Now, back to real ghost stories online, live.

855-8.53-4802.

The phone number, if you'd like to call in your ghost story, we would love to hear it.

I will, I'll read one here.

Let me just get the prompter activated.

Put on my glasses because I've aged over the years.

All right, this is the letter.

It says when my wife Claire and I bought the house in 2006, it wasn't because it was perfect.

It was because it was available within our budget

and close enough to my job in Greensboro, North Carolina,

that I would make the drive in under a half an hour.

It was an older split level on Willow Bend Road built in the late

1960s with avocado green kitchen counters in a backyard that sloped down into a stand of trees.

The realtor called it quiet and charming. My father called it dated, but it had three bedrooms, hardwood floors under the shag carpet,

and a screen porch where Claire swore she'd drink her coffee every morning.

We didn't talk about ghosts.

We talked about paint colors, furniture, and how we'd finally have room for the baby we'd been trying for.

The first month was fine, normal, new house headaches, leaky faucet in the upstairs bath,

a breaker that tripped whenever you ran the microwave and a toaster at the same time,

and a smell in the basement that we blamed on mildew.

Nothing, we couldn't handle.

Nothing that felt strange. Then little things started happening. I'm methodical by nature. Every night I put my wallet, phone, and keys in the small wooden bowl we keep in my front door. One morning my keys weren't there. I tore the house

...