Hello, my name is Leo. I'm sixteen now, 5'6'', but this story happened when I was seven years old, and I was staying at my mom's house.
I was sound asleep in my room when I was jolted awake by a very loud noise coming from downstairs. At first, I just jumped from my bed and then settled back under the covers, thinking nothing of it. But then I heard it again—this time even louder: a dull, heavy "THUD."
My flashlight was dead, so I lit a candle and crept out of my room, heading downstairs to investigate. I was confused; my parents were still fast asleep, and I knew the sound couldn't have been them.
I was halfway down the hall when I heard something right behind me. A low, gravelly voice whispered, "Hello there, little boy."
I spun around so fast I nearly dropped the candle, but there was nothing there.
"Hello? Is someone there?" I called out, but there was no reply.
I kept walking, my heart pounding, and went straight to the kitchen. That's where I saw it: two of the chairs at the table had been knocked over.
I went to pick them up, and as I bent down, I felt something warm breathing right on the back of my neck. I quickly turned around again, but still, I saw nothing.
I was trembling with fear, but managed to choke out, "H-hello?"
This time, the only answer was a menacing laugh.
I desperately hoped my mom or dad would come downstairs to comfort me. I wanted to run straight back to my room, but I didn't want to wake them up. So, I picked up the fallen chairs, set them back at the table, and walked slowly toward the living room.
I just wanted to go back to sleep. Being seven years old, I didn't feel safe being alone anymore.
My mind started to fixate on the painted portrait hanging in the hallway. As I walked past it, I realized the color was paler than a bedsheet. I got the strange, unsettling feeling that I was being watched. Every step I took felt uneasy, and that scared me even more than the breathing I had heard.
I stood at the edge of the living room, the single candle in my hand throwing flickering shadows that danced and twisted on the walls, making every ordinary object look like a lurking monster. I glanced at the large, empty fireplace. My dad always kept it spotless, so it shouldn't have been a surprise that it was clean, but tonight, the soot-darkened brick seemed to stare back at me like a hungry mouth.
I was about to turn and bolt back up the stairs—to leave the mystery unsolved and just hide under my blankets—when I heard a small, distinct scrape from the far corner of the room. It was near the antique grandfather clock that hadn't worked in years.
I forced myself to walk toward the sound, the candle flame trembling with my shaking hand. I peered behind the heavy wooden case of the clock.
"No," I whispered, my voice barely a squeak.
Tucked away in the shadows was a small, wooden toy soldier. It was one of my favorites, a little red coat and black hat, and it was supposed to be sitting safely on the shelf in my room. But that wasn't the scary part. The scary part was that the soldier was lying on its side, and its tiny wooden face was carved into a horrible, grinning mask—a smile that I knew for a fact hadn't been there when I put it away. It wasn't painted that way, it was carved.
Suddenly, the clock behind me let out a deep, deafening "GONG!"
It only struck once, but the sound vibrated through the floorboards and rattled the windows. That clock hadn't chimed in five years! I scrambled back, dropping the candle. It went out instantly, plunging the room into absolute, terrifying darkness.
I couldn't move. All I could hear was my own ragged breathing and, very faintly, the return of that menacing laugh, this time sounding much closer, right above my head.
I couldn't move. The darkness was total, thicker and heavier than any blanket. It pressed in on me, smothering the last of my courage. All I could hear was my own ragged breathing and, very faintly, the return of that menacing laugh, this time sounding much closer, right above my head.
My legs felt like cement. I wanted to scream, to call out for Mom or Dad, but the sound was trapped in my throat. I stood frozen, a seven-year-old statue in the middle of a terror-filled living room. The THUD that had started it all, the whispers in the hall, the tipped chairs, the soldier's grin—it all crashed down on me at once.
Then, a new noise started. Not a bang, not a whisper, but a soft, slow sound of something dragging across the hardwood floor. It was coming from the kitchen, the direction I'd just come from. Scrrrape... Scrrrape... It sounded like a heavy foot being deliberately pulled.
It was moving closer.
I knew I couldn't just stand there and wait for whatever it was to reach me. My small hands found the edge of the large, sturdy wooden sofa. I used it to shove myself into action, blindly stumbling backward toward the foyer.
Run, Leo, run!
I didn't try to find the candle; I didn't care about the toy soldier. I just focused on getting to the stairs. Every muscle in my body screamed at me to go faster, but in the dark, my movements were slow, clumsy stumbles.
Scrrrape... Scrrrape... The sound was passing through the doorway now, entering the living room.
I finally reached the cold stone of the fireplace hearth. I fumbled for the edge of the wall, desperate to find the first step. Just as my fingers brushed the newel post, I felt something grip my ankle.
It wasn't a tight, painful grab. It was a cold, gentle touch, like a hand resting on my skin through my pajama fabric.
I stopped dead. Every bit of air left my lungs in a silent whoosh.
The menacing laugh returned, louder than before, and this time it was right behind me, low and breathy, as if the thing was leaning over my shoulder.
"Going so soon, little boy?" the gravelly voice chuckled.
I didn't look back. I didn't scream. With a burst of pure adrenaline, I kicked my foot as hard as I could, shaking off the cold grip, and scrambled onto the first step. I didn't walk—I crawled up the stairs, taking them two at a time, my eyes wide and useless in the dark. I didn't stop until I was across the hall and had thrown myself under the covers of my bed, pulling the blanket up and over my head, where the darkness finally felt safe.
I lay there, listening to the echoing silence, until the sun finally started to bleed gray light through my window. I never went back downstairs that night.
The next morning, everything was exactly as it should be. The chairs were still set at the kitchen table, the grandfather clock was silent, and the terrifying toy soldier was sitting back on my shelf, its grin now just a simple, painted line.
But when I pulled the blanket down from my head, I saw something that made the fear rush back: resting right on my pillow, next to my head, was a single, small, black feather.
The feather wasn't there when I woke up the first time. It must have been left there while I was downstairs.