11A Forsyth Ave

11A Forsyth Ave

One crisp morning, Mrs. Harcus was buckling her young son, Grayson, into his car seat for school. As she adjusted the straps, Grayson’s gaze drifted toward the front door. Suddenly, he pointed with a small, trembling finger. “Ghost!” he whispered. Startled, Mrs. Harcus looked where he pointed. “Is there a ghost here?” she asked gently. “A mommy ghost,” Grayson replied matter-of-factly. “And she’s angry.” Her heart skipped a beat. “Is Daddy okay inside?” he asked next, his wide eyes flicking back to the house. Mrs. Harcus steadied her voice. “Daddy’s inside and the ghost is outside. He’s safe.” She smiled, trying to reassure him, and they drove off to school. Back at the house, CW3 Harcus had been finishing his morning coffee when the doorbell rang. He went to the door, opened it, and found no one there. A little confused, he returned to the kitchen. Moments later, the doorbell rang again. This time he opened the door quickly—still, no one in sight. Just as he began to close it, a sharp rush of cold air swept past him, slipping into the house. He shivered, frowning, and shut the door firmly. Carrying his coffee to the dining room table, he sat with his laptop, trying to focus. Yet the feeling of being watched crept over him like a shadow, heavy and insistent. After a few uneasy minutes, he stood, grabbed his things, and decided to head to work early. That evening, as the family gathered at home, Mrs. Harcus recounted Grayson’s strange words from that morning. “He said there was a mommy ghost at the front door,” she explained. Mr. Harcus froze, staring at her. “You’re joking,” he said slowly. “I’m not.” His eyes widened. “Well… great,” he said, exhaling. “I guess I let whoever it was in.”

From the very first night in their new home, young Grayson began talking about ghosts. At first, Mrs. Harcus chalked it up to imagination—new rooms, new corners, and the flicker of shadows at night. But by the second evening, things started to feel different. She was upstairs in Grayson’s playroom at the end of the long hallway, crouched on the floor with him as they played with toy dinosaurs. Suddenly, Grayson stopped mid-roar, his little body going stiff. “Mommy… I’m scared,” he whispered. His small hand trembled as he pointed toward the doorway leading into the hallway. Mrs. Harcus turned to look, but saw nothing—just the quiet, dimly lit hall. “What is it, sweetheart?” she asked softly. “There’s a daddy ghost,” he said in a voice almost too calm. His eyes stayed fixed on the empty hall. Grayson refused to play after that and begged to go downstairs. Over the days that followed, he described the spirits with unsettling clarity: the daddy ghost lingering upstairs, always near the top of the staircase, as if keeping watch. The mommy ghost, however—the angry one—moves about downstairs, drifting from room to room. More than once, the entire family has heard a high, shrill scream echo from the bottom of the stairs. The sound was sharp and sudden, but when they rushed to check, no source could ever be found.

89B Schofield Circle

Our ghost(s) love to play with money! We have a small kimchi pot in our dining room that holds our families loose change as a “coin jar.” Every time our house cleaner comes she collects a pile of coins that are scattered throughout the house and found under furniture, on windows, near doors, etc. No humans in the house are moving the coins……