The House At The End Of The Block

First off, the following two stories happened to my oldest brother, let's call him Chris. But so it is easier to understand I'm going to tell it in first person.
First though, I think a description is warranted.

The house was a two story with a basement, built in the early 1800s. It was a dark yellow color, and was the last house on the block. When friends would stay over, they'd remark about how strange the place felt. As if something sucked the life out of them until they got outside.

Story #1

I was home alone when I was sixteen, my mom and dad had taken my siblings to visit our grandparents out of state for the weekend. I was upstairs in my bedroom messing around on the computer when I heard a loud banging sound downstairs. I ignored it, but it got louder and louder. It sounded as if the downstairs was going to cave in. I crept downstairs and peered around the doorway. Nothing was there so I stepped out into the dining room and investigated the source of the noise. The back porch facing the street didn't have a lock on the outer door, and there's a small hallway leading to another door, which is kept locked via chain. Everything was in place so I just went back upstairs. The next morning I woke up and went downstairs and to my shock, the chain on the door was pushed open as far as the door would allow without the chain being pulled clean off.

STORY #2:

Again my family had gone to Wisconsin while I chose to stay home. It was getting to be about midnight and I was messing around on the computer again. I turned around and across the hallway, I saw my younger brother had left his television on; he always did that. So I got up and went into the room to turn it off without turning on the light. Suddenly it dawned on me: I was home alone. And just as that thought crossed my mind I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Standing in the doorway was a silhouette of a man. I screamed, and the figure just.. vanished. I turned off the TV and went back to my computer, shrugging it off.

My family decided to move, and we were fixing a hole in the floor (ceiling of the dining room). It was soft and had been there since we bought it, but we figured we ought to fix it anyway. So we had torn up the carpet and found a bunch of old, yellowed newspapers stuffed in the hole. We unfolded them and a pair of trousers and a jacket fell onto the floor, stained in what looked like blood. The papers were almost illegible, but they dated back to the 1920's.

We never found out what had happened there, but I was glad we moved.

I still drive by that old house sometimes; the new owners had renovated it, putting on new siding and cutting down some trees out front, but the aura of something haunting the place still lingers.