My Encounter with the Shadow in the Hallway

I’ve never believed in ghosts—at least, not until I had an experience that changed my perspective completely. I’ve always been the type to dismiss any supernatural claims, but what happened to me in that old house... I still can’t explain.

It all started a few years ago when I moved into an old house on the outskirts of town. The place had been empty for a long time, and when I first saw it, I thought it was perfect—charming, secluded, and with a bit of history that made it feel unique. I didn’t think twice about its age or the fact that the previous tenants had left so suddenly.

The first few days were peaceful enough. The house creaked, as old houses do, and the wind whistled through the cracks in the walls. But something strange started happening one evening when I was home alone.

It was a cold night, and I was in the living room, scrolling through my phone. I could hear the floorboards above me creaking, like someone was walking around. I thought it was probably the house settling, but then the footsteps came closer—closer—and before I knew it, I heard a soft tapping on the doorframe of the living room.

I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. There was no one else in the house. My dog was curled up at my feet, and she hadn’t made a sound. I slowly stood up, trying to shake off the feeling of dread crawling up my spine.

I opened the door to the hallway and looked around. The house was quiet, still, but then I saw something in the corner of my eye. A dark figure. Standing at the end of the hallway.

I quickly turned my head, but it was gone. I felt my heart race as a chill ran down my back. I told myself it was just my imagination. I was tired, and my mind was playing tricks on me. But as I turned back into the living room, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I could feel it. I wasn’t alone.

That night, I locked every door and checked all the windows before bed. I convinced myself I was just overthinking things. But every night after that, it got worse.

I began to notice it more—this shadow at the end of the hallway, always standing just out of view, never fully in the light. Every time I looked, it would vanish. It was like it was watching me. Waiting.

One evening, I was walking down the hallway when I caught a glimpse of it again. This time, it didn’t vanish. The shadow was standing in the same spot, but it was closer. So close, I could see the faint outline of a figure—tall and thin, with long, dark limbs. Its face was obscured by the darkness, but I felt its eyes on me, piercing through me.

I panicked and backed away, but it followed. Slowly, silently, it glided toward me. My mind screamed for me to move, but my body wouldn’t respond. I was paralyzed with fear.

Then, in a flash of terror, it whispered. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

That voice, that cold, hollow whisper—it wasn’t human. It sent a shock through my entire body, and in that moment, I bolted out of the house, not even bothering to lock the door behind me. I stood in the front yard, gasping for air, and could feel the house staring back at me, as though it was alive.

I don’t know how long I stayed outside, but when I finally gathered the courage to go back in, the shadow was gone. The house was quiet, almost too quiet.

I packed my things and left the very next day. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—had been waiting for me to leave. And I still haven’t been able to bring myself to go back.

Some people say houses have memories. I don’t know if that’s true, but whatever was in that house—whatever I saw—wasn’t just a trick of my mind. It was real.

Now, whenever I pass by that old house, I can’t help but glance up at the windows. And sometimes, just sometimes, I swear I see a shadow move past them. Watching. Waiting.