The Forrester family didn't believe in haunted houses.
At least, that's what they told themselves as the moving truck rattled away down the narrow, tree-lined road and left them alone in front of the tall, narrow home with its sagging porch and sleepy-looking windows.
"It has character," Mom said brightly, hands on her hips.
"It has problems," Dad replied, staring at the roof like it might slide off at any second.
Fifteen-year-old Nora stood on the sidewalk with her little brother Eli and tried to decide which word felt more accurate. Character or problems.
The house leaned slightly to one side, like it was listening.
"It looks like it's frowning," Eli whispered.
"It's just the shadows," Nora said. But she didn't like how the upper windows seemed darker than they should be, even in the afternoon sun.
They went inside.
The air smelled like dust and something older—like books forgotten in an attic. Their footsteps echoed. The hardwood floors creaked, not just under weight, but sometimes a second after, like the house was copying them.
Creak… creak.
"Probably temperature changes," Dad muttered, as if arguing with the noise.
Mom clapped her hands. "Okay! Let's explore. Nora, you take Eli upstairs and pick rooms."
"Why me?" Nora asked.
"Because you're the brave one," Eli said, already clinging to her sleeve.
She wasn't sure that was true.
The staircase groaned as they climbed. Halfway up, Nora felt a faint draft brush past her ear, like someone sighing. She turned.
Nothing.
"Did you feel that?" Eli asked.
"Old houses are drafty," she said automatically.
At the top of the stairs, a long hallway stretched out, doors on either side. The wallpaper was faded blue with tiny flowers. Some were peeling, curling like dried leaves.
They opened the first door. Empty room. Second door. Empty.
The third door stuck halfway.
Nora shoved harder. It gave with a pop.
This room was different.
The air felt colder. The window was shut tight, yet the curtains fluttered as if stirred by breath. In the corner sat a small wooden chair, the only piece of furniture in the whole house.
"Why is there a chair?" Eli whispered.
"Probably left behind," Nora said.
But it wasn't dusty like everything else. The seat looked recently wiped clean.
A floorboard creaked behind them.
They both spun around.
The hallway was empty.
"Mom?" Nora called.
No answer.
She felt silly for being nervous. Old house. Old noises. That's all.
"Let's pick different rooms," she said quickly.
That night, the sounds started.
At first it was just the usual settling: knocks in the walls, soft thuds from somewhere above.
Then came the footsteps.
Slow. Measured.
Walking across the ceiling.
Nora stared up from her bed, heart pounding.
Step… step… step.
It stopped directly over her.
Then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three soft taps.
"Dad?" she called.
No answer.
Her door creaked open an inch by itself.
She sat up. "Hello?"
The hallway light flickered.
At the far end of the hall, she saw something small and pale dart into the room with the chair.
Not a shadow. Not a trick of light.
Something shaped like a child.
The next morning, everyone looked tired.
"You guys hear the pipes all night?" Dad asked.
"That wasn't pipes," Nora said.
Mom forced a smile. "New houses make noises. Your brains fill in the rest."
But Eli barely touched his cereal. "Someone was talking," he said quietly. "In my closet."
No one laughed.
That afternoon, Nora went back to the cold room. She didn't know why. Maybe curiosity was stronger than fear.
The chair had moved.
It now faced the door.
Like it had been waiting.
"Okay," she said to the empty room, feeling ridiculous. "If someone's here… we're not trying to bother you."
The curtains stirred.
Something scraped lightly against the floor.
Then she heard it.
A small voice, thin as wind through cracks.
"Stay."
Her heart jumped. "What?"
"Stay," it said again. "Don't go."
The word didn't sound threatening. It sounded lonely.
She imagined a kid stuck here for years, listening to strangers come and go, every family leaving.
"We just moved in," she said softly. "We're not leaving."
The air warmed a little.
That night, the footsteps returned—but they stopped at the top of the stairs, like someone standing guard.
When Eli's toy rolled off the shelf, it gently rolled back.
When Dad nearly slipped carrying a box, something seemed to steady it.
The house still creaked. Doors still opened sometimes.
But it felt different.
Less like watching.
More like sharing.
A week later, Eli put one of his stuffed animals on the wooden chair upstairs.
"For the kid," he said.
Nora didn't tease him.
That night, the chair didn't move.
But when Nora passed the room, she could've sworn she heard a quiet, happy sigh.
The house still looked like it was frowning from the outside.
But inside, it didn't feel haunted anymore.
It felt… occupied.
And strangely, like home.