I’d spent years longing for a place I could truly call my own—somewhere I wasn’t throwing away rent every month. So when a charming colonial on a tranquil, tree-lined street popped up at a price I could handle, I couldn’t believe my luck. It looked ideal at first glance, but I never imagined the real challenge would lie underground.
From the outside, the house was like a postcard: white siding, green shutters, a slightly sagging roof, and a bit of chipped paint that I thought would be easy enough to fix. When I stepped inside for the viewing, the living room’s cozy fireplace and the timeworn hardwood floors only added to its allure. Still, there was an undercurrent of tension I couldn’t quite place.
It became clear when we reached the basement door. A heavy-duty lock guarded the entrance, which struck me as odd. The real estate agent, Susan, claimed she had simply misplaced the key. I had my doubts about her breezy explanation, but my desire to own this home outweighed the uneasy feeling stirring in my gut.
After signing the paperwork and moving in, I noticed my new neighbor—a gray-haired woman—eyeing me from her porch, her expression hard to read. She slipped back inside without a word, leaving a chill in the air. Then, on my first night, I was jolted awake by a faint, unsettling giggle. It seemed to come from under the floor. Though I tried to investigate, the locked basement door remained a barrier. With my heart pounding, I called 911, but the officer who arrived dismissed it as the house “settling.”
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