I grew up in a house where two people died:. One was a guy who was crushed under his car while working under it in the driveway. The other owner was a lady who killed herself in the basement. My parents were told this and bought the house anyway, but never told me until we moved out when I was 17.
My whole life I never felt alone in that house. There were cold spots in places that shouldn't have been, weird noises at all hours. Our grandfather clock's pendulum was lifted off of its hook by God knows what. I had a padlock that kept getting undone when only I knew the combo. I'd put things in places, find them moved and put them back, only to find them moved again.
Our dog (named Harry, oddly enough) was terrified of the basement and would never leave my side if we were down there together. Once I saw him staring at something in the air and following it with his head...No idea what that was about.
The best though was when I was sitting at the kitchen table one day talking to a friend and something came up behind me and yanked on one of my loose socks.
My dad used to hear his name being called at odd hours whether mom or I were home or not. Mom never experienced a thing and says we're both nuts.
Not as bad as demonic pigs, but any places consider living in I always ask if anyone died there. I move on if the answer is yes. And none of the weirdness has followed me, thankfully.
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