The Unseen Guest

The Unseen Guest

Submitted by: Emma, Primary School Teacher and Longtime Sceptic

Emma, a primary school teacher from Devon, has always been practical-minded, preferring logical explanations over ghost stories. But even she was left questioning reality after her chilling experiences in her childhood home. Here’s her account of one unforgettable night:

I grew up in an old Victorian house that had its quirks—creaky floors, rattling windows, and the faint smell of wood and dust. But I felt there was something else, something I couldn’t explain.

One night, I was alone, lying in bed with only a dim nightlight casting a soft glow across my room. The house was silent, and I was drifting to sleep when I felt a chill come over me, as if a door had opened somewhere nearby. But I hadn’t heard a door.

Just as I dismissed it as a draft, I felt pressure sink into the edge of my mattress, as though someone had sat down beside me. I froze, my heart was pounding. 

For what felt like hours, I lay there, too terrified to move, until finally, I reached out and turned on the bedside lamp. Nothing was there. 

I convinced myself it was my imagination. Then it happened again. And again. I’d sometimes wake up to hear whispers outside my door, but everyone would be asleep. Another night, I was lying in bed when my door, which I’d closed, opened slowly on its own. I stared at it for ages, half-expecting someone to come in, but no one did. I even tried leaving it open, thinking maybe it was the hinges or something. But the door would still move. It would open if it was closed, and close if I left it open.

Every so often, I’d come into my room to find my things moved. Nothing big, just small stuff like my jewelry or books which were put in places I’d never leave them. Once, I found a book lying open on my bed as if someone had been reading it. I hadn’t seen the book for years and there was no reason it should be removed from the shelf. 

We moved out when I was sixteen, and the strange things stopped. I’ve always wondered if it was just the old house, or if something (or someone) was trying to make itself known.

To this day, I’m still unsure what or who was in that house with me. But I know that I was never truly alone.

Creepy, right? Emma’s story has that unsettling feeling that stays with you. So, what do you think—an old house with a personality, or something more? Let us know your thoughts!