The Haunted House of 1995 – Best Horror Stories

The Haunted House of 1995  – Where the shadows see you before you can escape

When I think of that year, 1995, fear still runs down my spine. I was only nine years old and wasn’t prepared for what was to come. My family, made up of my parents and me, moved to a house on the outskirts of Texas, a house much bigger than we needed. When my father saw it for the first time, his face lit up. “This is it,” he said. The price was incredibly low for such a huge house. My parents thought they had found a unique opportunity, but I felt something different, something I couldn’t explain in words at my young age.

When we arrived at the house, my parents’ excitement was palpable. However, I didn’t share that emotion. The house was in disrepair, with dirty walls and mold growing in the corners, as if it had been abandoned for years. The paint was peeling off in chunks, the roof looked saggy in some parts, and the smell of dampness and rot was almost unbearable. I remember standing still in the foyer while my parents inspected the rooms and made remodeling plans. I felt as though the house was watching me, like a living being—something asleep, but aware.

That first night was when everything changed. After a long day of unpacking boxes, my parents and I went to bed early. My room was huge, too big for me, with high ceilings that echoed every sound I heard. As I lay down, the shadows of the trees outside were cast on the walls, creating grotesque shapes that seemed to move on their own. I tried to ignore them. The creaking wood, the wind slipping through the cracks… I assumed it was all part of an old house. But as the night went on, the noises grew louder.

It was as if someone was walking barefoot down the hallway. I heard footsteps moving slowly, as if they wanted me to know they were there but without showing themselves. I convinced myself it was just my imagination, that it was simply house noises, and eventually, I managed to fall asleep.

The following nights weren’t any different. The creaking and footsteps grew louder, as if something was getting closer, and each time it became harder to ignore. Until one night, I heard a new sound. Claws. The claws scraped slowly across the wooden floor, as if they were carefully dragging along the surface, ensuring I heard them but still not showing themselves. That sound sent chills down my spine, and the worst part was that it was getting closer to my room.

I tried to tell my parents, but they dismissed it as nerves from the move. “The house is old, it creaks,” they said. Although their words were meant to reassure me, they didn’t. Every night, I heard those claws creeping, getting closer and closer.

One particular night, everything changed. I woke up startled by an especially loud noise, unlike anything I’d heard before. I got out of bed, my heart racing, and headed down the hall, trying to trace the sound. That’s when I noticed something on one of the walls I hadn’t seen before: a small hole.

The hole was tiny, barely noticeable, but from inside it came those sounds. I felt as though whatever was making those noises was watching me through that hole. My curiosity, despite my fear, led me to crouch down and peek inside. And that’s when I saw it. Eyes.

Yellow, glowing, inhuman. Those eyes watched me from the darkness, motionless but filled with an indescribable malice. I blinked, unable to believe what I was seeing, but the eyes remained there, fixed on me, lurking. My breath stopped for a moment. Then, I heard a low, guttural growl, and the sound of claws scraping began again, only this time they were faster. They were coming toward me.

Fear consumed me. Without thinking twice, I ran back to my room. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might explode. I jumped into bed and covered myself with the blankets, as if that could protect me. The claws kept getting closer. They were right outside my door, scratching the floor, making every hair on my body stand on end.

I knew they had seen me. They knew that I had seen them too.

I started screaming, hoping my parents would come. “There’s something in the house! There’s something here!” My parents came running, alarmed by my cries. I told them what I had seen—the eyes, the claws—but they didn’t believe me. They told me it had all been a nightmare, that my imagination was playing tricks on me. “There are no monsters in the house,” they said, but I knew they were wrong.

That night, though my parents went back to sleep, I couldn’t. I stayed awake, curled under the blankets, waiting for the claws to return.

The next morning, I decided I had to do something. If my parents didn’t believe me, I would have to prove to them that what I was saying was true. I spent the whole day thinking of how to trap them, how to show them the truth. In the end, I came up with five traps.

The first trap involved placing a string on the floor of my room, tied to a little bell. If anything walked over it, the bell would ring, and my parents would hear it. The second trap was simpler: I spread flour in the hallway outside my room to see if they would leave footprints. I also hung a bell on my bedroom door, a third measure to ensure nothing could come in without me knowing. My fourth idea was to place a mirror under my bed, hoping to see their reflection if they got close. Lastly, I set up a rudimentary snare by the foot of my bed, something basic but I hoped would catch them if they moved nearby.

That night, I went to sleep hoping one of my traps would work. But when I woke up, there were no footprints in the flour, the string was still intact, and the bell hadn’t rung. Nothing. It was as if the monsters knew exactly what I was doing, as if they were toying with me, mocking my attempts.

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Then, one night, something much worse happened. I fell into a deep sleep after a long day playing with my friends and didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. I felt something cold and rough touching my foot, and in the blink of an eye, something yanked me hard toward the edge of the bed. I woke up in shock, and before I could react, I felt a sharp pain in my leg. I looked down and saw a long scratch from my knee to my ankle. It was bleeding.

I screamed as loud as I could, and my parents came running once again. “The monster is under the bed!” I told them, pointing to the scratch on my leg. But again, they didn’t believe me. They said I must have hurt myself while playing with my friends during the day. But I knew that wasn’t true.

From that moment on, every night was worse. The monsters were under my bed. Every time I screamed, my parents would check, but they never found anything. The claws kept creeping, and the eyes kept watching me from the dark. One night, one of them decided to show me its true face.

I woke up feeling something wet and rough on my face. A tongue. It was licking me, tasting me, as if savoring me before devouring me. The monster was a horrendous creature, with a black body covered in yellow spots, scaly skin like a snake’s, and long claws that looked like knives. It stared at me with a hungry gaze, as if it wanted to devour me right then and there.

I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed with fear. My parents arrived just in time that night, interrupting the monster before it could hurt me. I didn’t tell them anything because I knew they wouldn’t believe me.

The next day, I went to the library in search of answers. I needed to know what was happening in that house. What I discovered left me breathless. Every family that had lived there before us had disappeared without a trace. No one knew what had happened to them, but I did. I knew the monsters had devoured them, one by one, and now it was my turn.

That same night, my father, feeling guilty for not believing me, came to my room to comfort me. He sat on my bed and promised me everything was fine, that he would check under the bed to prove there was nothing there.

What happened next was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced. My father bent down and reached under the bed. Something slimy and sticky covered his hand, but before he could pull it back, the monster grabbed him. Huge, sharp teeth closed around his head, tearing it off in one bite.

The other monsters emerged from the shadows and took my father’s body. From my hiding spot in the closet, I watched as they slithered along the walls and ceiling, dragging the corpse with them. My mother tried to run, but she didn’t make it. She was caught too. Her screams echoed throughout the house until they finally faded, along with her.

Since then, I’ve been alone. I don’t speak. There’s no one who believes me. I’m locked up in a psychiatric facility. The police and people think I killed and hid their bodies. I haven’t spoken about it to anyone because no one would ever believe me, but I know the monsters are out there, waiting for the night to fall, waiting for their next prey.

I survived, but others won’t be so lucky. They are still there.

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