I tried to convince myself that it was just my imagination playing tricks on me. After all, it had been a long day and the shadows in the room were shifting with the dimming light outside. But then the creak came again, followed by the unmistakable sound of wood scraping gently against the floor. My heart raced as I slowly turned my head back toward the chair. To my utter horror, the chair was now rocking back and forth, slowly, as though someone was sitting in it and pushing themselves gently with their feet. But the room was empty.

Frozen with fear, I didn’t know whether to scream or run. The room felt suffocating, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the rocking chair. It seemed to sway faster with each passing second, almost as though it was urging me to approach. I debated whether to call out for my parents, but something in my gut told me I needed to stay quiet. As the rocking chair slowed to a stop, the atmosphere in the room seemed to lighten, but the unease never fully left. I stayed awake that night, clutching my blanket and listening for any sign of movement.

The next day, I gathered the courage to mention it to my parents, but they shrugged it off, attributing it to the wind or my overactive imagination. But I knew what I had experienced. Over the years, the strange incidents in that room continued, each more unsettling than the last. The rocking chair remained, a silent witness to the growing sense of dread that filled the space. Even after we moved out of that house, I never forgot the eerie sensation of being watched, and the sound of that chair rocking on its own still haunted me in my dreams.