The thing about fear is somewhat embedded in knowing a certain something could happen or had happened.

That is why starting a horror story with “This is a true Story” guarantees you have the attention of the reader.

Is this a true story?  Was this a true story? Perhaps.

It began when doors began to close on their own. I’d walk past a door and before I could reach to shut it, it did so by itself.

I live in a somewhat Windy City so this is pretty much normal. I thought nothing about it until one day, under my breath, I said “Too lazy to close the door…wish someone would help”

Obediently, the door creaked as it began closing.

Again, pretty normal.

“Do I live with a ghost ni” I asked in my habitual manner of talking to myself.

“Yes” a voice right beside me said. “I’m waiting for you to sleep”

I live alone.



The roommate is out again so I get a silent house to myself.
I turn the lights off and slide under the cold covers of the duvet.
I dutifully stay on my side of the bed, and I push my roommates teddies to her side of the bed.
“Treat them nicely” she’d always tell me whenever she was going away for the weekend and I’d murmur a “Yea…”.
This night, I look at them, black button eyes glinting, illuminated from my phone.
“Stupid piece of shit” I curse at them, and fling one, a purple llama, against the wall.
It is time to sleep.
As my body slowly drifts, I hear a whisper.
“Stupid piece of shit” a voice suddenly says.
Something violently pushes me off the bed.

The llama is back on the bed.



Things disappear when I drop them.
They reappear in other places.
“Am I going crazy?” I murmur, bemused.
“No” a pale, little boy replies. “Chucky just likes to play”