My name is Gale. I am French but live in Asia. I have joined my grandmother and grandfather in France, in their old home. My grandmother's father built it a long time ago. Now you see, I love ghost stories and such. I admit it. But what happened that night and for the few nights after that eventful one made me understand that the stories I read all the time are actually true.
It was late, around midnight or one in the morning, I was on my side, facing the window, wide awake for some reason.
And it started.
I heard steps in my room. At first I thought it was my grandmother coming to check up on me as she sometimes did during her nightly strolls but when I turned and looked ...there wasn't anyone. And believe me, the floor squeaks when someone walks on it.
Frowning, I lay down again and determinedly closed my eyes. Again, the noise of bare feet on creaking wood reached my ears and this time my heart leapt to my throat. I slowly turned around. Nothing. I sighed in some relief. I remember berating myself silently. "Honestly Gale! you, the ghost lover, freaked out by a perfectly normal noise in an old house..." I brought my comforter up closer to my chin, sighed deeply and closed my eyes.
This time when the noise came I didn't turn around. I waited. And ...eventually, I felt someone sit on the bed. This time I was sure it was my gran. I shifted. "Hey gran." I whispered. No answer. I frowned and turned my head and froze. No one ...again... It happened for two more nights...then it stopped. I asked my gran if she had heard anything weird too. She told me it was the heater, probably playing up the floor boards. Yeah right. And it must have been the smoke who sat on my bed too huh?
Well here it is, no one else believed me and I have kept this story till now. Sometimes I still hear the footsteps but I have never felt the person sit on my bed again.