When I was a little girl, my father’s job meant that our family had to move around a lot. I don’t remember most of the small towns we lived in, since we were only there for a few weeks, but one small town was burned into my memory forever. My parents rented an old, dilapidated house there for a few months.
The house was in a bad state of repair and only one bathroom had running water. Unfortunately, the bathroom was on the top floor of the house, right next to the attic. I always hated that bathroom. It gave me the creeps. There was a little door in the wall of the bathroom that gave access to the attic. The room was always freezing cold, even though it was the middle of summer.
One night, I was taking a bath before bedtime. I happened to glance up at the little door in the wall of the bathroom. The door had always been locked and there was no key, so we had never gone into the attic. Curiosity got the better of me and I decided to investigate. I stepped out of the bath and looked through the keyhole.
I couldn’t see anything. It was pitch black inside the attic. I put my ear to the door and listened. There was a faint scratching sound.
When I put my eye up to the keyhole again, I saw something moving in the darkness. I jumped back in surprise and the next moment, the sharp end of a screwdriver poked through the keyhole, thrusting back and forth, stabbing at thin air as if in a frenzy. Then it disappeared back through the keyhole.
It almost poked my eye out.
I screamed in horror and ran out of the bathroom, stark naked and dripping wet. Went I got downstairs, I cried out for my parents.
“Mom! Dad! Come quick! There’s someone in the attic!” I yelled.
My parents calmed me down and I told them what had happened. They didn’t believe me, but just to be sure, my dad agreed to check out the attic. He grabbed a hammer and a flashlight and bounded up the stairs, followed closely by myself and my mother.
The little door in the bathroom was locked and there was no key, so my father pried the hinges off the door using his hammer. When he shone the flashlight inside, the attic was completely empty.
My parents dismissed it as just my childish imagination and a few weeks later, we left the house and moved to a different town. Still, I never could forget the horrific incident that had happened in that old house, and it was a long time before I could ever feel safe while taking a bath.
Years later, I was in the area and decided to visit the old house where I had spent a brief part of my childhood. I reconnected with an old friend on Facebook. I had known him as a child and arranged to meet him again. We went for a walk around the town and shared our memories of the old place.
When we were passing by the old house, I told him that I had lived there with my parents for a few months.
“Yeah, the Screwdriver House,” he chuckled.
My blood ran cold. I had never told anyone else about what had happened to me in the bathroom, all those years ago.
“W-w-why do you call it that?” I stammered.
“That’s what everyone calls it,” he replied casually. “You didn’t hear the stories?”
“No. Tell me,” I said in a weak voice. My stomach felt as if it was tied in knots.
“Shortly after it was built, a family moved in. A husband, his wife and their four beautiful daughters,” he said. “His wife died and I guess you could say he went a little screwy. Nobody knows why, but the man murdered all four of his daughters with a screwdriver and stacked their bloody corpses in the attic.”
Original author unknown