My Grandparent’s Haunted Attic

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My Grandparent’s Haunted Attic
Cluttered Attic / Stock Photo

One summer, while I was staying at my grandparents’ house for the weekend, they were having a pretty good day. They have pretty good health yet some days are better than others. Anyways, I was laying on the couch with nothing to do while my grandpa was outside working in the garden and my grandma was out painting their mailbox. They were both a reasonable good distance away from the house. While I was lying there, I heard something upstairs. They built their own house and they had an upstairs, yet it was never finished. So, it’s kind of like an attic. At first, I thought, “Oh well, it’s just the house. It’s old and makes noises all the time.” Which was quite true.

I heard it again and started listening closer. It sounded like footsteps. I tried to convince myself that it was my imagination, but it wasn’t working. I kept hearing it and with each noise I would listen closer. I had been up there before and they had a few pieces of furniture up there. I knew that there was an old recliner and couch right above where I was lying. I would hear foot steps walking at a steady pace than all of a sudden stop right where the furniture was as if there was someone up there walking around and lounging in the recliner or on the couch. I was so scared! I was afraid to move or even breathe!

Finally, I got up very carefully, scared to make even the slightest noise. I went to the door and ran out across the front yard, across the old one lane road, to where my grandma was. She asked me what I was doing and I tried to act as casual as I could and said, “Nothin’.” I stayed with her for awhile, then I went for a little walk around the house to see if there were any traces of someone or something being in their attic. Nothing, there was no trace of anything.

I gathered up the courage to go back in the house. I went in the front door, crept over to the couch and sat down. Tears started running down my face, I was so scared. What scared me the most was that the next day my mom was going to come pick me up and my grandma and grandpa were going to be home alone. I dried my tears with my shirt and got the courage to up the stairs, but then I couldn’t make myself walk over the creaky floor to the brownish-orange door to the old attic room with the furniture that was above the living room downstairs. I ran down the steps and back to the door.

I went back to my grandma and started trying to have a regular conversation with her and get my mind off the noises I had been hearing. I finally forgot about the noises and was thirsty, so I went back in the house to get something to drink. I was walking through the living room, heading towards the kitchen, when I heard something in there. I stopped. It sounded as if whatever it was ran into the dining room. I thought to myself, “What is going on? What or who is in this house?” I went into the kitchen and got something to drink, but was afraid to look into the dining room. I was afraid that someone was in there and didn’t want to be noticed, so I was going to oblige them. I was going to ignore them, act like I had no clue that they were in there and maybe they wouldn’t kill me, or whatever they might of done if I saw them.

But, my curiosity got the best of me and I looked in there. I saw the old sewing machine, the table, the freezer, and cabinets, but besides that, nothing. I walked on in to get a better look at the whole room. Still Nothing. Was there something in there? Was there someone in the attic? Or was my imagination trying to get the best of me? I don’t know. Maybe it was someone that used to live on the land the house was built on because my grandpa bought about 200 acres of land and there used to be many houses on the property. He gradually bought land from everybody until he had all that he does now. There are two or three little family cemeteries scattered throughout the woods on his land. Was it one of them? Was it a ghost? My grandparents are still living, so that’s some good news that gives me relief that maybe it was just my imagination. Believe what you want!

Stories are personal encounters that were submitted to us by our website visitors. Unless otherwise mentioned, stock photos are used to help represent the story and are not actual photographs that were taken during the author's encounter.

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