When I was 14, we moved into a an old cpr house. Things were good for the first 2 nights, then it started. My brother's rocking chair would move by itself, at first, just for a few minutes, then it started to go all day. We were not allowed to enter the basement, but my brother and I went down anyway. As soon as we reached and touched the dirt, things changed, someone or something threw rocks and broken furniture at us, screaming at us to get out.
After that, things got worse. We heard furniture move, pictures would fly off the wall. There was scratching on the windows, and when we looked, we'd see faces staring back at us. Whatever was in that house did not like me. It would slap me hard enough to leave marks. My brother and I got our pastor from our church to lend us crosses, and a prayer book, we thought we could beat this thing. When we approached the basement, once again, we made it about half way down, when the screaming started again, yelling for us to get out. As soon as I touched the dirt floor, a man came in front of me and pushed me backwards. My brother, feeling we were not welcome in that house, grabbed me an ran outside.
We left that home that night, after just 3 months. We got movers to get our stuff. When they delivered our belongings, the movers even said that they felt uncomfortable there, and that they think someone told them to get out.