I grew up in the heart of Oregon’s Willamette Valley, where the air is thick with mist and the scent of damp earth clings to everything. The early 2000s were a strange time—an era saturated with ghost hunting shows, urban legends, and a growing fascination with the supernatural. For most people, these stories were just that: stories. But for me, the supernatural wasn’t something I watched on TV. It was something I lived with every night, right outside my bedroom window.
Our house was a new build, one of many in a sprawling development that had sprung up almost overnight. My parents were thrilled to move in, eager to leave behind our old, cramped home for a fresh start. But there was something unsettling about that place from the moment we arrived. Maybe it was the way the forest loomed just beyond our backyard, a thick tangle of ancient trees that seemed to whisper secrets among themselves. Or maybe it was the old cemetery hidden within that forest, a place long forgotten by the living.
I was the youngest of three children, and I quickly learned that being the baby of the family meant my concerns were often dismissed. My older brother and sister were wrapped up in their own teenage dramas, and my parents were too busy with the move to notice the strange things that began happening almost immediately. But I noticed. I noticed everything.
My bedroom was on the second floor, with a window that looked out over the backyard and into the forest. If I leaned just right, I could catch a glimpse of the cemetery through the trees. It was an old graveyard, dating back to the late 1800s, filled with weathered tombstones and crumbling statues. Many of the graves were overgrown, the names on the stones worn away by time and rain. It was a place where the dead had long been forgotten, left to rot in the shadows.
The first time I saw something, I was convinced it was a trick of the light. It was late, well past midnight, and the house was silent. Everyone else was asleep. I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, when a movement outside caught my eye. I sat up, peering through the glass, my breath fogging the window. There, just beyond the treeline, I saw it—a dark figure, moving slowly among the graves.
It was tall and thin, its form indistinct, like a person but not quite. The figure seemed to drift, rather than walk, as if it were barely tethered to the ground. My heart pounded in my chest as I watched it move from one gravestone to another, pausing as if searching for something—or someone. I blinked, and it was gone, swallowed by the shadows of the trees. I told myself it was nothing, just my imagination, but deep down, I knew better. Something had taken notice of me.
The following day, I tried to shake off the unease that clung to me like a second skin. I told myself it had been a bad dream, nothing more. But when night fell and the house grew quiet, I found myself drawn back to the window. I sat there for hours, my eyes scanning the darkness, waiting for the figure to reappear. And it did—only this time, it wasn’t alone.
There were three of them now, moving silently among the graves. They were just as vague and shadowy as the first figure, their forms blurred at the edges as if they were made of mist. I watched, frozen in place, as they drifted through the cemetery, their movements slow and deliberate. They seemed to glide over the ground, barely disturbing the fog that clung to the earth.
Then, as one, they turned towards the forest—towards me. A chill ran down my spine as I realized they were looking right at me. I wanted to turn away, to hide under my covers like a child, but I couldn’t move. My gaze was locked with theirs, and I felt a cold dread settle in my chest. The figures began to move again, this time heading straight for the treeline.
I slammed the window shut, retreating to the safety of my bed. I pulled the covers over my head, my heart racing, as I listened for any sound that might suggest they had followed me. But the house was silent, save for the occasional creak of settling wood. I lay there, wide awake, until the first light of dawn finally crept through the curtains.
In the harsh light of day, it was easy to convince myself that it had all been a bad dream. But as night fell once more, the fear returned. The figures were out there, waiting for me. And I knew, deep down, that they wouldn’t stop until they had what they wanted.
The next few weeks passed in a blur of sleepless nights and growing paranoia. I became obsessed with the figures, spending hours each night at my window, watching for them. They appeared almost every night, always around the same time, moving through the cemetery in their slow, deliberate way. Sometimes, they would drift close to the forest, their shadowy forms barely visible through the trees. Other times, they would stay among the gravestones, watching from a distance.
The strange occurrences inside the house grew worse, too. Lights flickered on and off without explanation, and the air grew thick with the smell of damp earth, even when the windows were closed. Objects moved on their own—small things at first, like a book shifting slightly on a shelf or a door creaking open. But as time went on, the movements became more pronounced. One night, I woke to find my desk chair had been dragged across the room, its legs scraping loudly against the floor.
The worst was the whispers. At first, they were faint, barely audible over the sound of the wind. But as the days passed, they grew louder, more insistent. They seemed to come from the walls themselves, murmuring words I couldn’t quite make out. I would lie in bed, my ears straining to catch the words, but they were always just out of reach. Sometimes, I thought I heard my name mixed in with the whispers, repeated over and over again in a low, rasping voice.
Max, our family dog, was the only one who seemed to sense the danger. He was a big German Shepherd mix, normally gentle and easygoing, but the strange happenings turned him into a nervous wreck. He would pace back and forth in my room at night, growling softly, his ears pricked as if he were listening to something I couldn’t hear. Sometimes, he would bark suddenly, his eyes fixed on a spot just beyond my window. But no matter how many times he barked, the figures outside never seemed to notice.
One night, the whispers became too much. They were louder than ever, filling my head with their insistent murmurings. I could barely think over the noise, my thoughts clouded by fear and exhaustion. I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to confront whatever was out there, had to put an end to this madness.
I grabbed a flashlight and pulled on my jacket, ignoring Max’s worried whines. My heart was pounding as I crept down the stairs, each creak of the wooden steps sounding like a gunshot in the silent house. My family was asleep, blissfully unaware of what I was about to do. I slipped out the back door, the cold night air biting at my skin. Max followed close behind, his growls low and continuous.
The forest was even darker than I had imagined. The trees seemed to close in around me, their branches twisting like skeletal fingers reaching for the sky. The only light came from my flashlight, its beam cutting through the mist that clung to the ground like a shroud. I could just make out the faint glow of the cemetery through the trees, the gravestones barely visible in the darkness.
I hesitated at the edge of the forest, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts. The whispers had stopped, but I could still feel them, lurking just beyond the edge of hearing. I forced myself to keep moving, one foot in front of the other, until I was standing at the entrance to the cemetery.
The figures were there, just as they had been every night. But this time, they were closer—much closer. I could see them clearly now, their forms more defined, more human. Their skin was pale and mottled, their eyes dark and hollow. They wore tattered clothing, the fabric hanging off their emaciated frames like rags. They looked like they had been dead for a long, long time.
They didn’t move at first, just stood there, watching me with their empty eyes. Then, as one, they began to drift towards me. I felt a wave of cold dread wash over me, rooting me to the spot. I wanted to run, to scream, but I couldn’t. My feet were frozen to the ground, my voice trapped in my throat.
As they drew closer, I could see their faces more clearly. They were twisted, grotesque, their features distorted by decay. Their mouths hung open, blackened teeth visible behind cracked lips. And their eyes—those dark, empty eyes—seemed to bore into me, seeing straight through to my soul.
I finally found my voice and screamed. The sound echoed through the trees, but it did nothing to stop the figures. They kept coming, their movements slow and deliberate, as if they had all the time in the world. The whispers returned, louder than ever, filling my head with their frantic murmurings.
Max, who had been growling beside me, suddenly lunged forward, barking furiously. The figures hesitated, their forms flickering like a bad TV signal, before they began to retreat. They moved back into the shadows, melting into the darkness of the cemetery. The whispers faded, leaving only the sound of Max’s barking and the wind in the trees.
I didn’t wait to see if they would come back. I turned and ran, Max at my heels, not stopping until I was safely inside the house. I locked the door behind me, leaning against it as I tried to catch my breath. My heart was racing, my hands trembling. I knew then that I had made a terrible mistake.
From that night on, the activity in the house grew worse. It was as if confronting them had invited them in, giving them permission to torment me further. The whispers followed me everywhere, no longer confined to the walls of my room. They echoed through the hallways, slipped through the cracks under doors, and filled my ears whenever I tried to sleep. The footsteps I had heard outside now echoed inside the house, pacing back and forth in the hallway outside my bedroom. I would lie in bed, staring at the door, waiting for it to burst open.
The figures still appeared in the cemetery, but now they were bolder, standing at the edge of the forest, watching the house. Sometimes, I would see them out of the corner of my eye, just beyond the reach of the porch light. They never came closer, but their presence was a constant weight on my chest, a suffocating dread that followed me wherever I went.
I counted down the days until I could leave for college. The moment I graduated high school, I packed my bags and never looked back. I went to a college out of state, as far away from that house as I could get. My parents still live there, still refuse to acknowledge that anything is wrong. They think I’m being dramatic, that I just don’t like the house. But I know the truth.
I’ve never returned to that house, not once. When I visit home, I stay in a hotel with my new family, too uneasy to sleep under that roof again. Even now, years later, I still get chills when I think about that place, about the figures in the cemetery and the whispers that called my name. I sometimes wonder if the spirits that haunted our home have found peace, or if they’re still out there, waiting in the shadows, searching for someone new to torment.
Sometimes I think about driving by, just to see if it still looks the same. But I never do. Some things are better left forgotten, buried in the past where they belong. But in the quiet moments, late at night, when the house is still and the world outside is dark, I sometimes think I can hear them again—the whispers, the footsteps, the faint sound of my name being called. And I wonder if they’ve really let me go, or if they’re just waiting for the right moment to reach out from the shadows and pull me back.
Maybe one day, when my parents are gone, the house will be torn down, the land left to return to nature. But until then, it stands there, a silent reminder of what was disturbed, what was awoken by the construction of those new homes. And I can’t help but wonder if the next family who moves in will be as lucky as I was to get away.
Hayden Coombs 