She resided in a decrepit house, the old lady — the witch, we kids called her — who always wore slippers outside and a housecoat. It was down the street from where I grew up and lived until my late twenties.

The house was small; exterior white panels turned beige with accumulated dirt, with a few steps that led to a small roofed porch. It was rundown — as kids, we joked that it was haunted.

We called the old hag a witch, not understanding the true meaning of the word, and many of us were afraid of her because she kept to herself.

There was an ambulance in front of her house one high school day — she had passed away of natural causes. Her body was found in her house and carried out on a stretcher.

At the time, I didn’t think much of it.

The house went on to be available on the market by the real estate agents who had been hired by the bank.

Since the house was rundown, the windows and doors were boarded up with wood. Now it really looked haunted…and little did anyone know that it truly was now.

The house remained on sale for many years — no one showed interest in it.

The small property gave off an ominous feeling when passing in front of it. At night it even felt eerie, with low branches from a large tree swaying in the wind and tall unkempt weeds and grass, giving the terrain the look of a spooky graveyard.

The house continued to become more and more rundown. All doors and windows remained boarded up.

Years passed — no one purchased the property.

Knock…knock…thump…knock…

A slow knocking sound that came from the house is what I heard one evening while passing by. As though from inside the house.

I stopped to check for animals.

Thump…drum…knock…scrape…thump…

It sounded like someone inside the house was trying to push against the door.

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