The Ghost That Still Follows Me.

It began on a cold autumn night, one of those nights when the wind slips through the cracks of the windows and whispers secrets you’re not meant to hear.

I was nineteen, staying alone at my grandmother’s old house while she was in the hospital. The house had always been unsettling — creaky floorboards, drafty hallways, and a silence so heavy you could hear it pressing against your ears.

That night, around midnight, I was in the kitchen making tea when I first heard it.

Creak.

The unmistakable sound of a door hinge groaning upstairs.

I froze, kettle in hand.

It wasn’t the usual settling of the house. This was sharp, deliberate.

Creak… thud. Thud.

Footsteps.

Slow, dragging, one after the other, across the floor above me.

I set the kettle down, my fingers trembling. I told myself it was just my imagination, or maybe an animal on the roof. But then…

Creak.

The bedroom door upstairs swung fully shut.

With a clack.

I swallowed hard and grabbed the flashlight from the counter. I didn’t call the police — I don’t know why. Maybe I thought it would stop if I just… checked.

Every step up the staircase groaned beneath me.

Creak… creak… creak…

The air felt colder the higher I climbed, and by the time I reached the top, I could see my own breath.

The hallway stretched before me, the shadows long and jagged. The door at the far end — my grandmother’s bedroom — stood ajar now, though I’d heard it close.

I stepped closer.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Like fingernails lightly rapping the window inside.

I reached the door and pushed it open.

Creeeeaak.

The room was empty.

But the window was wide open, the curtains fluttering in the icy wind.

I crossed the room and shut it tight, the click of the latch loud in the silence.

And that’s when I heard it behind me.

Breath.

Slow, deliberate. Right at the back of my neck.

I spun around, but no one was there.

Yet the air was thick — thick with something I couldn’t see, but I could feel. My chest tightened. My heartbeat was deafening in my ears.

Thump.

From under the bed.

I dropped to my knees, the floor biting cold. I lifted the quilt and shone my flashlight into the dark space beneath.

There, at the far end, two pale hands clutched the floorboards. Thin. Long fingers.

And then it crawled out.

It moved wrong — too fast, yet jerky, like a broken marionette. It was a woman — or what was left of one. Skin so white it almost glowed, her face sunken, hollow eyes fixed on me.

Her mouth hung open, but the sound that came out was not a scream.

It was a low, wet gurgle, like water draining from a sink.

I scrambled backward, hitting the dresser with a thud, the flashlight falling and spinning, its beam slicing through the room.

By the time it settled, she was standing.

Her head tilted to one side. Watching.

Then she whispered.

It wasn’t a word. It was just the sound of nails dragging across wood — scriiiiiitchhh — but it came from her mouth.

I ran.

Down the stairs, through the hallway, the floorboards clapping under my feet. The kitchen door slammed shut just as I reached it — BANG! — but I yanked it open anyway and bolted outside into the night.

I didn’t stop until I was halfway down the block, doubled over, gasping.

When I finally turned to look back, the house stood quiet and dark.

But at the window of the bedroom, behind the glass, she stood.

Watching.

That was five years ago.

I never went back.

But no matter where I go — no matter how far — I hear her.

At night, when everything is quiet, I’ll hear the floorboards behind me.

Creak… creak…

Or the low, wet gurgle from some dark corner.

Last month, I stayed at a hotel three states away. Thought I was safe.

Until I heard the window in my room slide open with a click.

Until I felt her breath on the back of my neck again.

She still follows me.

And I know… she always will.