The Creepiest Thing That Ever Happened to Me

Part 1: The Voice in the Wall

I’ve never been one to scare easily. I grew up in a small town in rural Vermont, where the biggest drama was when the neighbor’s goat got loose and chased the mailman. Ghost stories? Sure. But they were things we told around campfires, never something I thought I’d live through.

That changed the winter I turned seventeen.

We had just moved into a house built sometime in the 1920s. My mom called it “charming,” which was her way of saying it was old and needed work. It had creaky floorboards, drafty windows, and a basement that smelled like earth and old metal. Still, it felt like a fresh start for our family—until the voice started.

The First Time

It began as a whisper—barely audible. The first time I heard it, I thought it was the wind pushing through the cracks in the siding. But wind doesn’t say your name.

I was home alone, curled up in my bedroom with a book, when I heard it. Faint. Male. Almost gentle.

“Emily…”

I froze. My name. Plain as day.

I sat up slowly, book still open in my lap. “Dad?” I called out, though I knew he wasn’t home. The silence that answered was thick and unnatural. I checked the hallway, the staircase, even the front porch. Nothing. Just the creaking of the house settling into its frame.

That night, I lay awake, watching shadows stretch across my ceiling. I tried to convince myself it had been a dream—stress from the move, maybe. But the fear didn’t fade. And the voice came back.

Scratches in the Silence

It was four nights later when it returned. I was in the kitchen, washing dishes. The lights flickered once—twice—and then came the sound.

Scratch.

Pause.

Scratch, scratch.

From behind the refrigerator.

I turned off the tap, every sense sharpening. The hairs on my arms stood straight. And then—again:

“Emily… come closer.”

I dropped the plate in my hand. It shattered in the sink, and I backed away, knocking my hip against the counter.

The voice was soft but firm. Calm, almost coaxing.

I ran out of the kitchen and locked myself in my room. When my parents got home an hour later, I told them everything. They looked at each other, trying not to smile.

“Sweetie, it’s an old house. Pipes groan, the wind whistles. It’s just your imagination.”

But it wasn’t.

The Journal

One week later, my dad was in the attic trying to reset the breaker. I went up to help hold the flashlight. That’s when he noticed something odd—one corner of the floor sounded hollow when he stepped on it.

He pried up a board. Beneath it was a thin crawl space walled off by plaster. A hidden room.

It wasn’t large—just six feet by six feet, with no windows and barely enough room to stand. Inside, there was a child-sized wooden chair. Dusty. Worn smooth in the seat. An old doll lay slumped in the corner, its face pale and cracked. But what caught my attention was the journal.

It was half-buried in dust near the baseboard. The pages were yellowed, the handwriting shaky.

The first line I read made my blood run cold:

“He won’t stop talking to me. He says he lives in the walls.”

Further in, there were names scribbled in the margins. Mine wasn’t there—but the most recent entry was dated 1979.

We didn’t tell my mom. My dad quietly nailed the floorboard shut that same night.

After That

The whispering didn’t stop. In fact, it got worse. It followed me from room to room, always just behind the wall or under the floorboards. Some nights I’d wake up to soft tapping behind my headboard. Other times it would be under the stairs.

“Emily... come talk to me.”

Once, I found my bedroom window cracked open when I was sure I had closed it. A small stack of dirt sat on the windowsill, like someone had placed it there deliberately. That was when I started sleeping with the light on.

The Final Straw

The breaking point came in March.

I woke up around 2 a.m., heart pounding. I hadn’t heard anything—I just felt watched. My eyes scanned the dark room. Nothing moved. No shadows shifted.

Then I noticed something that hadn’t been there the night before: a handprint. Just one. On the inside of my closet door. Smudged like someone had pressed their palm against it.

I never opened that closet again.

We Left Quietly

My dad never said anything, but I think he believed me by the end. The house went on the market in April, sold to a retired couple from out of state.

They lasted five months before moving out.

I still check the walls when I move into a new place. I listen for whispers. I tap on plaster to see if it sounds hollow.

I don’t know what was in that house. I don’t know if it was human, or spirit, or something else entirely. All I know is that it knew my name.

And I wasn’t the first one it spoke to.

🕳️ To be continued in Part 2: