I guess everyone’s heard about Craigslist horror stories, but no one expects to end up in one.
For years, I’d been thinking about leaving the city life behind. I just couldn’t stand the constant bustle, and longed for a remote life.
I’d saved up quite a bit over the years, and decided it was time to buy a house. When I saw the prices, however, my jaw dropped. I’d expected it to be expensive, but not that expensive.
In my desperation, I opened up Craigslist. I didn’t hope to find anything, but that’s exactly what I did.
The ad was as simple as it could be.
‘Small house for sale, way below market value.’
I clicked on it in an instant. When I saw the price, I was sure the seller had made a mistake. There was no way someone would sell a house that cheap, especially not a place that looked this decent.
Eventually, I found the seller’s phone number and called him. I expected the price to be a mistake, or hell, the entire thing to be a scam.
Instead, I found myself on a call with a man named Wilbert Johnson. When he told me the place was still available, I asked him about the price right away. He assured me there was no mistake. It was an old place, he said, and located in the middle of nowhere. Most of all, he just wanted to get the sale over with as soon as possible.
There was a catch, though. He wanted the payment in cash only, because he didn’t trust the banks or real estate agents. Some other people had shown interest, but they’d all gotten cold feet at the mention of this.
I didn’t see a problem with it. Hell, things would be quicker that way.
I guess that was my first mistake.
A week later, on a Saturday morning, I found myself on the way to Mr. Wilbert’s house. Which, I hoped, would soon be mine.
When I arrived, the old man greeted me with a bright smile. He was a sturdy, hard man in his late fifties.
“You Mark?” he asked as he reached out to greet me.
I nodded.
“Yes, sir!”
“Well, that’s the place,” he said, and stepped aside to let me get a better view.
I looked around for a bit before I stepped inside. The moment I did, the floorboards welcomed me with a loud creak. When it happened, an anxious expression washed over the old man’s face.
“Guess you were right,” I said, laughing. “The place really is pretty old. It sure has character, though.”
At this, relief flooded his face, and the smile returned.
“Oh, that it has. Been living here for thirty-odd years.”
“How come you’re selling it for so little?”
The old man was quiet before he sighed.
“Guess there’s no reason to keep it to myself. It’s because of Lisa’s disappearance.”
“Lisa?”
“My wife, Elisabeth. Been almost two months now since she up and vanished. Walked right out of the door, never to be seen again.”
“Shit, I’m sorry, I had no-“
“Nothing to do with you,” he cut me off. “Did everything I could, talked to the neighbors, the cops, and searched half the damned country. Nothing. I’d have kept searching, but by now…”
His voice trailed off, and he shook his head.
“Can’t keep living here. Everything reminds me of her. That painting over there, shew drew it a good twenty years ago. The table cloths over there? She got it from a flea market. ‘Isn’t it beautiful, Wilbert?’ she’d asked. Been stuck with the ugly thing ever since. Whenever I see it, I can’t help but wonder… it’s just too much…”
His voice trailed off, and I just stood there, shuffling, not sure what to say. I was never got at these things, people things, I mean.
Then I heard something. It was this quiet noise that sounded almost like scratching. When the old man heard it, too, he stepped up to a small radio and turned it on.
“Sir, what are you-?”
An embarrassed look came over his face, and he swiftly turned the radio back off.
“Sorry, an old habit, but it’s another reason the place is so cheap.”
“What’s causing it?”
“Ghosts.”
I stared at him, but his face remained dead serious for a second before he burst out laughing.
“Goddammit, I’m pulling your leg! It’s rodents! The little buggers have been a pain for years. Never figured out how they get in, but they crawl up the walls and… Maybe there’s even a stray cat in there, chasing after them.”
I winced when I heard that.
“Well, I planned to renovate the place, anyway, so-“
“Remember you saying that. Got some tools and materials stored up. Was gonna give the place the old once-over, but then, you know, with Lisa…”
His voice trailed off as he led me to the garage.
“Tell you what, I’ll throw all this in for free,” he said, gesturing at the pile. “Consider it an apology for not telling you about the rodents.”
One look at the pile told me it was at least worth half a grand. I was quick to accept the offer.
We talked more while the old man gave me a tour of the house. He had his renovations all figured out. Start with the second floor and work your way down from there. It sounded like solid advice, and I could tell he knew what he was talking about.
When we reached the kitchen, I couldn’t help but wrinkle my nose. Something smelled in here. It was this weird, musty smell, but with this strangely sweat undertone.
Mr. Wilbert noticed my expression and pointed at a small vent in one of the kitchen corners.
“The old ventilation system. Thing hasn’t been cleaned in years, and I think the rodents might have found a way inside…”
I stared at the vent for a while, but then I shrugged.
“Yeah, no worries. I’d probably replace it, anyway.”
Once the tour was over, we shook on the sale, and I arranged to be back in a few days to finalize everything. The old man, in turn, told me he’d put together a write up of his renovation plans.
Once I was back, and I handed him the money, his face turned serious once more.
“Now, it’s probably all bullshit, but Liza always swore the place was haunted. Said she heard wailing and crying in the middle of the night. Old stories about lynching and what not back when people still owned slaves.”
I laughed, thinking he was pulling my leg again, but this time, he didn’t join in.
“It’s probably just those teenagers down by the creek. They can get a bit rowdy when they’re drunk.”
“Well, doesn’t sound like anything I can’t handle.”
A few minutes later, the deal was signed. Then he handed me his notes and told me he’d included his phone number. If I had any questions, I should just call him.
Once he’d driven off, I stared at what would be my new home.
Quite the place, I thought. Sure, I’d have to put in some work, but there was no way I’d get a similar property for that price.
For the first couple of nights, I didn’t feel comfortable sleeping in the place. It was still full of the old couple’s furniture, and it made me feel like I was intruding into their lives. No, I had to get rid of it first.
For the next couple of days, I busied myself stripping the place, and once I was done, I ordered myself a cheap bed, so I had a place to sleep.
Yet sleep didn’t come easy during these first nights. There was this damned scratching. Sometimes it was quiet, at others it was louder, almost frantic, waking me at the oddest hours.
I remembered his wife’s story, but discarded it. It’s just those damned rodents, or maybe there really is a cat stuck in there. I shuddered. I didn’t want to think about a cat suffocating in my walls.
The next day, my friend Mike arrived. I’d told him about the house, and my plan on renovating it. He was happy to help, but I knew it was just an excuse for him to be away from his wife and kids for a few days, and maybe get a few drinks in with an old buddy.
“Quite the place. You really got it that cheap?”
“Yeah, it’s because the place is haunted, and there’re mice in the walls… and probably a cat or two.”
When he eyed me curiously, I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Come on, I’ll tell you all about it over a beer or two.”
With that, I handed him a beer, and while I led him into the house.
“Yo, what’s that smell?” he asked once we’d made it to the kitchen.
I pointed at the vent.
“Old ventilation system. Has to be clogged up, or, you know, the rodents… Guess I’ve got to replace it.”
While he started at it, the scratching suddenly started, making him jerk. His eyes grew wide, and, for a moment, he stared at me.
“Doesn’t sound like mice to me, but could be rats.”
“Great,” I mumbled.
After we’d shared another beer, we started on the work.
Before long, we resorted to the same thing the old man had done. The scratching, while quiet, was distracting, and we had to admit growing louder, as if something was trying to dig its way out of the walls.
During our third night at the place, Mike woke me in the middle of the night.
“Dude, do you hear this?” he asked me, his voice nothing but a hushed whisper.
As I listened, I could hear the scratching, but now it was accompanied by something else. It was a different noise, quiet and coming from a distance. It sounded almost like someone was wailing or crying.
“What if the old man was right, and the place really is haunted?” Mike asked, an uneasy expression on his face.
He’d always been a superstitious guy, easily scared, and a stark believer in the supernatural.
“Nah, it’s probably those drunk kids fucking around. The old man told me they’re gathering at a creek nearby to get drunk. Maybe they think it’s funny to scare the new guy.”
Mike gave me a weary nod, but his eyes wandered around, scanning the walls, clearly not convinced.
“Guess you’re right,” he mumbled.
Eventually, we settled back down, but sleep didn’t come easy. The scratching, the wailing, something was… wrong with it. It didn’t sound like it was coming from the walls, but from… somewhere else.
The next day, however, with the sun shining, and more renovations to be taken care of, I’d already pushed the thought away.
Guess that was my second mistake.
For the next two days, we doubled down on our efforts. Mike wanting the entire ordeal to be over with, and me trying to find those damned rodents.
At the end of the fourth day, Mike told me he was going to get himself a hotel nearby, but I told him he was being silly. Deep inside, however, I was as unnerved as he was, and I didn’t want to be alone at the damned place.
When I mentioned the teenagers again, he didn’t have any of it.
“You’re telling me there’s a group of teenagers out there who have nothing better to do in the middle of the night? Two nights in a row?”
“Look man, maybe it’s something else. I don’t know, the pipes, the floor, or… fuck, I don’t know. It sure as hell isn’t freaking ghosts.”
Mike grunted, but said nothing. For a while, I considered having a look around the property to figure out if it really was a group of teenagers, but then I told myself I didn’t want to be known as the local crazy person.
Then, taking another look at Mike, I turned the radio back on. Sure, it made falling asleep difficult, but at least it was enough to drown out the damned noises.
By this point, we were on the fifth day of renovations. By now, we were done with most of the day, and only had the kitchen and a small storage room left. Given that neither of us knew too much about renovations, we’d followed the old man’s instructions to the letter.
That was my third mistake.
Once the sun went down, neither of us wanted to admit how agitated we were.
We hadn’t turned down the radio all day, but even below the loud music, we could still hear the frantic scratching, muffled but almost ubiquitous. It reminded me of nails dragged over a chalkboard, as if some desperate creature was trying to claw its way out of the walls.
Now and then, we also heard these long, high-pitched wails. It wasn’t just a noise, but sounded like crying, the crying of someone far away, and trapped somewhere within these old walls.
Neither of us said a word about it, and neither of us wanted to acknowledge it, but the disturbing sounds were ever-present.
Eventually, I pulled out my old laptop, and suggested we’d watch a movie or two, have a few drinks, and celebrate that we were almost done with the renovations.
Mike agreed wholeheartedly. And yet, as the movie played, we were both on edge, jumpy, our voice strained and our laughter too loud and empty.
Then, long past midnight, the wailing rose again, louder and more intense than ever before. It cut through the house like a muffled scream, sharp, ragged… pained.
Mike’s beer slipped from his hands and shattered on the floor, his face pale. I jumped to my feet, heart pounding in my chest, barely able to breathe.
“The fuck was that?!” Mike yelled, his eyes wide with panic.
I opened my mouth, but couldn’t find the words, couldn’t find any logical explanation for it.
“Look, I don’t fucking know, man!” I blurted, my voice shaky.
We both fell quiet and listened. At first, we heard nothing, but then the scratching returned, this time more frantic than ever before. Another cry echoed through the house, this time even more desperate.
“This is insane,” I muttered. “It’s got to be those damned teenager. They’re fucking with us. That’s got to be it!”
Mike just stared at me, but I knew he didn’t believe me.
Then, and without saying another word, I stormed downstairs and threw open the front door.
“What are you-?” Mike called after me.
“It has to be them,” I insisted.
Mike hesitated, but before long, he followed me.
We both knew we were making excuses, and we both knew we’d find no one nearby. For almost an hour, we walked around the property, scanning the field and meadows nearby, but found nothing. No movement, no sounds, and sure as hell, no drunk teenagers messing with us.
Before long, we gave up, but neither of us wanted to go back inside the house. Instead, we huddled together in my car, scared and exhausted.
When morning came, neither of us moved. We sat in the car for what must’ve been half an hour, maybe longer, just staring ahead at nothing. My hands rested on the steering wheel, and for a moment, I considered just driving off, and leaving the house and whatever was causing the sounds behind.
“Fuck it,” Mike finally said, and pushed open the car door.
His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot, and he had deep shadows under his eyes. I knew I didn’t look much better.
He downed the rest of his stale beer and set out for the house. After a deep breath, I followed him.
That day, we worked faster than ever. Neither of us said much. Instead, we only focused on getting the job done.
Taking care of the floorboards was much harder than we’d imagined. We were both exhausted, and even worse, hungover. Still, we continued on, tearing away the floorboards in the storage room.
All morning, the radio’s loud music was our constant companion, until its batteries died.
I cursed and almost hurled the thing across the room when I noticed something. All was quiet. Even minutes later, there was no sign of the scratching. It was just… gone.
“Maybe it really was rats after all,” Mike suggested, his voice uneasy.
I nodded, but said nothing. That wailing, the crying. No, that hadn’t been rats.
Finally, only the kitchen was left. As we went to work, I noticed how oppressive the disgusting smell was by now. We tried our best to cover the old ventilation shaft, but it did nothing.
Suddenly, as he tore away another floorboard, Mike nudged me. I turned to him and found him just sitting there, staring at an old hatch hidden below the floorboards.
“The hell’s that?” I asked, getting closer.
“The basement, I guess,” he said matter-of-factly.
“But… why’s it hidden like that?”
“Maybe the rodents?”
Only a few moments later, we’d torn away the remaining floorboards, and threw it open.
Now we knew where the smell was coming from, because a surge of disgusting, musty air assaulted us. Yet it was heavy with something else, something almost sweet. Instantly, we both covered our mouths.
As we looked down these dark stairs that led… somewhere below, a feeling of apprehension washed over me. The old man’s stories, and last night’s events, returned to me. A lynching back in the day. The place is haunted. What if this…
“Shit,” I cursed before I got a hold of a flashlight.
“Don’t tell me you plan to go down there?” Mike asked, staring at the flashlight in my hand.
“Maybe it’s related to whatever’s going on, so…”
“Oh, you’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” he cursed.
A moment later, he’d gotten himself a flashlight of his own and we started on our descent.
There was no light except for the beams of our flashlights, and once we’d made it down, we found ourselves in a small room, one much too small for a basement. Down here, however, the smell was so oppressive, almost suffocating, it made me gag.
It seemed almost as if it was coming from the walls. A rat colony, told myself. Maybe they really got stuck down here, and…
“Yo, what’s up with this wall?”
I turned to Mike, who’d stepped up to one of the basement walls, scanning it.
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” he started. “There’s no moss on it, and it’s just made of brick and plaster. Looks pretty new to me, like it was built recently.”
I watched as he reached out his hand and knocked against the wall.
“What are you…?”
“Shh,” he shushed me.
He went to one of the other walls and did the same thing before he came back and knocked once more.
“Sounds hollow.”
We both stared at each other, unsure what to make of it.
A minute later, however, we brought down our tools and began tearing it down.
After a few hits, the first of the bricks collapsed inward. A nauseating mixture of rot, decay, and feces hit us. We both backed away, coughing.
Then I crept forward again to get a closer look. That’s when I realized what I was looking at, the second half of the basement.
Then I saw something else. In the center of the room, I saw something… no, someone. I screamed and stumbled back, crashing right into Mike, expecting a wailing apparition to come for us.
“There’s… someone inside!”
“What the fuck?”
We both watched the small hole anxiously, waiting, but nothing came forward, and all stayed quiet.
Then, together, we approached the hole again. When Mike sent the beam of his flashlight inside. His breath caught when he saw it too, a body lying motionless on the floor.
After we’d gathered ourselves, we redoubled our efforts, and had soon broken down enough of the wall to enter.
The beam of our flashlight revealed more. The entire floor was covered in filth, but our eyes didn’t linger on it for too long. No, they came to rest on the person in the center of the room. It was a woman, a frail old woman who lay crumpled amongst the filth. Her face was twisted in agony, her eyes were wide, her mouth half-open; a perpetual mask of terror. Her hands… oh god, her hands. They were raw and bloodied, the nails cracked and broken.
When I saw them, it finally clicked. The scratching, the wailing… dear god.
A moment later, we were back upstairs, and called the cops, telling them what we’d found.
When they arrived, they were quick to identify the woman, but there was no need for a name.
The moment I’d understood what was going on, I knew who she was.
It was Elisabeth Johnson, the old man’s wife.
