In the tranquil town of Pinecrest, Oregon, my older sister Emma rented a two-bedroom apartment during her junior year at Pinecrest University. The Pinecrest Apartments, ordinary on the outside, concealed a supernatural secret that would forever change our lives.
Emma’s tearful phone calls detailing ghostly encounters prompted me to visit. Skepticism aside, I went to see her apartment. Eerie vibes gripped me as we entered, but I followed her inside. She gave me a tour, trying to convince me to move in. When she opened her walk-in closet, a sense of dread overwhelmed me.
I whispered, “Close it, Emma. I sense something tragic inside.”
Ignoring my unease, I shared Emma’s room. Using her computer, I often felt watched from the doorway. During a friend’s visit, the music’s volume decreased inexplicably, sending us fleeing as the door slammed shut behind.
Months passed, and we grew accustomed to living with the unexplained. My family moved in temporarily, and paranormal events escalated. Computers and TVs turned on by themselves, and my niece played with an unseen friend. One morning, we found her with unexplained scratches.
In a chilling final encounter, my mother saw a little girl in a Victorian dress by Emma’s bed before she vanished.
The Pinecrest Apartments hid a realm of restless spirits and otherworldly entities. To this day, passing by the complex sends shivers down my spine, a reminder of our inexplicable experiences.