I Bought an Old House. What Happened During Renovation Still Haunts Me

Three nights ago, I decided to take on a DIY home improvement project that turned into something I’ll never forget.

I had just moved into an old house on the outskirts of town—a creaky, two-story wooden structure with peeling paint and a porch that groaned like it had secrets.

My plan was simple: repaint, fix the flooring, and maybe add some smart home gadgets.

At 9 p.m., I was still in the living room, armed with a drill, a bucket of white paint, and a playlist blasting lo-fi beats. The smell of fresh paint mixed with the dusty wood scent of the house. I was excited.

That’s when I heard the first creak—not the usual one. This one sounded like a whisper.

Me (muttering): “Old house vibes, I guess.”

I brushed it off and kept painting. As I climbed the ladder to fix a loose ceiling board, my phone buzzed. It was a WhatsApp message from an unknown number:

Unknown: “Don’t change the house.”

I froze. The room felt colder. My heart raced, but I laughed it off—probably a prank from the previous owner or a neighbor.

Me (typing): “Who is this?”

No reply.

Later, while screwing in a new smart bulb, the lights flickered. My drill died even though the battery was full. I sighed, shaking my head.

Me: “Great, now the tools don’t wanna work.”

Suddenly, a voice—soft, almost pleading—came from the corner.

Voice: “Leave it the way it is.”

I dropped the drill.

Me: “Who’s there?!”

Silence. The only sound was my own heartbeat.

Trying to calm down, I grabbed my phone to record, thinking maybe I’d post it as a creepy TikTok.

But when I hit record, the screen glitched. Instead of showing my room, it showed… a reflection of the room, untouched and old, as if no paint had been applied.

By now, I was sweating. I backed away, and the ladder fell with a loud crash. As I ran to the door, it slammed shut by itself.

Me (panicking): “Okay, what do you want from me?!”

A cold breeze brushed against my neck, and the whisper returned:

Voice: “This house isn’t broken. You are.”

My knees almost gave out. I closed my eyes, muttering, “This isn’t real, this isn’t real…”

When I opened them, the room was back to normal—the fresh paint on the walls, my tools neatly arranged, the ladder standing upright like nothing happened. My phone buzzed again.

Unknown: “Thank you for listening.”

The next morning, I walked through the house. It was brighter, lighter, as if it approved of me now. I didn’t repaint anything else. I left the creaky floors, the old porch, even the cracked walls.

Sometimes, home improvement isn’t about changing everything. Sometimes, it’s about respecting what’s already there.

And since that night, I’ve been sleeping better than ever—almost like the house is protecting me.