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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Glittering-Test-3763 on 2024-09-21 07:39:43+00:00.

For years, I lived in a charming old house that my grandmother had left me. It was filled with antique furniture, faded photographs, and an unsettling sense of nostalgia. I loved it, despite the whispers of the neighbors who claimed it was cursed. They told stories about strange occurrences—objects moving on their own, shadows flitting by the windows at odd hours, and the air growing thick with tension at night. I brushed it off as local lore, believing that my grandmother’s spirit was simply protecting her home.

One evening, as I settled into bed, I felt an overwhelming sense of dread. The air seemed heavier than usual, and shadows danced across the walls. I quickly fell asleep, only to awaken to the sensation of being watched. At first, I attributed it to my imagination, but the feeling persisted, leaving me anxious and restless.

The next day, I found a dusty old journal hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the attic. It belonged to my grandmother and detailed her life in the house. As I flipped through the pages, I stumbled upon a horrifying entry dated years ago: “The house has ears. It knows my secrets. If I don’t confess, it will consume me.”

Chilled, I continued reading. My grandmother had written about how the house seemed to know her thoughts and fears, twisting her own words against her. Every time she had a negative thought, an unsettling event would follow. Items would go missing, her reflection in the mirror would smirk back at her, and she’d hear whispers in the dead of night, recounting her darkest secrets.

That night, I decided to test the journal’s claims. I lay in bed and whispered my fears into the dark—my regrets, my failures, my hidden insecurities. I felt a shiver run down my spine, and the house creaked ominously in response. I dismissed it as paranoia.

But then, I woke in the middle of the night to a voice echoing through the halls: “Confess… or be consumed.” Panic surged through me. I bolted upright, glancing at the clock—it was 3:33 AM. The same time my grandmother had mentioned in her journal, the hour of the witching.

The next morning, I awoke to find the journal lying open on the floor. A new entry was written in my grandmother’s handwriting, though I had never touched the journal since last reading it. The entry read: “You did not listen. Now it knows your deepest fear.”

Heart pounding, I flipped to the last page. The final line was scrawled in frantic letters: “It will come for you when you least expect it.” As I read those words, the lights flickered, and a cold draft swept through the room.

That evening, I decided to leave the house. But as I packed my belongings, I discovered something horrifying: all my possessions had been rearranged in ways I couldn’t explain. My clothes were folded in neat piles, yet the furniture was out of place, as if someone—or something—had been watching and waiting.

Finally, I made it out the door, convinced that I had escaped whatever malevolent force resided within those walls. But as I drove away, my phone buzzed with notifications. I pulled over to check my messages, only to find a photo that sent chills down my spine. It was a picture of me, taken from inside the house, standing in my bedroom with my back turned. The timestamp showed it had been taken just minutes ago.

I never returned to that house. To this day, I live with the knowledge that it knows my secrets—and perhaps it is waiting for the day I let my guard down, just as it did with my grandmother.