The Old Woman in the Farm House



I know you hear this a lot, but I think I should start by saying that this whole story is true. I understand that this is just Creepy Pasta, and I have no reason to believe that any of you will truly believe in my experience, since the internet is packed with liars. Nevertheless, this story is—to the best of my recollection—one hundred percent true, even though my assertion only weakens my argument.

At any rate, another bit of important information that I’d like to share before getting to the real meat of my story is that I was never a nonbeliever. I’ve grown up seeing things that others couldn’t, experiencing things that others couldn’t, and knowing that others didn’t have my perception. My mother was the same way growing up, as was her mother before her; although grandma was more frightened by the idea of it than anything and chose to push the ability away. So this isn’t me discovering the world of the paranormal by any means, merely what I consider to be a perplexing experience one night with an old woman in an even older house.

My dad’s best friend, affectionately nicknamed “Pothead,” had finally found a woman that he felt could complete him—who happened to live in the United Kingdom. While the distance was great, the romance was greater, and before we knew it, she had travelled to Pothead’s small Upstate New York farming town. With her, the woman—Cathy—brought her youngest son of 20 years and her only daughter of 14 years. Her daughter’s name was Sarah, and she was only a year or so older than myself.

When they moved in, my parents insisted that we meet the new family that Pothead had acquired. Sarah and I hit it off right away, and became fast friends. Soon, we were calling each other on the weekends, and I had business at Pothead’s house that didn’t involve tagging along with my father to play with the dogs. Eventually, an overnight visit was scheduled.

The evening was normal enough, Sarah and I did the typical sleepover makeover activities expected of young teenage girls, followed by a romantic comedy and bed. We shared a bed for the night, as it was large enough for us, and we didn’t see the point in one of us sleeping on the floor. It was now that things began to get more interesting.

I had known the house was old. All of the homes in the small farming town were old. I also knew by the fact that much of the wood that the nearby barn was made of was in the process of rotting through. I had always seemed to sense a presence around the house, which was more protective than anything, so it wouldn’t have surprised me to discover that the house itself had experienced certain phenomena of mystery and intrigue.

It was a two story house, with one bathroom on the first floor, and all the bedrooms on the second floor atop a very steep and narrow staircase. The basement floor was simply packed dirt that often loosened into unnavigable muck when it flooded in the spring.

We slept in the bedroom farthest from the staircase. Aside from the bed, dresser, mirror, and television, it contained two windows—one facing east and the other, north. Next to the north window perpetually sat an old, shabby rocking chair that Pothead didn’t seem to want to get rid of. It was made of dark wood, with a white seat cushion, which had discolored to a creamy yellow with age. Lace curtains hung in the window, fluttering softly in the summer breeze.

In the middle of the night I woke up with a full bladder. I didn’t want to have to walk all the way down the steep staircase while half asleep, but knew it was a better idea than waiting until morning. As I sat up in the bed, I looked towards the north window across the room. In the rocking chair, beyond the faintly billowing curtains, I saw an old woman.

She was dressed in a white nightgown, her ancient, wrinkled hands rested in her lap as she hummed a tuneless lullaby to herself. Her face was incredibly wrinkled and her hair was an almost-white shade of gray. She seemed relatively peaceful, if not a touch troubled.

Upon seeing her I sat up straighter in surprise. She heard me, and responded by turning towards me with a warm smile. It was shocking to say the least, but she seemed nonthreatening, so I took it as a good sign, and got up to head to the bathroom as calmly as I could.

I went, did my business, and washed my hands. I had originally thought that perhaps she had been a remnant of a dream I had just had but couldn’t remember, so I splashed some cold water on my face to make sure that I was really awake before turning off the light and making my way back up the steps. Needless to say, she was still there.

I peered into the room before entering to see if I could tell what she was there for, when I noticed her looking at Sarah. She didn’t seem necessarily hostile or enraged, but you could tell she was upset and frustrated about something. Her brows furrowed in Sarah’s direction, and as her eyes focused on my friend’s face, the woman almost seemed to be genuinely angry.

I tried to creep into the room, but my foot caught a loose floorboard, releasing a rather harsh squeak. The woman instantly turned towards me, and her features morphed back into the comforting smile presented me with when I first woke up. I shuffled back into the bed, clumsily bowing at her before finally laying down. I tried to watch her a little more, but she merely glared at Sarah one more time before giving me another smile and vanishing.

I was somehow able to still sleep that night, but never forgot about the woman. I decided against saying anything because, while the woman seemed angry with Sarah, I had no sense from her that she would do anything destructive towards my friend. We ate breakfast, talked about “girl stuff” some more, and I eventually packed my overnight bag back up and went home.

After about a month, Sarah told me she was going back to England to live with her biological father. Before I could find time to come over, or even ask for a better explanation than a simple “because I feel like I should,” Sarah had left. When I next visited Pothead and Cathy, I discovered why.

Apparently, Sarah had severe anger management issues, so much so that she had threatened to destroy the old farmhouse with everyone inside. I thought that this might have some connection to the old woman I had seen, and finally decided to ask Pothead about her. He didn’t seem the type to believe in the paranormal, but he’d never really expressed ant skepticism, so I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

I described what had happened that night, giving more detail when he requested it, and doing my best to remain as honest as possible. After I finished, he told me to wait a moment while he shuffled around in his bedroom. When he returned he held a photo of the woman in his hands.

He asked me if it was really her, my response was affirmative, and he told me that the photograph was of his mother, who had died in the house. Apparently, she slept in what became Sarah’s room, and had always had a fondness for the old rocker. When she died, she left the house to Pothead, and he explained that he always felt like she protected him and his home, even though she had passed on.

This made everything seem to make so much sense. It seemed that she knew about Sarah’s threats, and must have wanted to protect the house and those inside. I still don’t know why she was so friendly towards me, however. The only idea I can think of is that I’d paid a lot of visits to the home growing up, playing in the fields with the animals, and respecting the home as much as I could.

I’m eighteen now, and haven’t been to the house in over two years. However, every once in a while, on a warm summer night, I think of that mysterious old woman I saw what now seems so long ago.