Haunted House

The Whitaker family moved into the mansion on Grayson Hill in late October. The leaves had just turned brittle, and the sky hung heavy with gray clouds. It was the kind of place most people only saw in horror films—grand, aged, and just slightly crooked.

“It’s beautiful,” Claire said, stepping out of the car. Her voice echoed in the stillness.

Tom, her husband, adjusted his glasses and squinted up at the moss-covered roof. “It’s big,” he replied.

Their son, Jamie, only eight years old, clutched his stuffed dinosaur and stared up at the windows. “It’s staring at us,” he whispered.

Claire laughed, brushing it off. “It’s just old, sweetie.”

They had gotten the place for a price too good to refuse. A five-bedroom estate with marble floors, antique fixtures, and more land than they’d ever hoped for. The real estate agent had muttered something about “unfortunate history,” but Claire didn’t care. She needed change. After her miscarriage last year, she needed a place that didn’t remind her of everything she had lost.

The first few nights passed quietly. The house creaked, but that was expected. Jamie wouldn’t sleep alone, so he shared a bed with Claire and Tom.

On the fourth night, Claire woke to footsteps. Not outside the room. Inside.

She turned slowly. Tom snored softly beside her. Jamie slept curled at her side. The room was dark except for a pale moonbeam that crossed the floor.

She waited.

Nothing.

But in the morning, she found the rocking chair near the window had been turned toward the bed. She had left it facing the opposite wall.

Maybe Tom had moved it?

She asked him over breakfast.

He frowned. “No. Why would I?”

Jamie looked up. “Maybe the little girl moved it.”

Claire paused. “What little girl?”

“The one in the hall,” Jamie said calmly. “She’s sad. She wanted to come sleep with us, but I told her you said no guests.”

Tom choked on his coffee.

That day, Claire went through the town archives. The librarian was an older woman with tired eyes who looked at Claire curiously.

“You bought the old Grayson place?”

Claire nodded. “What happened there?”

The woman hesitated, then pulled out a newspaper from twenty-two years ago.

FAMILY FOUND DEAD IN MANSION.

FATHER SUSPECTED IN MURDER-SUICIDE. DAUGHTER’S BODY NEVER RECOVERED.

Claire stared at the yellowed paper. “They never found the girl?”

“No,” the librarian said. “The father buried his wife and baby in the cellar before hanging himself in the attic. But the little girl… she just vanished. Some say she ran. Others say… she never left.”

Claire didn’t tell Tom. He didn’t believe in ghosts, and she didn’t want to scare Jamie.

But that night, Jamie didn’t want to sleep in their bed.

“She says I’m not supposed to be here,” he whispered.

“Who says that, sweetie?”

“The girl. She says the house is still hers.”

Claire woke at 2:14 a.m. to soft crying.

She followed the sound down the hallway, past the old portraits and dusty lamps. It led her to the nursery—a room she and Tom hadn’t touched since moving in. It was empty when they arrived.

But now, there was a crib.

A rocking horse.

And a music box playing softly.

Claire stepped back, heart racing. The air grew cold.

She turned—and saw her.

A little girl in a faded nightgown, standing by the window. Her eyes were black, hollow voids. Her head tilted slowly.

“You took my mommy’s room,” the girl whispered.

Claire gasped, stumbling back.

“I’m sorry,” she said, hands raised. “I didn’t know.”

The girl pointed toward Jamie’s room. “He doesn’t belong here.”

The next morning, Claire told Tom everything.

He didn’t believe her.

“Stress,” he said. “You’ve been through so much. You’re seeing things.”

She tried to insist—but he kissed her forehead and left for work.

Claire stood alone in the kitchen. Then the radio turned on by itself.

A child’s voice sang:

“Go to sleep, go to sleep, close your eyes now and die...”

She unplugged it.

The voice continued.

That evening, Claire packed bags.

She didn't care if Tom argued—they were leaving. But when she went to Jamie’s room, he was gone.

His toys lay scattered. His bed was empty.

She searched the entire house, screaming his name. She checked every closet, every crawlspace, every shadow.

Then she remembered the cellar.

With trembling hands, she opened the wooden door and descended the creaking steps.

It was cold. Dark. Damp.

She turned on the flashlight—and saw small footprints in the dust.

Tiny, barefoot prints leading into the far corner, where the wall looked... different.

She touched the bricks.

One moved.

Then another.

The wall opened slightly, revealing a hidden room.

She entered slowly—and screamed.

Jamie lay curled in the corner, eyes closed, pale but breathing.

Beside him stood the girl.

She wasn’t crying now.

“I just wanted my family,” the girl said. “You can have him back. If you promise to go.”

Claire nodded, tears pouring down her cheeks.

“We’ll leave.”

The girl stepped back and vanished into the dark.

The Whitakers left that night.

They never returned to Grayson Hill.

And years later, when Jamie grew up and asked his mother what happened in that house, Claire only said:

“Some homes are filled with memories. Others… are filled with the people who refuse to become one.”