the stairs.
“Camron?” I asked. “What are you doing up?”
There were footsteps behind me again. And then I felt like someone grabbed my shoulder. I turned around.
No one was there.
I turned back. The little figure was gone.
I went downstairs to the kitchen, getting me a glass of water. I tiptoed to my mom’s room, peeked my head in. Camron was passed out, sprawled on the bed, mouth open and drooling. I frowned but closed the door and turned around, ready to go back to bed.
I walked up the stairs and right at the top of the stairs was the same little figure. I couldn’t see a face clearly.
“Hello?” I asked, hesitant, unsure. I didn’t know if it was real or if I was so tired I was hallucinating. The figure disappeared.
A few weeks later, I had a birthday party. All the girls crashed in my room and we all agreed that we didn’t like the attic. There was something off about it.
It wasn’t until way later when I found out that I wasn’t the only one who had seen the strange little figure, like a child about 3 or 4, and heard the footsteps. My brothers had as well.
Was the house haunted? Or did we have an over active imagination? I don’t know. What I do know is that when I was home alone, I slept in the living room or upstairs with my door was locked and the cats stayed with me.
Perhaps the house was truly haunted. Who knows? Hope you enjoyed my creepy little story. Do you have any? Feel free to share in the comments!