Last week I moved into a new house. It was something I’d been waiting my whole life for, because buying your own place is a … pretty big staple for most people. Putting all of my stuff in boxes and getting out of my brother’s smelly apartment was the best part of all of this, and I remember the day I moved in as the best day of my life.
Looking back, though, I may have rushed into things a little.
Ever since I moved into the house, I’ve been experiencing some strange things. Well. Strange is an understatement, really. Here’s what’s happened:
The day after I moved into the house, I tried taking the numerous paintings on the walls off. They were pretty graphic, and I didn’t want to be looking at them when I had dinner or was about to go to sleep–there were two in my room alone. And it would probably be better if they were small–I could pass them off as “antiques” or whatever, but one in the living room nearly spanned the whole wall. That’s 10 feet by nearly 12, and I wanted to get rid of it.
I tried pulling it off first, thinking there were hooks or something there–that was not the case. So I grabbed a plier and a hammer, and I tried a couple more times, but it wouldn’t budge, and there was a low creaking sound coming from the wall, so I stopped trying to pull it off because I was worried I’d damage the drywall. I tried to pull off other, smaller paintings (there are about sixteen in total), but when I made my fifth attempt at doing so, it was like the house howled. The walls shook, and the TV I’d painstakingly mounted fell and shattered on the floor.
At that point, I decided to just leave the paintings be. It wasn’t like I’ll be having guests over anyway for a while, and I can always figure things out with that later.
My neighbor came by with a pie as a welcome thing and invited me to a party that they apparently have every week. I agreed to drop by, and put the pie on the kitchen counter as I went to unload some more stuff from my boxes, like some extra clothes and furniture I got from Ikea.
Also, I managed to find a room upstairs that didn’t have one of those fucking paintings–it’s really small and smells like burned bacon for some reason, but that’s just a minor pain in the ass, compared to everything else. So I slept there because I was so tired from unpacking for a couple of hours, and when I came back downstairs to get the pie, I noticed that nearly half of it had been eaten.
To my knowledge, I don’t have a sleepwalking problem, so I checked the whole place to see if there were any intruders, which there weren’t, but I called a home security company and ordered some alarms for my home–yelled a bit on the phone because I was scared and they told me these alarms normally had a two-day wait before installation– and then called the police and told them I’d thought there’d been a break-in. It was embarrassing to say the least, because there wasn’t really anything they could do about it except tell me to be more cautious.
So I got some home security out of it, but I’ve been scared since, and I don’t go to bed anymore without triple-checking the locks on the front and back doors, and making sure every window is shut.
I mentioned the neighborhood party, right?
Well, it was this Sunday, so I went, and it was pretty fun. They had a barbeque and cupcakes! I have a horrendous sweet tooth, so I ate like twenty of the latter and skipped eating anything of the former. There are a lot of nice families here–some of them didn’t show up to the party because of a family tragedy, so the woman who gave me the pie–let’s call her Alex–just told me a little bit about them, and then offered me some beer. I had a couple, so when I got home–nearly 1:30 or a similar time–it took me a bit to open the door, which turned out to be a good thing.
When I opened it, what I saw nearly gave me a heart attack. It was … my dead body, but I’m alive, so it couldn’t have actually been me. It looked like a proper murder scene, though, with blood splattered all over the walls, and the body propped up under the wall with the gigantic painting on it. I blinked, closed the door, and then opened it again to find nothing there.
I probably just hallucinated, but it was really fucking unsettling, and paired with everything else, it scares me.
Maybe my house is fucking haunted, but I can’t exactly move out right now–it hasn’t even been two weeks, and the house is pretty nice, beyond the paintings and the weird smell in my new room. It has three bedrooms, and two baths, which is great for it being dirt cheap. I’ve started wondering just why it was so cheap, though. My best guess as of right now is that the previous owner, a Mrs. Blumsey, went through similar stuff, had enough, and decided to move out.
I’ve tried contacting her, but she wouldn’t pick up, and I don’t have her email or her family’s number, so I’ve just left her some texts in all caps and I hope she sees them and responds. The agency that sold me the house apparently moved states–I did a Google search and called them up, and apparently they only operate in Florida.
I do not live in Florida.
It’s just all a very weird bit of affairs, and I feel like things will only get stranger, which I do not want to happen. I’ve started thinking the house doesn’t like me, but it also doesn’t hate me. Yet.
I haven’t slept in a bit, so I’m going to take a nap. Maybe I’ll get up and investigate more, or straight up call an exorcist. I’ll put an update here when that happens.