A Haunting
Ghostly Fables – Story One: Free to Read
Chapter 1 of 12
For nearly four years, we lived inside the walls of paranormal trickery—a house where shadows had names and whispers carried weight. Spirits didn't just linger—they ruled. And I learned quickly: they weren’t asking for attention. They were demanding it.
No one believed me. Not until it came for them...
based on true events
actual picture of house, 1977
I’d cried wolf before—but this time was different.
The enclosed russet hardwood staircase leading up to my room was always dark. Pitch dark. This was the 1970s—no plug-in nightlights, no LED flashlights, no rechargeables. Batteries? Forget it. Those were adult luxuries, rare commodities I barely saw. There were only two lightbulbs: one in the foyer just before the stairwell, and another at the top of the landing. The stretch in between? Pure shadow. No matter the time of day, it was paralyzing. And right there, in that void of light, was the paranormal focal point.
When we first moved in, I spent weeks trying to figure out what was following me in the stairwell. I thought it might be an echo—until I realized it wasn’t. It was a hammer-down presence. Something heavy. Something wrong. The kind of weight that made the turkey-tail hairs on the back of my neck spike in all directions. No kidding.
I’d take two steps, then pause and count to three.
Clunk. Clunk.
Something else followed—two steps, always delayed, always too slow to be mine. That was my two-week initiation. Then… nothing. The sounds stopped. The tension let up. I almost felt silly for being scared. Maybe it was just the house settling. Maybe my imagination was running wild. It was an old house, after all.
But nope.
Something was lurking in the dark. Watching. Waiting. Not quite ready to play its hand. I didn’t know it then—but I wasn’t alone those first two weeks we moved in for a reason. And the reason… was the cat.
Every night, I had a routine: say my good-nights, hugs and kisses, grab the cat, and off to bed we’d go. She fit right into my arms like a little guardian I never questioned. Just habit. Comfort. A purring companion for the long, dark climb.
But the one time—the one time—I got distracted. Left the cat behind. Decided to leap up the stairs two at a time, all proud of how far I could jump…
That’s when it hit me.
No warning. No pain. Just a sudden wallop—a slam of force that blew through me like a bat outta hell. There was no physical grip, no sound, no logic to explain it. Just impact, and then gravity took over. I dropped like a sack of bricks.
I reached for the banister. Missed.
Tumbled backward down twelve steps—nearly the entire stairwell—limbs flailing. Hit the floor. Head smacked into the deep-freeze. Legs sprawled like a broken toy. And then—silence.
Normally, I was the kind of kid who’d take a fall, jump back up, hi-five whoever knocked me over, and promise a rematch. But not this time. This wasn’t a game. This was real. And it wasn’t a figment of my imagination. I laid there, frozen, staring up through the shadows.
That’s when I saw it.
A blurry, watery silhouette. Swaying from side to side at the top of the stairs. Like a Weeble-Wobble. Hovering. Watching. Not quite human. Not quite mist.
I peeled myself off the freezer and bolted upright.
The blessing of being seven is that your body can fold like origami and bounce back without breaking. Maybe I got lucky. Or maybe something—or someone—had been shielding me this whole time.
Either way, I ran.
Straight for the cat.
Because I wasn’t going back up there alone.
based on true events
actual picture of house, 1977
I zipped past the imaginary radar between Dad on the couch and the old Yeller dial TV, hollering for Kitters, and was damn near pegged in the head—again.
“What the hell are you doing!” Dad shouted, flipping the glass ashtray from his hand. “Get to bed!”
I ducked just in time, shielding the right side of my face in case anything else went airborne. “I’m going!” I squawked.
Even though Dad was pissed, I kept going. Honestly, he could’ve tossed a brick shithouse at me, and I still wouldn’t have gone back upstairs without that boss-cat. Kitters had superpowers. Real ones. He was some kind of negative-energy monster-buster. When he hissed, every creepy-crawler in the place hit a dead-end.
I was scared. And sure, it would’ve been easy to confide in someone if anyone had believed me the first few times I tried. But they didn’t. Believe me, I tried.
“Hey Mom,” I’d say, testing the waters. “There’s something in the stairwell, and I think it’s following me.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Knock it off,” she’d snap back, every single time.
I never bothered telling Dad. He thought I was the strong one—a brat most days, sure—but when it came to fear, I was supposed to be the intrepid one. I wasn’t about to break the only bond we had.
As for my sisters? Forget it. If I said anything remotely spooky, I’d be eating fingerprints for a week. They still hadn’t forgiven me for that one time I threw a teeny-tiny mouse at them. In self-defense, I might add. But once was enough to lose any hope for sisterly backup.
Being the youngest on the totem pole had its disadvantages. I either learned not to retaliate or risk exile. And honestly? Isolation was fine—until all the weird stuff started. The worst part? It was only happening to me. No one else seemed to notice. No one else got followed. No one else got knocked down stairs. It was personal.
But I had Kitters. It was me and him against whatever was in that stairwell. Thank god he wasn’t one of those cats that lose their minds and claw your face off at the first sign of danger. Otherwise, I’d have been a shredded ball of yarn, the way I squeezed the life out of him every time I got spooked.
The strangest part? Kitters wasn’t even ours. He just showed up. The day we moved in. I remember it like yesterday. We were loaded down with the last of our stuff in the ‘64 brown Buick wagon—riding in that thing felt like being dragged down a gravel road in a shopping cart. But Dad was chill, one hand on the wheel, the other v-ed out at the elbow, resting on the open window like he was James Dean.
And there he was.
Kitters. Perched right on the porch railing like he’d been waiting all along. Licking his front paw, cool as hell.
“There’s Mr. Kitters,” Dad said, nodding toward him as we pulled into the driveway.
And just like that, the cat was part of the family.
based on true events
actual picture of house, 1977
And so, this was where it all began.
We moved into the old 1920s westerly folk-style rental house in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada; a close rendition of Long Island’s Amityville. It was on the corner lot of an old neighborhood, worn and weathered, well aged beyond its supposed once blushing aesthetics. The trim on the storm windows and gabled dormers were dappled grey & white with flakey paint chips. All shingles were cornered up several inches from the roof. It boasted mostly white siding with some panels that were either sparsely stained different shades of brown or missing altogether. The front door hung from one hinge like a sloped rectangle, a bit tricky to open until dad fixed it. The half-a-deck porch was charred black as if burnt, and sporting gaping holes throughout its floorboards. No doubt, this was the ugliest house on the block! And we were its proud tenants! Ugh...
The yard was large enough to fit two houses, and grossly overgrown with noxious thistle weeds. I suppose it made a good home during a time of plenty for the thousands of hornets living on the property! The garden was ten by thirty, dried up and rolled into weedy clumps of hardened clay. The sidewalk was a permanent hopscotch game halfway to the back porch.
The single car garage, well, that was just pure artwork. An amazing structure slanted to one side, ready to tip over anytime, yet bravely holding its own. It seemed the perfect cozy habitat for the several trees growing through its roof! All this candor and faded beauty enclosed within a scanty two-foot high picket fence was the creepiest, most gawked at lot on the block! Everyone had to stop in awe.
Even the air seemed different around that house—the smell of damp wood mixed with something metallic, like old blood or rust. Faint hints of decay lingered beneath the earth, and in the fall, the scent of crushed leaves and distant smoke curled through the yard like a slow breath.
We lived nearly four years in this haunted splendour with a ghost who seemed just as pissed about its contradicting beauty as I. Fourteen hundred days I spent unaware of what would happen next, not knowing if one day Casper or whatever its name was, would be a friend or foe. Either it was the kind of ally that had my back when others grew hostile, or the rival I feared would have me next when it wasn't in the mood for my antics. Gravely so, not all of us were fortunate enough to get out in one piece.
This house was tore down in the summer of 2021, and tendered for a multi complex rebuild. A large sink-hole remains as of January 2023.
I wonder why?
If you dare to step further into this world, don’t be surprised if you find yourself peeking around your own corners at home—wondering what might be lurking just out of sight. Some houses have stories that don’t end, and some ghosts don’t stay silent.
Are you ready to see what hides beyond the walls?
A Haunting | Hyena | The Claw | strobe
Little People | HONEYCOMB | RAPToR |DORMERS
CORNERED| EXPLO SION | SEVERED | BodyHag