This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/WINDY_ORBITS_ on 2024-09-28 16:58:21+00:00.
When I was sixteen, my family moved into an old Victorian house on Elderberry Lane. It had character, with its creaking floors, faded wallpaper, and the kind of charm that seemed to whisper stories from its past. My parents were enamored, but I felt a sense of unease that I couldn’t shake.
From the moment we stepped inside, I noticed something off about the place. The air was thick, almost as if it were holding its breath. At night, I would hear the faint sound of laughter echoing through the halls, but when I followed the sound, I found nothing—just shadows dancing in the moonlight.
As weeks passed, I grew more familiar with the house’s quirks. I discovered a dusty attic filled with old furniture and boxes of forgotten memories. Among the clutter, I found an antique mirror, its surface clouded with age. I decided to clean it, and as I did, a chill crept down my spine. The reflection stared back at me, but the room behind me seemed darker, almost as if something were hiding in the shadows.
One night, while lying in bed, I was jolted awake by a soft tapping sound. It was rhythmic, almost like someone was trying to get my attention. I sat up, straining to hear, and my heart dropped when I recognized the familiar sound of laughter—the same laughter that haunted my dreams. Gathering my courage, I slipped out of bed and followed the sound.
I crept down the hall, the old wooden floorboards groaning beneath my feet. As I reached the attic door, the laughter stopped. I hesitated, feeling a strange pull to open the door. With a deep breath, I turned the knob and stepped inside.
The attic was dimly lit by a single window, the moonlight casting eerie shadows across the room. My heart raced as I scanned the area, my eyes landing on the mirror. It stood against the wall, now reflecting an image that sent a shiver down my spine.
In the mirror, I saw not just my own reflection, but the outline of a girl—her face pale, eyes wide and hollow. I stepped closer, and the girl seemed to mimic my movements, her mouth moving but no sound escaping. Suddenly, a cold breeze rushed through the attic, extinguishing the flickering candlelight. I stumbled back, the mirror’s surface shimmering as if it were alive.
Terrified, I fled back to my room, locking the door behind me. That night, I hardly slept, every creak of the house sending my heart racing. The next morning, I decided to confide in my best friend, Emily, who had always been fascinated by the supernatural.
When I told her about the mirror and the girl, she was intrigued. “We should do a séance!” she exclaimed, her eyes gleaming with excitement. I was hesitant, but part of me wanted to know more about what was happening in my house. After some convincing, I agreed.
That weekend, we gathered in the attic with candles, a Ouija board, and a sense of dread. As we sat in a circle, the air grew colder. I could feel a presence, heavy and suffocating. We placed our fingers on the planchette, and Emily began to ask questions.
“Is anyone here with us?” she asked, her voice shaking. The planchette moved slowly, spelling out “Y-E-S.”
“What do you want?” I asked, my heart pounding. The planchette darted to “G-I-R-L.”
“Who are you?” Emily asked, her face pale. It spelled “S-A-R-A-H.”
As the session continued, we learned that Sarah was a girl who had lived in the house over a century ago. She had gone missing one night, and her body was never found. My stomach churned with a mix of fear and sadness.
“Why are you still here?” I asked, and the planchette spelled out “H-E-L-P.”
That’s when everything went wrong. The attic temperature plummeted, and a deafening crash echoed through the room. The mirror shattered, sending shards flying. In the chaos, Emily and I screamed, but we couldn’t escape the sense of dread that enveloped us.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the shards, a distorted version of Sarah with hollow eyes and a haunting smile. “Help me,” she whispered, and I felt an icy grip on my arm.
In a panic, I shouted for her to leave me alone, and with that, the figure vanished, but the air remained thick with tension. We fled the attic, not daring to look back.
For days afterward, the house felt different. I started to notice more strange occurrences—doors slamming, shadows flitting by. Emily suggested we research the house’s history, and what we found only deepened my dread. Sarah hadn’t just gone missing; she had been murdered by a family member who wanted her inheritance.
That night, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. I lay in bed, wide awake, when I heard the soft laughter again, this time coming from the hallway. I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I had to confront whatever was haunting my home.
Arming myself with a flashlight, I crept down the hall to the attic, ready to face the truth. I pushed the door open, and the air felt electric. The moonlight illuminated the remnants of the shattered mirror. As I stepped inside, I felt a cold breath on my neck.
“Help me,” a whisper echoed, sending chills down my spine. I turned to see Sarah’s figure hovering near the broken mirror. “I’m trapped here,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Why me?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Because you can help me find peace.”
I realized then that Sarah was not a monster but a victim, trapped in a cycle of pain and anger. I took a deep breath, determination flooding through me. “How can I help you?”
She pointed to the shards of glass scattered across the floor. “Find my locket,” she whispered. “It holds my spirit.”
With newfound purpose, I began searching the attic. Hours passed, but I couldn’t find it. Just as I was about to give up, my fingers brushed against something cool and metallic. I pulled out a small, heart-shaped locket, its surface tarnished but beautiful.
As I opened it, a warm light enveloped the attic, and Sarah’s figure shimmered before me. “Thank you,” she said, a serene smile on her face. “Now I can finally rest.”
The air grew lighter, and I felt a wave of calm wash over me. With that, Sarah’s figure faded, leaving the attic silent. I knew I had freed her spirit, and in doing so, I had liberated myself from the fear that had haunted me for so long.
In the days that followed, the house felt different—lighter, more welcoming. The laughter faded, replaced by the comforting creaks of an old home. While I’d never forget my experience, I knew that Elderberry Lane would always hold a piece of me, and I would forever cherish the memory of the girl who taught me the importance of compassion and understanding.