User blog comment:Witnessme/Creepypasta Short Story Contest/@comment-27075866-20151014163126

             My grandma died when I was six. She was a hoarder, and some of it came to live in our house. A black and white photo of her father with his horse teeth. The painting of the French princess who used to watch as we ate. And a dining room set grandma had believed was Lizzie Borden’s.

             My parents didn’t believe that’s what it was. Grandma stretched truths, turning minutes into hours, dogs into wolves, and bumps into ghosts. Grandma claimed her cousin was a district attorney in Massachusetts, and he’d heard she’d needed a dining room set so he bought Lizzie Borden’s when it had gone up for auction. It went cheap because of a gouge near the middle of the table. Mom said it couldn’t be Lizzie’s, because she’d been acquitted. The evidence would have gone back to her.

             But then who rapped on my bedroom door in the night? Who leaned their ear on the wall and listened while I pulled the Batman covers over my head? Who tried to stop the door’s creaking so my parents wouldn’t stir? Who knew my name, without me sharing it? And who sat on the edge of the bed, rolling me toward them, as silent tears streamed down my face? Her chilling static coursed through me? Whose rotted stench reeked so badly I couldn’t scream? Who lullabied so sweetly that I let her make me look at her? If it isn't Lizzie Borden, who is this strange woman who came to me each night? And if she’s so sorry about what she did, why does she want me to do it too?

