The Wall
A few months ago, we bought a new house. It was just down the road from our old house, but it seemed way more remote, and I only had three neighbors. It was a beautiful wooden house, very old, with two acres of land, the house itself, one acre, and a pond of one acre. I previously never got to see the inside of the house, but because the land was so spacious, and it had a large barn perfect for working on my dangerous experiments, I begged my dad to buy it. We did, and now I finally get to tour the inside of the house. It wasn’t very big, but I liked it. I walked through all the rooms. I chose an upstairs room, because I’ve always wanted an upstairs room.  The rest of my family chose rooms, too. But this was a five bedroom house, and we had four family members, and my mom and dad would sleep together.  One extra upstairs bedroom would be converted into a guestroom, but there was one room that didn’t get chosen. I had never been in there before. As soon as I stepped in the room, a sudden heaviness overcame me. The air felt so stagnant and heavy. There was no window in the room. It had a low ceiling, and it seemed like it was more of a storage room than a bedroom. It had a single fan, each blade painted a colorful color of blue, red, yellow, green, and orange. I assumed that this used to be a child’s bedroom.  I really felt apprehensive about that room, and I didn’t want to go back in there. That night, we moved in.  My room was comfortable, and repainted a wonderful shade of blue. My old room used to be lavender, but as I grew older, I started hating the color for many reasons. It was a childish color, and also, lavender is a color that has been shown to cause depression in some.  I fell asleep rather easily in my new room. It felt quite cozy. I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night. I heard children’s laughter, and a lullaby. My brother often plays creepy games in the night, so I just went back to sleep. The next morning, my parents were out. Out of curiosity, I went to the stuffy room. I didn’t notice something before. Instead of white paint covering the wall, it was wallpaper. Seeing no need of it now, I tore a sheet of the wall paper off. Underneath was a pastel colored wall with floral designs on it. Peeling the rest of the wallpaper off, I noticed that all four of the walls were painted a different pastel color, and the floral pattern circled the room. Drawings of several children playing appeared on one wall, three of them more prominent than the others. They were very nicely drawn. The previous owner must have been an artist. Here and there, there were crayon marks on the walls. I took a brush and scrubbed them off. This WAS a children’s room. When my parents got home, I pointed out the paint job. They seemed happy with it, so it was left as is. I decided to do some research on this house. I Googled my address. A Wikipedia page popped up. I clicked on the link, and the images on the side showed a grainy old picture of a man, a woman, and three children. The children could not have been more than three in the picture. I read the article. “George Ashford first built this house in 1926. Planning a long marriage with his soon-to-be wife, Elena Cooper, they built this house in hopes of having many children and raising them to be successful. George Ashford worked as a painter, and earned a living making portraits that sold for over a thousand dollars apiece. In 1928, Ashford finally married Elena Cooper, who then became Elena Ashford. In 1929, they had fraternal triplets, Harvey Ashford, Julia Ashford, and Allison Ashford. The Ashford family went smoothly, until one day in 1934, George and Elena got in a violent fight. Elena had then ran into her room, locked the door, and hung herself. Then the kids, who witnessed the entire fight, and had ran to Elena’s room and hid under the bed, then went to their room. Old enough to process what had happened, all three of them committed suicide themselves. Allison hit her head very hard on the floor, causing severe brain damage. Julia found a blade under a cabinet, and cut herself, and she bled to death. Harvey electrocuted himself.  George, suffering from the suicide of four family members, was now alone. He apparently painted a picture of his three children in their room, playing, but the paintings were never found. He painted a commemorative painting on an easel of his wife. He wrote a note, explaining what had happened, and dropped it in a mailbox of one of his neighbors, and kept alongside, his painting, with its own note.  He added a third suicide note, and proceeded to drown himself.  He was found by his neighbors a day later. The house still remains today.” I stared at my computer in disbelief. We had moved into a suicide site. I pulled open another webpage, with the more recent details about the house. And what does the article mean when they say the paintings were never found? They are right there, under the wall paper! I guess George Ashford must have changed his mind at the last minute, and then covered the entire room with wall paper. He must have also painted several children before then, too, because there were definitely more than three children playing.
“House last owned 1934. Renovated and repainted 2011. Sold mid-2012.” This was a very old house. The last owners were the Ashfords themselves.  I found it disturbing I now live in a suicide site. What time is it? I lost track of the time. It is past midnight now. I didn’t think I was on the computer that long. I decided to call it a night.  As I got to bed again, I heard the giggling and the lullaby again. I wondered if the children never left, and the giggling is coming from their ghosts. I decided not to worry much, as even if they were ghosts, they are still children, and can’t do much harm.
The next night, I had a thought. I once again Googled my address, but this time, I added the word “haunting” to it. A list of sites came up. All of them had the same suicide story, but some had one more important piece of data. “Children, anywhere aged from age eight to eighteen, were seen playing around the house, and then suddenly disappearing without a trace. It has been noted that only the kids that wander in the house disappear. For that reason, the house was condemned for 20 years, but that didn’t stop kids from exploring it. In the 1990s, the disappearances stopped, and it started declining in popularity. Since then, no kidnappings have been recorded. In 2010, the county started renovations on it, and plan to sell it to new owners soon.”
I found a few pictures of some of the missing children, and printed them out. I put them in my pocket for later examination. I went to bed pretty late, with the giggling still there. Is it my imagination, or is the giggling getting louder each night? I woke up late into the evening. It was about five in the evening, and my parents were out. I decided to wait until they came home, and then I’d eat. So I just sat at my computer, and watched a few movies.  They finally came home at nine. When I came down, my dad had a stern look on his face. “You could have at least cleaned up, you know? We’re already so busy cleaning up the house and putting things where they should be, and now you make an enormous mess in the kitchen? Clean it up now. Also, you are wasting food.” I just stared blankly at him, and the mess. There were pots and pans on the counter, flour scattered everywhere, eggs broken on the floor, and more mess that I didn’t make all over the place. “But Dad! I didn’t do this!” I exclaimed. “I swear!” Now I really made him mad. “You know I can’t tolerate lying. Now clean up this mess. NOW.” I don’t lie. I can’t believe he thought I was lying. “Can’t you at least help me clean up? Honest, I didn’t do this!” Big mistake to say that. That tipped his scales. “That’s it. Either you are lying now, or you are so unobservant, you didn’t notice a break in. Both things are bad. Go to the storage room. NOW.” “The storage room? No! Not there! Not there of all places!” I shouted. “I’ll go to my room! Just not the storage room!” He just laughed. “With your video games, laptop, and other entertainment up there? No. You have to learn a lesson. A small lie is just as bad as a big lie to me. Go to the storage room. One… two… three.” He came up to me, grabbed my arm, and dragged me to the storage room. It was empty, except for a few boxes. He tossed me in there, and locked me in. I quickly turned on the light. I gasped. All the painted children’s eyes were staring at me. Not in the way those pictures with the eyes that seem to follow you do, but, they were staring right through me. It wasn’t like this before. “Dad… please let me out… I’m sorry…” I moaned. “No, I won’t take the obvious bait. I looked at the door, and then back at the paintings. All of them now carried a smile. I screamed, and started banging at the door. “IF YOU MAKE ONE MORE SOUND, I’LL TRIP THE BREAKER TO THAT ROOM AND YOU WON’T HAVE ANY LIGHT!” He yelled. I heard a lullaby. It was a pretty clear lullaby, but it sounded tinny, like one of those little old fashioned music boxes.  I tried to keep quiet, but I couldn’t help to whimper. I got up and tried to find a way out. The only way out would be the air duct, but I couldn’t reach it, and  the boxes weren’t sturdy enough to stand on. Then… the giggling started. It came from all directions. I tried not to scream.
Something cold touched me. I accidentally let out a scream. I covered my mouth. The papers fell out of my pocket. I only had seconds to observe them. Before I could gasp, the lights went out. I started screaming and banging on the door, frantically flipping the light switch, to no avail. He was completely ignoring me. This is too much… The lullaby and the giggling grew louder and louder. The last thing I heard was “Come play with us…. But to play with us… you have to be with us…” before everything was black. TEN YEARS LATER
The house is finally being sold again. Our moving van pulled the last load from the house, never to see it again. It was too big of a house, anyways. The new owners have a kid about my age.  That is a huge relief to me. It was getting lonely being the only teenager on this wall. Credit To: TeslaCoilGirl Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.