This is a short but true story. Last year when I had just gotten home from school, I went up to my room and threw my bag on the bed. My room was pretty small, there was only the bed, the narrow closet and a small desk up against the window. I turned my back to the door and felt a chill run down my spine, so I turned around and spotted what looked like a man riffling through my things. At first I wanted to run but I was paralyzed, the man moved towards my bag on the bed and examined it without acknowledging my presence. After a while he looked up at me, his eyes were dark and gloomy, his hair was as dark as coal and his skin was pale and dehydrated, wrinkled even though he didn't seem to be over thirty.
It took me a while to understand the he wasn't looking at me, he was looking past me at an old picture of my father and my mother. He moved towards it and touched the empty space between the two of them. After a while he turned as if finally acknowledging me and gave me a nod, then he disappeared. I've seen him roaming around the house a couple of times after that but never as long as that one time. I believe he wasn't looking at my parents picture but at another one he recognized with a third person on the spot he had touched. And in the bed he probably wasn't even looking at my bag, but at something else, something only he could see. Well I guess I'll never know.
I haven't researched the house's history, probably because I don't want to know, I think if I look it up I'll find something I won't be able to handle, on the other hand it will probably be a great story to tell.