The MacTavish family home sat on the edge of the hills, its stone walls weathered by years of wind and rain. You’d come with Johnny for Halloween weekend. A hometown celebration, food vendors, pumpkin carving, and kids trick-or-treating down the lane. His mother, warm and lively, welcomed you with a meal and stories that grew stranger as the night deepened.

“After midnight,” she said, lowering her voice over the candlelight, “the house gets visitors. Always has.”

Johnny snorted. “Ma, it’s drafty floorboards and the cat. No ghosts.”

But she only smiled knowingly. “You’ll see,” she chuckled before leaving for the night to see her sister across town.

By the time the clock edged toward midnight, the house had settled into a quiet you could feel. Rain drizzled outside, tapping against the windows. The fire burned low. You and Johnny were half-asleep on the couch, the television flickering.

Then a floorboard creaked upstairs.

Johnny swallowed, trying to smile. “Aye, old floorboards. Totally not the souls of the damned or anything.”

The sound came again, slow, heavy steps across the landing. The old chandelier swayed gently overhead though the air was still.

You whispered, “Johnny...”

He blinked at the sound, then glanced at you. “Aye, well… maybe the house is breathin’.”

A picture frame rattled on the mantel. The cat hissed and bolted for the kitchen. Then, faintly, from the hall, came the soft thud-thud of boots.

Johnny stood, every bit of soldier instinct awake now but in socks and flannel pajamas, not exactly battle-ready. “Alright, whoever ye are,” he called, voice cracking slightly, “you’ve picked the wrong bloody house!”

No reply. Just another creak.

You followed him to the hallway, flashlight in hand, the beam shaking just a little. The air felt colder there, almost damp.

“See?” he whispered. “Nothing. Just—”

The upstairs door slammed. Both of you jumped so hard the flashlight clattered to the floor. Johnny stared up the staircase, eyes wide. “...Ma’s right. We’re haunted.”