For the past couple of weeks, my sister and sister-in-law have been telling me about spooky things happening here. First, my sister-in-law said she caught something out of the corner of her eye — kid-sized, kid-shaped — playing in the plastic decorative curtain we’d hung up for a birthday party. Then my sister told me she’d knocked on the upstairs bathroom door a few days ago and asked if anyone was in there. A girl’s voice had replied, “Yes!” So she waited, thinking it was one of my kids. But after a long while no one came out. She knocked again. No answer. When she finally opened the door, the bathroom was empty.
Creepy, sure, but at first I wasn’t really shaken. That is, until one night when I was lying in bed, scrolling on my phone.
My bed is against the wall that backs up to that same bathroom, so I hear everything — faucets, toothbrushes, showers. Out of nowhere, I heard the water turn on. It ran for about a minute, steady and uninterrupted, then shut off. I figured someone had gone in to wash their hands. No big deal.
Then it started again. This time it stayed running for a good long minute. I got up, thinking one of my kids was playing around in there. But when I opened the door… no one. The faucet handle was still up, water streaming. I had to shut it off myself.
My chest tightened, and before I even thought about it, I went and shook everyone awake. We all freaked out together because every single person in the house had been asleep. No one had been in that bathroom.
From that night on, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Even in daylight, I’d catch myself glancing toward the bathroom door, half-expecting to hear the water running again on its own. The unease lingered, following me into the quiet moments of the day… the kind of moments when neighbors stop by, when conversations can turn to things you don’t dare tell just anyone.
A couple of days later, I was outside in the garden, picking flowers like I usually do to calm myself down. The air was quiet, but my mind wasn’t — it kept circling back to that bathroom faucet and the strange voice my sister had heard.
Just then, my neighbor Ashley walked up. She’s about my age, and we usually exchange a few friendly words when we bump into each other. We chatted for a bit about ordinary things — the weather, the kids, little neighborhood stuff. But I guess she could see something in my face, like I was carrying a weight I didn’t want to talk about.
She finally asked, “Jessica, is something bothering you?”
At first, I hesitated, but then I sighed and admitted that something strange had been happening in my house. I told her I’d explain everything if she had time to come over for tea later that evening. She agreed right away.
That night, she came by. We sat in the guest room, I poured her some tea and set out a small plate of snacks. After some casual conversation, I finally opened up and told her about everything — the voice in the bathroom, the faucet turning on by itself, and how shaken I was after checking and finding no one inside.
Ashley’s expression changed. Her eyes widened a little, and she leaned closer. She seemed both surprised and uneasy. After a moment, she said quietly, “Maybe… maybe my grandma knows something about this house. I remember she once told me, years ago, that it was haunted by the ghost of a child.”
The way she said it sent a shiver through me. I didn’t push for details right then, but I remembered Ashley’s grandma mentioning something similar nearly ten years ago, back when she was around seventy. She’s lived in this neighborhood for so long, she probably knows more about these houses than anyone else.
Ashley’s words stirred both my fear and my curiosity. If her grandma truly knew something, I needed to hear it. Ashley felt the same.
So we made a plan. The very next day was Sunday, and both of us were free. Around noon, we went to her grandma’s house. When we rang the bell, a woman — her carer or maid — opened the door. She welcomed us in and led us through to the garden.
There, sitting under the shade with a folded newspaper in her lap, was Ashley’s grandma. She looked so calm, but there was a sharpness in her eyes, the kind of look someone has when they’ve lived through many stories. A couple of empty chairs sat nearby, so we took our seats after greeting her. Ashley introduced me, and her grandma gave me a warm smile.
Once we were settled, I told her what had been happening in my house. For the first time, I saw her smile fade. Her face grew serious, almost tense. She let out a small sigh and said, “Yes… I know about that house.”
Ashley and I leaned forward instantly, our curiosity stronger than our fear.
“Do you girls really want to hear?” she asked, her voice low, almost warning.
Without hesitation, both of us nodded. “Yes, of course.”
She paused for a moment, as if weighing whether or not she should go on. Then she leaned back in her chair, her voice softer, almost distant, like she was reaching into the past.
“It was when I was about forty-four or forty-five years old,” she began.
Long before the house stood the way it does today, the land it sits on was very different. There used to be a much smaller home there, a weathered little place that had seen better days. Back in the 1980s, a family of five lived in that house — a hardworking father, a quiet mother, and their three children.
The youngest was a girl named Lydia. She was just eight years old.
One night, while her mother was preparing the bath upstairs, Lydia wandered in unsupervised. No one knew exactly what happened, but by the time her family found her, the water had overflowed and Lydia had drowned in the tub. The tragedy shook the neighborhood — whispers say her parents moved away within months, unable to live in the house any longer.
When the old place was eventually torn down, the new two-story home was built over the same foundation. But some things don’t stay buried.
Neighbors and tenants over the decades have quietly admitted to seeing a little girl playing in hallways or near curtains, as though she’s still looking for her toys. The upstairs bathroom is the most active spot — faucets turning on by themselves, mirrors fogging without steam, and sometimes… a young girl’s voice replying when no one is inside.
It’s believed Lydia never realized she died. To her, the bathroom is still hers, and when she answers, it’s not to scare — it’s because she thinks someone is calling her name.
Grandma’s voice trembled just a little as she came to the end. For a moment, she stared past us, her eyes fixed on something only she could see, as if Lydia’s memory still lingered in the corners of her mind.
She let out a slow breath and said, almost to herself, “That poor child… she never had the chance to grow up.”
Then her gaze shifted back to us, sharp and unsettling. “But what chills most people is this,” she added quietly. “She’s not always content to stay in her bathroom. Those who live there long enough say Lydia sometimes wanders, drawn to other children in the house — as if looking for the siblings she never got to grow up with.”
For a long second, none of us spoke. Ashley’s grandma folded her newspaper again, her hands trembling slightly, and gave a faint, almost regretful smile. “I always hoped she’d find peace,” she whispered, “but maybe she’s still searching.”
The garden felt colder then, and as Ashley and I left, I couldn’t shake the look in her grandma’s eyes — a mix of sorrow, fear, and something else… something that made me wonder if Lydia was listening even now.
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