I want to take this time to first say that everything that is being read here is 100% true. I know what happened because I was there and I don't exactly appreciate people telling me that I imagined it all.
My family always had a hard time deciding where we were going to live. My mother's parents lived in the northeast part of Nebraska, while my father's parents resided in south Texas, near the coast. I think they actually took turns deciding where to move to next, meaning that I have never been in one school for more than two years.
When I was about ten, we moved back to Nebraska, settling, for the time being, in a tiny town called Stanton. I was sullen about the entire move, but my brother thought it was a wonderful little house. I thought of it more as a prison camp.
The house we arrived in was almost as small as the town, and my brother and I shared the attic, which had been divided into two rooms at one time or another. He, of course, demanded the room with the door, and I was too tired to argue. Almost immediately, strange stuff seemed to happen, but there wasn't anything that noticable about it. Keys disappearing, for instance, and the pets acting very jittery all the time. They wouldn't go to certain parts of the house. At night, I even thought I heard someone whispering in my ear (especially when I slept in my brother's room), though I was never sure what the voice was saying, or even what kind of emotion it felt. Still, it was enough to unnerve me. Yet the truly frightening event which I wanted to tell came later.
With my brother being only five at the time, he was still getting over his fear of the dark, so one night, about two months after we'd moved in, he was standing by my bed, claiming that he was too scared to go to sleep alone. I told him that he could sleep with me if and ONLY IF he closed his bedroom door. See, I wanted to act like I was tough, but the truth was, his room gave me the creeps and I didn't want to look in it at night.
A few minutes later, he crawled in next to me, and we tried going to sleep. I was just about to drift off when I heard his door creak open. I rolled over, very angry, and said, "I thought I told you to close the door!"
My brother was staring at the still moving door, his eyes wide. "I did," he whispered. As soon as the words have left his mouth, the door slammed shut with such force that the window in it literally exploded, and of course, we ran downstairs to our parents' room, screaming. We moved out the next week.
Now, this is just a side-note against some of the skeptics out there about that room. The room was very small with only one window that had been nailed shut a long time ago, so the slamming door wasn't caused by wind of any kind. The attic itself didn't have any sort of heating or air- conditioning either, so it wasn't caused by a draft, and we were the only ones up there. For some reason, our two cats wouldn't go near the stairs, let alone up them, and neither would our dog. Both our parents were in bed when we came in screaming.
I've been told that the house has had many owners since, and none of them have lasted more than four months at a time. Though I don't know who originally built the house, but I, for one, am surprised it hasn't been condemned yet.