It started in 2013.
We had just moved into a flat located somewhere between Sedgley, Dudley, and Wolverhampton—right in the heart of the West Midlands. The building was old. Victorian, I think. The sort that creaks on its own, the kind with thick walls, high ceilings, and a certain heaviness in the air. Locals whispered that someone had died there. An old man, years ago. No family. No closure. Just a quiet, lonely death.
At first, it was just me and my partner trying to settle in, figuring out our routines and adjusting to the strange energy of the place. But soon after moving in, something... shifted. Something was off.
Week 1: The Glitches Begin
The first thing we noticed was the TV.
We had one upstairs, barely used, and it would switch itself on in the middle of the night. Full volume. White static. No channel, just that harsh, crackling fuzz that sounds like it’s trying to say something. The lights in the hallway began flickering, too, usually around 2 or 3 a.m. They weren’t just faulty—they flickered in rhythmic patterns, like Morse code. Like communication.
We assumed it was faulty wiring or maybe someone was messing with us. Dudley’s not the quietest place, and we figured a prank wasn’t out of the question. We changed passwords, checked the locks, made sure the windows were sealed. But it kept happening. And then the footsteps started.
We lived on the top floor, but we’d hear heavy boots on wooden floors above us. There was no one above. Not since we moved in.
Week 2: Sounds from the Past
Things escalated fast.
One night, as we lay in bed, a strange static filled the air again—not just from the TV but from somewhere. Then, we began to hear sounds that weren’t just modern glitches. Gunfire. Shouts. Explosions. Like distant echoes from a war zone.
We froze, listening to this haunting symphony of the past. The sounds would swell and die down, like they were looping through time. At one point, we even heard a voice—raspy, male, and close—whisper: “You shouldn’t be here.”
We searched for explanations. Old recordings? Pirate radio signals? Nothing added up.
Then came the smell.
Nicotine. Strong, like someone had just lit up a pipe or an unfiltered cigarette. Neither of us smoked. We checked vents, windows, everything. The smell had no source. And with it, a haze—smoke. Floating in the hallway, curling near the ceiling.
Week 3: Things Moved… and So Did We
Objects started to move.
At first, it was subtle. A mug placed on one side of the kitchen counter would be found in the sink. A book turned upside down. Then we’d leave the house, come back, and find chairs repositioned, drawers open. Our toothbrushes would be swapped.
Then it happened while we were watching.
A small side table in the living room shifted six inches across the floor—right in front of us. Slowly, like something invisible pushed it. Neither of us spoke. We just stared, frozen.
And then, the nightmares started.
We both began to experience sleep paralysis. Every night. Trapped in our own bodies, wide awake but unable to move. Every time, we'd see faces—grotesque, inhuman, full of hate and hunger—hovering inches from ours. Sometimes smiling. Sometimes screaming.
And always... always staring.
The Doll
We hadn’t paid much attention to the old figurine at first. It was a dusty, antique porcelain doll left behind by the previous tenants—or maybe even older than that. We kept it on a shelf in the corner, untouched.
But that thing became alive at night.
It started showing up in places we hadn’t left it. On the bedside table. On the windowsill. Once, even at the foot of our bed, facing us directly.
Its face was hideous. Cracked paint, soulless eyes, and a smug grin like it knew what it was doing to us.
One night, I swear I woke up and saw it moving. Not just twitching—walking. It stepped down from the dresser, slowly, purposefully, and turned its head toward me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. But I could feel it watching.
We tried getting rid of it. We put it in a bin bag, took it outside—but it was back the next morning.
The Link to Kraków
This wasn’t our first encounter with something like this.
Years before, when we lived in Kraków, we had stayed in an old apartment not far from the city center. We started having strange dreams there too. And on the day we moved out of that place—literally, as we were dragging boxes out the door—a black van pulled up. Paramedics went upstairs.
Someone had died in the building.
Their body was being carried out just as we were leaving.
Looking back, I wonder... did we bring something with us?
The Aftermath
We left that Dudley flat after just three weeks. We had to. We didn’t sleep. We didn’t eat. We weren’t even ourselves anymore.
To this day, I’m not sure what we experienced. Was it a haunting? A poltergeist? A time loop? A residual echo of trauma and death?
Or something darker?
Something that follows?
I’ve heard of objects holding energy. Of homes becoming traps for spirits who can't move on. I believe that some places are thin—thin between our world and something else.
And maybe... just maybe... that doll wasn’t just a doll.
We’ve moved multiple times since. But every now and then, I’ll catch a whiff of nicotine. Hear static in the silence. Wake up from a dream with that face still burned into my memory.
And I wonder…
Did we ever leave Dudley?
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