The Watcher

When I was a child, we moved into an old house in St. Paul, Minnesota. It had a skeleton key for all the doors in the house, which I thought was cool, and an old clawfoot tub in the bathroom. Once we got settled in, so did the unsettling feeling that something was not right in the house.

I began to hear someone or something whispering my name. Sometimes it was loud, and I would assume it was my mother calling me, and I would call back to her only for her to say she had not called my name.

I thought maybe it was the stress of moving to a new neighborhood and having to attend a different school and tried to shrug it off until the night I realized it was not stress but something else entirely. Something that would haunt me for the rest of my life, thankfully only in the form of memories.

One night, I awakened in the middle of the night. I was sleeping in the top bunk. My bedroom door was open and faced my mother's bedroom. I looked at the foot of her bed and screamed in horror at what I saw. It was the shape of a man but completely white and transparent.

The man had almost a strange glow against the dark of the room, but the most terrifying feature was the black holes for eyes, completely dark and empty, just staring and watching silently from across the room.

This encounter happened many times again to me and my little sister, always the same, never interacting, just watching. Finally, we ended up moving from that house, but that house and the experiences in it have stayed with me, fueling my obsession with the paranormal and looking for answers to who or what was in that house.