The Haunted Farmhouse in Missouri (Missouri)

Narrator Profile:

• Name: Ethan Wright
• Age: 45
• Hometown: A small farm village in rural Missouri
• Occupation: Farmer
• Background: Ethan inherited his family’s farm, which has been in the Wright family for generations. He has worked the land all his life and is deeply connected to his farm’s history. But the farm, while beautiful, holds a sinister past that his family has kept hidden for years.

Story:

When I inherited the farmhouse, I thought it would be a return to the peaceful, slow-paced life I had always known. My parents had lived there before me, and their parents before them. It was a place of tradition, of hard work, of memories. But there was always something about the old house, something I could never quite put my finger on.

It wasn’t just the creaking of the floors, the way the house seemed to groan and sigh with the wind. It was deeper than that. It was the sense of being watched, the way the shadows seemed to move just a little too quickly, a little too deliberately. It started with little things—objects misplaced, whispers in the night, flickering lights. But things escalated quickly.

I remember the first time I really felt it. It was late one night, the kind of still night where everything outside seems dead quiet, as if the whole world is holding its breath. I was in the barn, doing some late-night repairs. The barn had always been a bit drafty, but that night, it felt like someone was standing just behind me, breathing down my neck.

I turned around, expecting to see a shadow or perhaps an animal, but there was nothing there. I shook it off and continued working, but the air felt thick, as if it was pressing in on me. Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed from behind the barn. They were slow, deliberate, and they weren’t mine.

I ran outside, heart pounding, and found nothing. But when I turned back to the barn, I saw it—a faint silhouette in the window. I couldn’t make out its details, but it was unmistakable: someone, or something, standing inside the barn, watching me.

I ran back to the house, locking the doors behind me. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I could hear the footsteps again, getting closer, getting louder. And I could feel the weight of the house settling on me, like it was pressing down on my chest, urging me to leave.

The next morning, I decided to investigate. I went up to the attic, an area I hadn’t ventured into since moving in. There, hidden behind old furniture and boxes, I found something disturbing—a series of old letters. They were written by my great-grandfather, who had built the house, and they told of a series of strange occurrences that had plagued the farm long before I was born.

He spoke of a woman—Lydia. According to the letters, Lydia had once lived on the farm, but she had died under mysterious circumstances. The farm had always had a reputation for being cursed, but my great-grandfather had never spoken of it. The more I read, the more I realized the house held secrets it was desperate to keep hidden.

I decided to learn more about Lydia. I spoke to the neighbors, the old-timers who had lived in the area longer than anyone. What I learned shocked me: Lydia had been a farmhand, a young woman with a troubled past. She had been found dead in the barn, her body hanging from the rafters, but no one knew if it was a suicide or something more sinister.

The rumors were murky, but one thing was clear—her spirit had never left. And now, it seemed she was angry. Very angry.

After learning about Lydia’s tragic death, the occurrences on the farm became harder to ignore. I began seeing her—just a glimpse at first, a flash of white in the corner of my vision, a pale figure standing at the window, watching. But the more I ignored it, the worse it became. Her presence was undeniable, and it was not peaceful.

One night, after weeks of torment, I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to confront her. I went to the barn, where her spirit seemed to linger the most. The air was thick with an otherworldly chill as I stepped inside, my footsteps echoing in the silence.

And then I saw her. She was standing in the corner, her face pale and her eyes hollow, staring at me with an intensity that froze me to my core. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words caught in my throat.

“I didn’t do it,” she whispered, her voice faint, but clear. “They did.”

Her voice was so soft, so sorrowful, yet filled with a rage I could feel deep within my bones. I didn’t know who she was talking about, but I knew that her story wasn’t over. And as I stood there, paralyzed with fear, I knew that I would never be free of her—not until the truth was uncovered.

That night, I left the farmhouse. I couldn’t stay in a place haunted by such a tragic history. But I promised myself I would return one day, not as a frightened man, but as someone who would seek out the truth and finally put an end to the curse that had haunted my family for generations.