This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/StevismsWithSteven on 2025-05-21 20:50:28+00:00.
We lived in a little yellow house with a green roof. Just me and my wife. This was before we had kids, back in the early 2000s. Quaint little place on the edge of town, the kind of house that feels older than it looks.
And something was… off about it.
I never told my wife about what happened until after we moved. Not because I was trying to protect her.
I wish I had been that noble.
Honestly? I was lazy. I knew if I said anything, she’d want to move immediately. And I didn’t want to deal with that. I figured whatever it was, I could handle it.
But I was wrong.
The Basement
The basement was unfinished—stone walls, a dirt floor, and a washer and dryer shoved against the far wall. The dryer always ran too hot. Fire hazard kind of hot. But it worked.
One day I went down to switch a load. Normal day, nothing weird. I moved the clothes from the washer to the dryer, shut the lid, and turned around to head back upstairs.
That’s when I felt it.
A full-body chill, like I’d walked through static. Like something passed through me. I froze.
Then I turned.
Cobwebs.
From floor to ceiling, wall to wall—stretching all the way back to the washer—were thick, clinging cobwebs. And spiders. Dozens of them. No, hundreds. Just sitting there. Watching. Or waiting.
I screamed and bolted up the stairs. But they weren’t just hanging. I had to run through them. They wrapped around my face, stuck in my hair, and slid down my shirt like a thousand tiny legs were crawling across my body.
Even thinking about it now makes my skin crawl.
I grabbed a broom from the kitchen and raced back down.
Gone.
Every single web. Every spider. The space was clear like nothing had ever been there. And the dryer—the same one I’d just started—was done. The clothes were warm. Finished.
It was like I’d left for 45 minutes. But I hadn’t even been upstairs for two.
The Fan
Another night, I was drifting off to sleep when I heard a loud pop and smelled that unmistakable scent of burning wires. You know the smell. Acrid. Synthetic. Dangerous.
I leapt out of bed and saw the box fan we kept in the corner had sparked—plug partially melted into the outlet.
As I yanked it out, the melting plastic seared my nuckle leaving a scar that remains today. I took the whole fan outside, and left it near the garbage. My wife was working third shift at the time, so she wasn’t home. I figured I’d deal with the outlet in the morning.
But when I came home from work the next day, the fan was back in our room.
The same fan. I know because it had our old appartment number written in perminant ink on the side. And that cord that melted and burnt my nuckle? It was fine- intact. Like it had never happened. I asked my wife if she bought a new one. She hadn’t. I checked outside—nothing there.
It wasn’t just “as if” it never happened. It literally didn’t… until it did again later.
The Room We Never Used
There was a side room off the living room. Technically a bedroom, but we never used it. It became a kind of catch-all—boxes, junk, stuff we didn’t unpack.
One day I mentioned all this to a friend of mine who was into spiritual stuff—tarot, meditation, that kind of thing. He asked if I’d noticed any room where nothing strange had happened.
That room. The one we never went in.
He came over with a candle and suggested we try something. “Assisted meditation,” he called it. I figured, why not? I wasn’t really into that stuff, but I also couldn’t explain what was going on.
We sat cross-legged in the center of the room. The only light came from the candle. He told me to close my eyes. Breathe. Relax. At first, it felt silly.
Then the temperature changed.
The room got hot. Suffocating. Sweat started pouring down my face. My arms felt like lead. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t open my eyes. I panicked.
Then I saw it.
Behind my closed eyes, the entire room was on fire. Flames licking the walls. The window shattered inward. I could see a child on the other side, face wide in silent terror.
I screamed.
My friend said I was still sitting calmly, but to me it felt like I was being burned alive. I tried to open the door, but the knob was so hot it seared my palm. I couldn’t move it.
He stepped over and opened it effortlessly.
The second the door opened, cold air rushed in. I could breathe again. The heat vanished. The vision faded. But the smell—burning wax and something deeper—lingered.
The candle? Brand new when he lit it. Now it was just a puddle of wax.
The guardian angel plaque my mom had given me, the one that’d been on the wall since we moved in—had fallen to the floor.
He said the room felt like it shook. I believed him.
The Confirmation
A few days later, we had the cable guy out. As he was walking through the house, he stopped and said, “This used to be my grandparents’ house.”
He pointed at the front step—his initials and a handprint in the cement.
Then he saw the side room. “Whoa,” he said. “I almost burned this room down when I was a kid.”
Apparently, he’d been playing with a candle near the curtains. Fire broke out. The window had to be shattered so they could pull him out.
The same window. Same room. Same candle.
Same little boy.
I never told my wife until after we left that house. I should have. I don’t know what would’ve happened if we stayed longer, and honestly, I don’t want to.
If you’ve ever experienced something like this, maybe you’ll understand why I kept it to myself for so long.
Maybe you won’t.
Either way, that house wasn’t just old.
It remembered.