My father had rented a small house on a dead end street in the suburbs. He lived there for a few years with my step-mom. While I can’t account for the experiences they had, I can tell you about the ones I had when I moved in.
First off before it was passed to me, it was passed to my brother. One night before I had moved in I was house-sitting. Sleeping in the only bedroom downstairs I awoke to the loudest sound of crashing breaking glass. I honestly thought someone had thrown a brick through the living room window. I was so scared I called the police to come and investigate the property. They walked everywhere including going down to the basement and walking all around the backyard. The police could not find anything out of place.
A few months later I had moved in and wanted a roommate. A bunch of my friends were hauling stuff back and forth throughout the day while I stayed at the house. I was sitting on the living room sofa waiting for them to come back from another trip. I knew the front door of the house was unlocked for them, but it was shut. All of a sudden the door creaked open slowly and from where I was sitting I could see the light of the day pour into the living room. Thinking it was my friends coming in I yelled out a “hello.” I got a very high pitched “hello” in return. After a few seconds though I saw no one come inside, so I got up to greet them. I walked to the door and it was indeed open, however there was no one in sight. I walked to the bedroom, and nothing. I stepped outside to the porch and looked all around. There were no cars and no people anywhere nearby. The dead end street was silent and I was all alone in the house.
I lived in that house for years after this happened and tons more things went on that I can’t explain. Doors opened and closed on their own, drawers and cupboards that were shut would be open when I returned from work. (Even when I lived alone.) I would hear footsteps up and down the stairs almost every night, but no one ever talked to me again.
Sent in by Laura