I grew up in a farmhouse built in the late 1800's. It was an "L" shaped house, 2 story with porches on 3 sides. I actually loved the house and farm it was on, but I was always scared of the upstairs floor. There were 3 rooms upstairs, a large central room where the stairs went up and one room forward and one room beside forming the "L" shape.
If I had to go upstairs for some reason, I ran up, got whatever item and raced down the stairs. If I was alone in the house, I would avoid the stairs altogether.
At night I would sometimes hear someone walking on the stairs, but my parents told me it was just the house "settling" as old houses do or that it was a rat...
Anytime I was in the upper rooms, I felt like someone was watching me. My brother made fun of me and eventually he moved his bedroom upstairs to the forward room when he was a teenager.
It was a large room with a closet and the door had a hook and eye closure inside so pesky little sisters could be locked out! As if that was necessary upstairs!
He woke up one night to find me at the foot of the bed, (so he thought). He asked what was wrong and said that I turned and motioned him to follow. He turned on the light and got up only to discover his bedroom door was latched from the inside and no one was there. My brother reported several incidents where he would find things moved and blame me. I did not go up to his room, I was too scared to snoop in the upper rooms.
On two separate occasions I felt the quilts being pulled off me, and turned to see a skeletal hand and arm that ended at the elbow grasping the covers and dragging them from the bed. Each time the apparition was coming from the same location as if reaching through the door beside my bed. I would hear footsteps walking in my bedroom (originally the kitchen before the house was remodeled in the early 1900's) and feel someone watching me as I hid under the covers... My mother later told me she would hear someone talking in the house when she was the only person there.
The entire time I was there from age 7 to age 14, I experienced many odd incidents that my family brushed off as a child's active imagination or nightmares. It was only after we moved from the house and I was an adult that my family finally admitted what I experienced was real. They thought by telling me it was my imagination that I wouldn't be afraid...So after years of thinking I was crazy, I was relieved to find out that no, I wasn't.