Seven Years of Terror

Growing up in Finland, my family lived in an ancient priest’s house for seven long, harrowing years. My mother, being a priest, was assigned the residence. It was an old, sprawling home — the oldest part dating back 200 years. What started as a quiet, picturesque home soon became a living nightmare.

At first, life seemed normal. But subtle, strange events began unfolding. One afternoon, my brother and his friend were alone in the house when an old Chinese plate suddenly fell from its display on the wall. Thinking his friend was playing a prank, my brother dismissed it. But his friend swore he hadn’t touched it.

Then came the footsteps. Heavy, deliberate steps echoed from the second floor late at night, descending the creaking wooden stairs — always stopping at the second door on the first floor. Every single family member heard it... night after night.

One terrifying night, I got up to use the toilet and froze in the dim hallway. Our dining room table and chairs... they had been stacked into a pyramid. Silent. Precise. Impossible.

Fear gripped our home. My father, protective and stubborn, insisted we wouldn’t be driven out by anything, human or otherwise. He searched every corner of the house — nothing.

But "nothing" wasn’t finished with us.

One night, I nearly walked into a samurai sword plunged deep into the wooden floor at the hallway entrance — with a force no human could manage. It happened again. My father, on edge, took the sword and slept with it, his grip tight and eyes half-open, ready for anything.

The familiar footsteps returned — this time stopping right by my parents’ bed.

Suddenly, something yanked the sword from my father’s iron grip, nearly dragging him off the bed. My father, a powerful man weighing over 100kg, was no match for the invisible force. We all saw it happen.

Books began flying off shelves with violent force. One was hurled so hard it struck my father in the head. We realized then... it wanted us gone.

Weeks of constant activity followed: footsteps, whispers, and chilling, oppressive silence. We got a dog, Kaxen, hoping his presence might bring comfort.

But even Kaxen felt the malignant energy. He often bared his teeth at empty corners or stared at the ceiling with quivering fear. He refused to set foot on the second floor — the epicenter of it all.

One day, my two younger brothers bolted downstairs, pale and trembling, crying about "things moving around them" and "objects shifting by themselves."

One Christmas Eve, the activity peaked. My father, pushed to his limits, grabbed a knife after hearing something descend the stairs. We saw a dark, shifting shadow glide through the house. My father charged after it, screaming.

From upstairs, we heard crashes, thuds, and my father shouting:

“Get the hell out of our house!”

He returned, ashen-faced, trembling, and pale. When we pressed him about what he saw, he struggled to speak. His voice shook as he described "the ugliest, most evil-looking man" he’d ever seen. He’d lunged with the knife, but it merely vanished into thin air, leaving behind only an echo of its chilling, inhuman laugh.

Even my grandmother couldn’t bear the house. One Christmas, after experiencing unspoken horrors, she called a taxi for an 80km ride home in the middle of the night. She never returned.

We endured seven long years of torment before we finally escaped. We’ve never experienced anything paranormal since... but the house still stands.

No one lives there long. Families move in... and flee just as fast.

The dark presence still waits... ready for the next unsuspecting souls to step through its ancient, cursed door.