One night, my parents were out of town and insisted upon me staying at my cousin's place.

I had spent the evening playing games with my cousin, and I was now lying on the couch. My uncle was asleep on a lilo next to me when suddenly, the thick silence was broken by a loud thudding.

Boom! Boom! Up and down the stairs, getting progressively louder, I heard the sounds. I put my blanket over me and tried to convince myself that it was just the cats. But my mind kept telling me that no cat could be that loud on the stairs; it would have to weigh a ton! Thankfully, my uncle woke up at this point, and the thudding mysteriously stopped.

"Danny, I heard running on the stairs..."

"Shut up. It's just the cats," he groggily replied.

"It can't be the cats, they would have to be ten times heavier to make that noise!" I hissed. "And it wasn't the people next door either. It was way too close."

My uncle then sat up, looking as if he had remembered something. With a soft chuckle, he explained:

"Oh yeah. They say that in the '60s, a family used to live here. The father and son were killed in an accident at Hillsborough, and it drove the mother mad. They say she ran up and down the stairs screaming and crying."

He leaned in close to me, a mischievous smirk on his lips. "And just like that, she decided to take a tumble down one last time and kill herself."