The Haunting of Simon McBride

I never thought I would be sharing this story with anyone, but what happened to me has haunted my every waking moment since that fateful day. It’s a tale of terror that seems almost too unreal to be true, yet I assure you, every word is a reflection of the horrors I’ve endured.

It all started when I moved into an old Victorian house in a small, seemingly picturesque town in New England. The house was a steal, and I couldn’t believe my luck. It had everything I had ever wanted – high ceilings, intricate woodwork, and a sprawling garden. The previous owner, an elderly widow named Mrs. Hargrove, had passed away, and her family was eager to sell the property quickly.

From the moment I stepped inside, I felt an unsettling chill in the air. The real estate agent assured me it was just the house settling, but something about the place felt off. I brushed it aside, attributing it to nerves and excitement about moving into my dream home.

The first few weeks were uneventful, and I busied myself with unpacking and decorating. But then, strange things started happening. It began with small, almost imperceptible occurrences – doors creaking open on their own, the faint sound of footsteps in the hallway at night, and cold spots that seemed to move around the house. I told myself it was all in my head, that I was just adjusting to living alone in such a large, old house.

One night, as I was lying in bed, I heard a faint whisper. It was so soft that I could barely make out the words, but it sent shivers down my spine. “Get out,” it seemed to say. I sat up, heart pounding, and listened intently. The house was silent. I tried to convince myself that it was just the wind, or perhaps my imagination playing tricks on me.

But the whispers continued, growing louder and more insistent. “Get out,” they would repeat, night after night. I hardly slept, plagued by a sense of impending doom. I confided in a friend, who suggested I install security cameras around the house to catch any intruders. I did as she suggested, hoping to put my mind at ease.

The cameras captured nothing unusual during the day, but at night, they recorded something that chilled me to the bone. In the dead of night, a shadowy figure would appear in the hallway outside my bedroom. It was tall and indistinct, but its presence was unmistakable. It would stand there for hours, watching, before disappearing just before dawn.

Terrified, I contacted a local paranormal investigator. He arrived a few days later, armed with equipment and a skeptical attitude. As he set up his devices, he explained that many old houses have residual energy that can cause strange phenomena. He assured me that he would get to the bottom of it.

That night, we sat in the living room, waiting for something to happen. Around midnight, the temperature dropped suddenly, and the investigator’s equipment went haywire. We heard the whisper again, louder this time: “Get out.” The investigator’s face paled as he reviewed the recordings. There, clear as day, was the shadowy figure, standing just behind me.

The investigator decided to conduct a séance, hoping to communicate with the spirit and find out why it was haunting the house. As we sat around the table, holding hands, the room grew colder. The investigator called out, asking the spirit to reveal itself. The response was immediate and violent. The table shook, objects flew off the shelves, and the lights flickered.

A voice, distorted and filled with rage, echoed through the room. “This is my home. Leave now, or suffer the consequences.” The investigator and I were both visibly shaken. He advised me to leave the house immediately and find somewhere else to stay while he conducted further research.

I packed a bag and left that night, staying with a friend in town. The investigator continued his work, uncovering the dark history of the house. He discovered that Mrs. Hargrove’s husband, a man named Jonathan, had been a cruel and abusive man. He had died under mysterious circumstances, and many believed that Mrs. Hargrove had been involved. After his death, she lived alone in the house, becoming increasingly reclusive and paranoid. She was convinced that Jonathan’s spirit was haunting her, tormenting her for what she had done.

The investigator conducted a cleansing ritual, hoping to rid the house of Jonathan’s spirit. For a while, it seemed to work. The whispers stopped, and the house felt lighter. I moved back in, cautiously optimistic that the nightmare was over.

But it wasn’t. A few weeks later, the whispers returned, more insistent and angry than ever. Objects would move on their own, and I would wake up with bruises and scratches that I couldn’t explain. The shadowy figure appeared more frequently, always watching, always waiting.

Desperate, I contacted a medium who specialized in communicating with spirits. She agreed to come to the house and see if she could help. As soon as she stepped inside, she gasped. “This house is filled with pain and suffering,” she said. “Jonathan’s spirit is here, but there is something else, something darker.”

The medium conducted a séance, and what she uncovered was more horrifying than I could have imagined. Jonathan’s spirit was indeed present, but he was not alone. There was another entity, a malevolent force that had attached itself to him in life and followed him in death. This entity fed on fear and pain, growing stronger with each passing day.

The medium explained that Jonathan’s abusive nature had attracted this dark force, and it had driven him to madness and violence. Even after his death, it continued to torment him, and by extension, anyone who lived in the house.

The medium performed a series of rituals, attempting to banish both Jonathan’s spirit and the dark entity. The house shook with an unearthly fury, and for a moment, I feared it would collapse. But then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the chaos stopped. The medium collapsed, exhausted but triumphant.

For a few blissful months, the house was quiet. I began to feel at peace, believing that the horror was finally over. But one night, as I lay in bed, I heard a whisper, faint and distant. “Get out,” it said, and my blood ran cold.

I moved out the next day, leaving behind the house that had turned my dream into a nightmare. I never looked back, and I have never returned to that town. The house still stands, as far as I know, waiting for its next unsuspecting victim.

I share this story not to scare you, but to warn you. There are forces in this world that we cannot understand, that thrive on our fear and suffering. If you ever find yourself in a place that feels wrong, that chills your very soul, trust your instincts and leave. Some doors are better left unopened, some houses better left uninhabited.