I should seriously write horror novels.

*rattles bones*

One day, my aunt was home alone - uncle and her daughter were both at work, Chad was a school, the lady who cleaned the house had already come and gone for the day. My aunt was in the study, working a project or something. In this house, if you sat at the desk in the study, you had clear view of the foot of the stairs.
She was sitting there on the computer, when she looked up and saw a young boy sitting a the foot of the stairs, staring at her. He was about the same age as Chad, and she assumed he was a friend from school. She asked the kid his name and he didn't answer. She thought he was weird, so she told him he needed to be in school or to go on home. She looked down for a second, and when she looked up, he was gone.
When Chad got home from school that day, she told him one of his friends had been in the house. He said no way, all my friends were at school with me. She described the boy, and Chad got real quiet. He said, oh yeah. I know him. He comes out of my closet to play

sometimes at night. Unnerved, my aunt and cousin told him to go play outside and stop telling wild stories.
A couple of months later, my aunt was doing research on the history of the house and found out that a young boy, aged eight, had died there of leukemia in the 70's. She found an old newspaper article about his death, with a picture she recognized. He was the same boy who had been staring at her on the stairs that day.

I lived in a house from hell for four years, from age eleven to almost sixteen. There was constantly something happening. Doors flying open and shut, voices, footsteps. Nothing ever stayed where you put it. I was alone there a lot because both my parents worked and I was constantly terrified.
One of the most gut-level disturbing things though was the little girl in my bathroom. Every time I walked past my bathroom door (which was constantly since it was right outside my bedroom) I saw a little girl with blond curled hair and a rose-colored dress. She just stood there, staring, looking like a photograph from 1905. I started keeping the door closed so I could walk by without seeing her, but she was always there when I opened it. Once I stepped in past her, I couldn't see her anymore but I could feel her there. She scared me, but I felt really sorry for her because she was trapped there, just like me, but probably forever.

As the years went by and things in the house continued to get worse, she started seeming... darker. I started feeling like she wasn't really a little girl. I knew there was something ugly in the house and I felt like it was presenting this sympathetic image to me. Then I started thinking I was completely losing my mind.
One day, when I was 14, I had a friend from out of town come stay with me for a week. I hadn't told her anything whatsoever about the house because I didn't think she would come if I did. Right after she got there we were sitting in my room and she left to go to the bathroom. About a minute later she walked back in with a puzzled look on her face and said "So, there's a little girl in your bathroom". "Um, I, yeah she hangs out in there. Blond hair?" "Curls? Pink dress? Yeah. You know that's not really a little girl, don't you?" I almost threw up. I was so relieved and terrified and excited and ready to run out of the house screaming. She wouldn't use my bathroom

the rest of the week and I started using it as little as possible without pissing off my parents (who did not want to believe).
Eventually we moved out and I could not have been happier. I distanced myself from it mentally as much as I could. Then, when I was 18, I took another friend on a road trip to pack up a few things I'd left in the house (my parents hadn't managed to sell it, and wouldn't for 5 more years). The minute we got on the property, my friend seemed uncomfortable. When we came around the bend in the long, steep driveway, he went completely white. I could tell something was wrong, but he insisted he was OK, so we got to work. After a while he asked to use the bathroom and I directed him to mine. Not 20 seconds after he left, he came running back in, gasping for breath, andand slammed the bedroom door behind him. He started babbling about a little blond girl who isn't really a little girl. All of a sudden he went dead still, looked me in the eye, and very solemnly

said "She's not happy. With you. You left, and you weren't supposed to". We threw whatever we could grab in two trips in my car (after I walked him to another bathroom and waited outside the door) and got the fuck out at top speed.

3spooky5me

Trump became president.

omg i am crying now otamega!!!!

It's what I do

You're walking in the woods.
There's no one around,
And your phone is dead.
Out of the corner of your eye you spot him,
Shia Labeouf.

my life

*phone dies*

The last page of the book is gone.

Probably ripped out by The Doctor from his hate of endings

This ^

Donald trump

That's horror enough