OUR HOUSE WAS HAUNTED - (TRUE STORY)

I’ll tell you something, but only if you promise to believe me.

Back in 2003, my husband and I found what we thought was our dream home. It was an old colonial place in Lamar, Arkansas—one of the oldest in the state. Big porch, tall trees, fireplaces in every room. And the price? Practically a steal. Looking back, I know why. I deeply regret it.

When we first toured the house, we found one upstairs fireplace boarded up. Spray-painted on the boards was a pentagram… and the name of a boy who, I later learnt, had died there. But we laughed it off. “Teenagers messing around,” I told myself.

At first, it was just noises. Knocking on the walls. My little boy, Bridger, said he couldn’t sleep because he heard people talking in his room—like a whole crowd whispering over each other. We told him it was just dreams. Just the old house settling.

Then came the crying baby. My husband swore he heard it over the monitor, but when he went upstairs, the room was empty. Our sitter had taken the baby out. The house itself was crying.

It escalated. Shadows slipping up the stairs. Footsteps at night. A rubber ball bouncing down when no one was playing. Toys turning on by themselves.

And then came the night Bridger walked downstairs. He wasn’t awake—at least, not in the way you or I are awake. His eyes were glassy, his smile too wide. And then he laughed. Not my son’s laugh. Something else’s laugh, sharp and cruel, right in my face. Our dog bolted upstairs, barking furiously at the corner of Bridger’s room, like something was standing there, unseen.

I’ll never forget that laugh.

We called in a paranormal team. The medium said there weren’t just one or two spirits, but dozens. They used a Ouija board to ask questions. It just looked like a head kind of formed, and then you could kind of see the shape of a human figure, but nothing was defined. It was kind of transparent, and it lingered for a minute. It would create forms and then kind of start to disappear a little bit and then kind of come back. This happened for, you know, several seconds, and then it was gone.

The name that came through was Seth. But when they asked when he had lived, the board spelled: NEVER.

That night, the house turned cold—colder than winter in Arkansas ever gets. I could feel it pressing in on me, like hate itself had weight.

The strangest part? It didn’t stop when they left. It got worse.

One day, the CD player in our kitchen jumped to track 99. Over and over, the speakers hissed the same words:

“You need to help. You need to help. You need to help.”

We grabbed what we could and left that house forever.

I don’t tell this story to scare you. I tell it because you need to know—sometimes a house doesn’t want you. And sometimes… it keeps a piece of you anyway.

So if you ever move into a place with boarded-up fireplaces, pentagrams on the walls, or voices in the night? Don’t stay. Don’t rationalise. Don’t think you’ll be the lucky ones.

Because one day, you’ll hear it too. The laugh. And once you do…

you’ll never forget it.