A chill swept over me as we approached the creaking, dusty steps of the formerly abandoned mansion we called our new home.
I scanned the deteriorating facade, unsure of why my wife had decided to spend our entire life savings on this monstrous fixer-upper.
"Well, good luck," said the nervous realtor as he handed me the keys before speeding off down the dirt path toward town.
This beautiful, old victorian behemoth was surprisingly well within our budget, and we needed to make a decision quickly.
So she submitted an incredibly low, downright disrespectful offer, and now it's plain as day that we made the worst decision of our lives.
I knew it.
I knew it the whole time.
We bought a haunted house.
I desperately wish I could have experienced these disturbing situations alongside my wife and child. However, my inability to control my horrendous snoring has left me no choice but to sleep in a separate (but equal) bedroom.
Regardless, I've decided to chronicle the nearly incomprehensible horror we've experienced in this hell-hole.
That way, the world will have proper documentation of our paranormal plight if we don't make it out alive.
This is our prison.
This is our hell.
This is our story.
My child has already developed an intense and unsettling new habit: drawing terrifying pictures that reflect her frightening experiences.
Although she's an exceptionally poor illustrator, her feeble attempts at artistry are decent enough to accompany this disturbing tale of shock and horror.
My daughter's heart was (probably) beating frantically as she fearfully asked, "Daddy? Daddy is that you?"
"Honey, I'm over here." I said.
"And I'll always be here. Don't worry. Nothing's going to hurt you."
I could see the fear deepen in my daughter's eyes the second I whispered "goodnight."
My child's fear is my own worst nightmare. I simply will not allow it to fester.
There was scratching at the windows. First at mine, then at my wife's.
I was much too nervous to give it the satisfaction of knowing I had heard it. I stayed tucked beneath the covers as it ran its nails against the mesh screen.
Was it a burglar? Was someone trying to steal from us?
Everything’s still in boxes, some unmarked due to our hasty decision to jump ship. So I wouldn’t even be able to tell him where our expensive heirlooms were packed.
I don't know. I mustn’t be so positive. It wasn't a thief. It was something much more sinister.
If only I could've worked up the nerve to speak.
There were footsteps in the hallway.
I heard it trudge past my room to the other side of the house with an unsettling determination.
With an unapologetic arrogance.
With a disturbing confidence that it belonged there much more than I did.
Now that we live closer to work, I don't need to eat my ham sandwich alone in the office parking lot.
I can go home.
So today, I did.
As I drove down the dirt path through the woods, I felt that something was off.
As I shifted to park, and as the dust settled, my stomach didn't.
The front door was unlocked.
I know I locked it.
I felt a lump in my throat. I crept up the stairs, peered through the crack, and pushed the door open slowly.
My wife's clothes were spread out along the staircase.
Chills ran down my spine. This malevolent spirit wasn't messing around. This was classic poltergeist activity.
We're dealing with a demon. Or worse, whatever that might be.
I woke up to hear a name being spoken.
I realize you might not believe this, and this might sound too crazy to be true, but that's the name of my wife.
Each time that sinister creature screeched her name, shivers trickled down my spine.
As the night deepened, the vocalizations became more frequent.
Each time, her fear grew exponentially. Her screams echoed what she felt deep inside of her.
She never even brought up her paranormal experience the next morning during breakfast. She simply said that she "didn't get much sleep." What an incredibly powerful, beautiful woman.
A shadow passed quickly under the door.
There were strange, sinister whispers, and about five minutes later, something crawled toward the bedroom window.
Each night this phenomena occurs, the evil spirit slides open the curtains and presumably "jumps" from the second story.
This ghoul doesn't seem to be restricting itself to this property. Either that, or it's continuously reliving its last moment as a living person.
According to the dusty old book of spells and spirits I checked out from the local library, ghosts and other lost souls have been known to repeatedly perform the action that caused their untimely demise.
My daughter said the scariest thing to me tonight.
She looked up, tears in her eyes, and said that it "visits when I'm at work."
We have to move.
If only we had the money.
I don't know how long I'll be able to handle knowing that my beautiful daughter is drowning in fear every single night.
I keep hearing the liquor cabinet slam.
That specific cabinet has a particular groan to it, so I know that's the one being opened and shut.
Opened and shut.
Opened and shut.
Every single night.
What the hell is going on?
Ghosts don't drink. So why is this one seemingly an alcoholic?
I'll be honest when I say that I don't know if my wife is even afraid anymore.
She seems to be able to communicate with the spirit on a level that I simply cannot.
She is brave.
She is beautiful.
She is a wonderful woman who knows what she has to do to keep our family from being torn apart by the wicked ways of this demonic presence. I just have to let her handle it herself.
My daughter said she saw the ghost run to the neighbor's house, climb up a ladder, and hop in through their second story window.
A house-hopping specter?
I've never heard of such a horror.
My wife has developed a deep emotional connection to this ethereal beast. I just don't like that.
Not at all.
She bawled her eyes out when we sat her down at the kitchen table and told her the news about the spirit swapping homes.
No one makes my beautiful wife cry.
Especially not a dead man.
We've packed our bags.
We've decided to rent a room at the hotel nearby until we can save up enough to make a down payment on something that doesn't scare us sleepless.
We've lost everything.
Everything but each other, that is.
To the Reader:
If you find these notes, and if we've let the nightmare get the best of us, I'm begging you:Share them with the world.
That house is not for us, nor anyone else. And neither is that monster.
If there's one thing that we've learned from this experience, it's that nothing can tear apart the bond of family....even though she definitely was fucking him.