VIDEO: WATCH A VIDEO OF A HAUNTED HOUSE IN MY STREET
The House Where the Dead Still Lives
There’s a house in my street that no one dares to talk about openly, but we all whisper about it when we pass by. It belonged to a white woman who lived alone with her dog. She died five years ago. We all attended her funeral. We watched the coffin lowered into the ground, and we saw her family cry and then leave. That was the last time we saw them.
Her house should have been empty, abandoned, gathering dust and silence. But nothing has changed. Nothing at all.
The strangest thing is, her laundry still gets done. On the same days she used to do it when she was alive, her clothes appear washed and neatly hung on the line. White sheets, dresses, skirts—like the routine of a woman still alive and caring for her home. Her dog is still there too, looking healthy and well-fed. Someone is clearly taking care of it, but no one has ever been seen going in or out. The yard is always swept clean, like an invisible hand is keeping everything in order.
We once tried to knock at the door, thinking maybe a relative had moved in quietly. No answer. The silence inside felt heavier than normal silence, like it was watching us back. Her family doesn’t know anything either. We even asked them once, and they swore no one has lived there since her death.
At night, the house becomes something else entirely. If you dare to walk past it, the air turns icy cold—even in the peak of summer. A strange chill wraps around you, and then you hear it: the sound of water flowing, as if a hidden river is running inside the house. But there is no river on this street, no stream nearby. The sound seems to come from within her walls, steady and haunting, like a heartbeat in liquid form.
I’ve even shared a video—because I needed people to see that I’m not making this up. In that clip, you can see her laundry hanging in the sun. The exact day she used to wash her clothes, five years later, as if death skipped her address.
Sometimes when I walk past at night, I hear the dog barking and then suddenly going quiet, like it recognizes someone it trusts. Sometimes I swear I see the curtains move, though no lights are on. It’s as if she never left, as if her spirit stayed behind to keep her home exactly the way it was, untouched by time.
And I’m not the only one who knows. Those who know this house can attest to my story. Neighbors, visitors, even people who’ve only passed by once—they all have their own strange stories about it. Some claim they’ve seen her silhouette in the window at dawn. Others swear they’ve smelled her perfume drifting from the yard. Each story is different, but the fear is the same.
We don’t know if she’s dead or alive. What we do know is that her presence is stronger than most of the living people on this street.
This isn’t just a haunted house. It’s a house where the dead still lives.
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