The Screaming House on Elder Lane: A Nightmare That Followed Me Home

It started the day I moved into the house on Elder Lane.

I’d just gone through a divorce, so when I found a rental half the price of anything else in the neighborhood, I didn’t ask too many questions. The landlord was an older man with sun-damaged skin and jittery hands. All he said was, “Don’t open the attic door at night. That’s all I ask.” I thought he was being eccentric.

I wish I had listened.

The house was ordinary at first glance—two bedrooms, faded wallpaper, the smell of old wood and something else I couldn’t place at the time. Something metallic. Something sour.

I moved in on a Thursday. On Friday night, I heard it for the first time.

A scream.

Long, high-pitched, and human.

I jumped out of bed, heart pounding, and ran outside, thinking it came from the street. Nothing. Just dead leaves rustling in the wind. I asked the neighbors the next day. They all looked away or changed the subject.

That night, I heard it again. Louder this time.

It was coming from inside the house.

I checked the basement. Empty. I checked the windows. All locked. Then I remembered the attic. The door was in the hallway ceiling, covered by an old wooden panel. I stood underneath it with a flashlight, heart racing. The panel hadn’t been touched in years.

But something behind it was awake.

I called the landlord. He didn’t answer. I left messages. I emailed. Days went by.

Then came the knocking.

It started at 3:12 AM. Every night.

Three knocks. Then silence.

I recorded it. I showed the clip to my coworker, who laughed nervously and said, “Your house is haunted, man.” I tried to joke back, but my hands were trembling.

On the sixth night, I woke up to scratching sounds—soft, frantic, like fingernails on wood. I followed the sound down the hallway and realized it was coming from inside the attic door.

I finally called the police.

Two officers came, checked the house, and rolled their eyes. No forced entry. No signs of anything unusual. When I insisted they check the attic, one of them gave in and pushed the panel open.

The attic was empty.

Except for one thing.

A Polaroid photograph.

It showed a woman in a hospital gown sitting in the attic’s far corner. Her face was half hidden in shadow, but her eyes were wide with terror. A date was scribbled in the bottom corner in red marker: 11/3/79.

The officer turned pale and muttered something I didn’t catch. Then he told me, firmly, to move out as soon as possible.

I asked why.

He just said, “Some houses remember what happened inside them. Some never forget.”

That night, I didn’t sleep. I watched the attic panel until sunrise.

The next day, I packed. But I never got to leave.

Because the house wouldn’t let me.

The front door wouldn’t unlock. The windows wouldn’t break, no matter how hard I hit them. My phone stopped charging. Every light bulb blew out. I tried to break the attic panel myself.

That’s when she appeared.

The woman from the photo.

Standing at the end of the hallway, her mouth opened in an endless scream—soundless at first, then deafening.

I ran back into my bedroom and slammed the door shut. But the screaming didn’t stop. It grew louder and more desperate, like someone being torn apart.

I blacked out.

When I woke, it was morning. Everything was quiet. The door opened normally. My phone worked again. The house was... normal.

I ran.

I left everything behind. My clothes, my furniture, even my wallet. I never went back.

But here’s the part I never told anyone.

A week later, I was staying in a motel across town. I woke up at 3:12 AM.

Three knocks.

On my motel room door.

No one was there.

But taped to the outside of the door was another Polaroid.

Same attic.

Same woman.

Only this time, she was standing.

And her eyes were staring straight at me.