The House with the Demon
I was living in a rented house in Willagee with my three young sons, ages 3, 5, and 7. and a older son of 17 year old who was staying at his friends house that night.
Glenn, the father who was violent and unpredictable For our safety, we had to keep our distance from him. The house we lived in was cold and unwelcoming, especially the small room near the kitchen that I had turned into a homeschooling space for my 7-year-old. The heater was always on in that room, fighting against the chill that seemed to permeate the walls, a constant reminder of the coldness surrounding us—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
That night, after a long day, my sons and I all piled into my bed, as we often did. The trauma of their father's violence had made them uneasy about sleeping in their own rooms. We always felt safer together. But that night, something dark and unexplainable happened.
I was awoken by a cold, heavy presence in the room. The air felt thicker, heavier, as if the walls themselves were closing in. A figure, dark and indistinct, was pacing around the bed. Its steps were slow, deliberate, yet it moved with unnatural precision. It had a husky, rasping breath, like it couldn't catch its air. The voice that followed was terrifying—deep, hollow, and unnatural. It was as though the figure was trying to speak but couldn’t form words, and the rasping sound it made was like something trapped, struggling to get out. I couldn’t see its face, but I could feel its eyes—cold and intent, watching us.
In that moment, every fear I had ever experienced came rushing back—the years of abuse, the isolation, the helplessness. I could feel my children trembling beneath me, their bodies pressed against mine, seeking safety in the only place they knew. Panic surged through me, but I had to stay strong for them. I knew this thing, whatever it was, wasn’t human, and I had to protect my sons.
Without thinking, I threw myself on top of them, instinctively shielding them from whatever was in the room. My heart pounded, my hair stood on end, and a chill ran through my spine. It was as if the air around us had turned ice-cold. I thought for a moment it might try to harm us, that it might hurt my children. Fear gripped me like nothing I had ever felt before.
But in that moment, when I had no idea what else to do, I whispered a prayer, my voice shaking, but firm: “In the name of Jesus, leave this house!”
And then, just like that, it was gone. The presence that had been suffocating us faded into nothingness. The suffocating air lightened, and the cold lifted. My heart still raced, but the fear had receded.
The next day, I sought answers. I spoke to a woman from the housing commission, hoping for some explanation, and what she told me chilled me to the bone. She said an Aboriginal woman had been shot in the throat and buried beneath the house. I felt the weight of her words settle deep in my stomach, a sense of dread washing over me.
Desperate for safety, I asked for a transfer to another house, but my request was denied. Frustrated and terrified, I packed up what I could and moved my boys into the car. It was safer than staying there, and we lived in the car until we found somewhere else to go.
But even after we left, the terror of that house didn’t leave us. We still felt the unease, the haunting presence of something that was never truly at rest. As if that place held not just the memory of the woman who had died there but the grief, the anger, the loss—and it wanted to make sure that no one left without feeling its pain.
Eventually, a neighbor shared an even darker piece of the house's history. He told me the next tenant after us had taken her own life, hanging herself in the very same house. I could hardly believe it. It was as though the house had claimed yet another soul, and with it, another chapter in its tragic history.
We left, and I thought I could finally leave that darkness behind me. But even now, those memories—the heavy air, the cold presence, the feeling of being watched—still haunt me. Sometimes, I wonder if it was the house itself that was evil or if it was simply a place that fed off the pain and the trauma left by so many before us. Either way, it was a chapter in our lives I will never forget.
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