Creepypastas

Ashbrooke Lane

A point came where I starting to confuse my dreams with reality. I couldn't tell if this was all in my mind or actually happening to me in the middle of the night. During the daylight hours, I examined the wall in the hallway, looking to see if there was some indication of a secret door. I told my parents and my Nan about the dreams and though I never doubted their concern, there was not a lot they could do except reassure me. I stayed with my parents when I got particularly distressed, either in their bed or we'd bring the blankets and pillows downstairs and have a sleep over in the living room.

Nothing helped. My evil tormentor found me night after night, waiting until mom and dad were asleep before hauling me away. I tried to call out, but my screams were always silent as he gripped his hand round my throat. He grew increasingly violent as he tried in vain to drag me into his secret room. Sometimes he would use his scalpel across my hands or under my fingernails, other times he would inject me with a syringe, and it wasn't unusual for him to bite my fingers. As I prepared for the dreams, I rehearsed how I would try to fight him off, what I could grab onto as he dragged me downstairs. I knew if I could just hold out until the clock chimed, then I would survive another night because that's when his door sealed shut.

What terrified me most was the realisation that if he got me into his secret room before the chime of the clock, the door would seal behind us and nobody would ever see or hear from me again.

I don't remember much else about that house, but we didn't stay long. We moved in with my Nan for a while and even though there wasn't much room for all of us, at least those nightmares stopped. And so did the sleepwalking.

Of course, I never forgot about those dreams. How could I? But I figured I was just a kid with an overactive imagination and I never considered them particularly abnormal. That is until my teens when I started to suspect something more sinister was at play. I was looking through old photo albums with my parents when we came across some from our old house at Ashbrooke Lane.

"Something wasn't right about that house," I heard my mom say to my dad.

This roused my curiosity. "What do you mean, mom?"

"Well, I used to have bad feelings and nightmares when we were living there," she added.

My dad tried to change the subject, but I persisted. "What sort of nightmares?" I enquired.

"I don't want to go into it. Just violent and disturbing dreams."

"I had recurring nightmares in that house too," I said.

"You were too young to remember your dreams," my dad interrupted. "You probably just picked up on something you heard us talking about."

I felt insulted, like they were dismissing me, but you don't forget dreams like those. I tried pushing for more information. They weren't forthcoming.

It wasn't until I was in my mid-twenties that we were able to talk about it again. I was in the living room with my parents and my dad was reading the paper. He casually told my mom, "Our old house in Ashbrooke Lane is up for sale again."

"Nobody stays there long," she replied. "It makes you wonder."

My dad nodded in agreement.

"So what exactly happened at that house?" I interjected.

Maybe it was because so much time had passed or perhaps it's because I was older, but they were more open with me this time. My mom explained how she'd had visions of a violent murder – dead bodies lying on the floor, blood all over the walls, and she claimed she had felt a "presence". When she was alone, she would often hear crying and it sounded like it was coming from inside the house. She also revealed that my aunt and uncle had come down from Manchester to stay one weekend and woke in the middle of the night to see a figure of a tall man at the bottom of the bed.