When my mom was about ten years old, she and my grandparents lived in a house in Barth, Florida. She slept in a room across from my uncle's, and it was the first time she had a room of her own so she was understandably excited.
Their relatives had an uneasy feeling about the house because it was rumored a man had died there (my family came from West Virginia, and Appalachian folk are very superstitious). But my grandfather ignored the warnings they offered and moved there anyway. Soon after moving in, the very first night my mother slept in her new room in fact, my mother woke up late in the night to far-away whistling. She thought nothing of it, rationalizing it as a passer-by on the street whistling to pass the time away, until it suddenly came inside the house.
She could hear its footsteps clicking across the flooorboards, coming closer, and hid under the covers when it entered her room. It walked around her bed, paused a moment, then left. Terrified, she immediately ran to my uncle's room and never slept in her own room until they moved away. The reason they moved was that my grandmother never felt safe in the house. Every time she was alone she'd feel a presence, so she nagged my poor grandfather to leave until he agreed.
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