This was the house I grew up in. We moved there when I was in sixth grade and I lived there, off an on, until I was 26. A few years after I got married, my wife and I moved back into this house. It's the house where my first son was born. I suspect that when I die, I'll end up haunting that house. I can't escape it, not even in my dreams.
We always had pets when we were living there. Sometimes our old dog Frisky would stop and stare into a corner, hackles raised, growling. Then he'd relax and go on like nothing had happened, leaving you sitting on the couch staring into the corner, afraid to move.
One night, I was in the back bedroom digging for something in the closet, when I heard a little girl scream in the den. She was screaming like she was being murdered. I ran down the hall and found the cat crouched in the middle of the floor. As I entered the room, he threw up. No little girl.
But later, my wife's niece was at the house. We were in the kitchen and we heard her playing by herself in the den. I walked in and said, hey, whatcha doing?
Playing with my new friend.
Who is your new friend?
The little girl who lives in the fireplace.