The Voice in the Basement
Not long after college, my wife, Emma, and I got married and began our new life together. Like many young couples, money was tight, so we settled for a dingy basement apartment on the edge of town. It wasn’t ideal, but it was within our budget, and we were eager to start fresh. Little did we know, we weren’t the only ones living there.
From the moment we moved in, something felt... off. The air in the apartment was heavy, almost suffocating, and there was a constant, unshakable sense of being watched. Emma was uneasy from the start, but I tried to rationalize everything. “It’s just an old building,” I told her. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The disturbances started small. Objects would shift ever so slightly when we weren’t looking—keys that had been on the table would end up on the floor, or a chair would be slightly out of place. At first, we chalked it up to clumsiness or forgetfulness. But then, things escalated.
Late one night, we were sitting in the living room when a glass flew off the kitchen counter, shattering against the wall. Emma screamed, and I rushed to check for anyone else in the apartment. The door was locked, the windows were shut tight, and we were alone—or so I thought.
The entity grew bolder with each passing day. Dishes would crash to the floor without warning, lights would flicker and surge, and strange shadows seemed to dart across the corners of our vision. Emma began waking up with bruises on her arms and legs, claiming she felt something grab her in the night. The worst part? Sometimes, as we walked through the apartment in the dark, blinding flashes of light would erupt out of nowhere, illuminating the room for a split second before plunging us back into darkness.
One night, everything came to a head.
We were heading to bed after a long day, exhausted and tense. As soon as we stepped into the bedroom, a deep, disembodied voice echoed through the room: “[Liam], move.” It was calm but commanding, and it sent a chill down my spine. Emma’s face went pale, her eyes wide with fear. I turned to her, and she whispered, “Did you hear that?” I nodded, swallowing hard. Summoning every ounce of courage I had, I shouted back, “You’ve got it, bud.”
We didn’t sleep that night. Two days later, we packed our things and left, moving in with family while we figured out our next steps.
A few months later, the landlady—an elderly woman who had owned the house for decades—passed away. Shortly after her death, the house was demolished. Today, the lot remains empty, just an overgrown patch of grass and a single gnarled tree standing sentinel. Despite the years that have passed, no one has built anything on that land. People say it’s cursed.
Sometimes, when I drive by, I can still feel that heavy presence, watching, waiting. It’s as if whatever haunted that basement finally got what it wanted: solitude.