My Childhood Home Was Haunted—and I Have Proof

It is said that memory fools people. that our memories are frequently a warped representation of reality. However, I have proof that the house was haunted, and I remember every detail of it.

On the outskirts of Savannah, Georgia, I grew up in a worn Victorian. No matter the season, it had a strange coolness, a subtle lavender and moldy scent, and a creaking sound like an ancient ship in the wind. My folks referred to it as "character." I referred to it as cursed.

The first time it happened, I was eight. My twin brother, Eli, and I had just moved into separate rooms. That night, I woke to the sound of humming—soft and high-pitched, like a music box winding down. I followed it to the hallway and saw a figure standing outside Eli’s door.

A woman in a pale blue dress. Her face was blurry, like looking through water.

She vanished when I blinked.

My parents said it was a dream. Eli said he heard her too.

After that, the house never let up. We’d hear footsteps in the attic, though it was sealed shut. Our dog would bark at corners, then whimper and hide under the stairs. Doors slammed by themselves. My parents still brushed it off—“Old houses do that.”

But Eli and I started keeping a notebook. We called it “The Watcher Journal.” Every time something happened, we wrote it down.

• March 3rd: Voice said “I see you” in Eli’s closet.

• April 9th: Door locked by itself while we were in the basement.

• June 1st: Blue Dress Lady seen near the mirror.

• July 18th: Eli woke up with scratches on his back.

It wasn’t just sounds or shadows. It felt like we were being observed—studied. And always, the woman appeared near mirrors, always humming.

By the time we turned twelve, my parents had finally started to believe us. My mom found the mirror in her room fogged with words: GET OUT—but the windows were closed. That night, she took it off the wall and stored it in the garage. That only made things worse.

Lights flickered. Eli got sick—always at night, always in his room. One day, he passed out, and they rushed him to the hospital. No diagnosis. Just... empty test results.

That’s when Dad found the Watcher Journal and burned it.

“Stop feeding it,” he said. “Stop giving it attention.”

So we stopped talking about it. But it didn’t stop watching us.

By high school, the house had quieted. The mirror stayed in the garage, covered in a blanket. I stopped seeing the woman. Eli recovered, mostly. Life moved on.

I left for college at 18. Eli stayed behind.

And then he died.

They said it was sleep apnea. Quiet. Peaceful. But I knew better.

When I returned for the funeral, I stayed in my old room. The night after the service, I couldn’t sleep. Something was off—too quiet. I wandered into the garage for air.

The mirror was uncovered.

And there, faintly scrawled in condensation, was a single word:

"BROTHER."

I backed away, my breath catching. Then the lightbulb exploded overhead, and I ran.

I didn’t sleep that night. I just sat at the kitchen table, staring at the mirror through the window. At 3:17 a.m., the exact time Eli had died, I saw her again—Blue Dress Lady—reflected in the glass. Her face was still blurred, but she raised one finger and pointed... not at me, but behind me.

I turned, heart hammering.

Nothing.

But when I looked back, the mirror was cracked.

I took it with me when I left. My parents never asked why.

Now, I live in Chicago. And the mirror? It’s locked in a soundproof storage unit, covered with salt lines and a thick black cloth.

And the proof?

I have the recordings.

See, after Eli died, I installed a camera in front of the mirror. Just in case. Last month, I checked the footage for the first time.

At exactly 3:17 a.m., the figure appears. Blue dress, blurred face. She walks out of the mirror.

And she speaks.

“I’m not done.”

I’ve uploaded the footage to a USB, stored it in three separate safety deposit boxes. Just in case.

They say memory plays tricks.

But this isn’t memory.

This is real.