Tess Blake Journal
Mason and I once stepped into a house where sorrow had lingered so long it seemed woven into the walls. It was a place where mourners gathered, where final goodbyes were spoken in hushed voices, where grief had learned how to stay.
Out of respect, I won’t share where it stands.
But I will never forget what waited inside.
From the moment we crossed the threshold, the house felt awake. Not the quiet, fading kind of haunting that drifts like memory this was something present. Watching. Listening. A stillness that didn’t feel empty, but occupied.
Objects shifted when no one stood near them. Sounds traveled from rooms that held no footsteps. Every creak carried intention.
As the night deepened, the air grew heavier, as though the house itself was holding its breath.
I sat alone for a time in a chair placed in a room where funerals had once been held. The kind of room where tears had soaked into the floorboards and never fully dried. I stayed still, listening.
That’s when it happened.
A hand unseen, undeniable pressed against the back of my leg.
Not a passing brush. Not imagination. A firm, deliberate touch. Cold and certain.
My body reacted before my mind could understand. A jolt of fear. A chill that climbed my spine and settled deep in my chest.
It felt like being noticed.
Later, upstairs, Mason and I separated for only a moment something we rarely allow. The quiet there was unnatural, thick and pressing.
As I turned to leave the room, something moved behind me.
And then I was shoved.
Hard.
I stumbled forward, catching myself before I fell. My heart pounded so violently it felt as though it might shake loose from my ribs. The warmth drained from my skin, replaced by a biting cold that wrapped around my arms and neck like unseen fingers.
There was no one behind me.
No loose board. No misstep.
Just force.
The house did not want to be forgotten.
It wanted to be felt.
We’ve heard footsteps before. Seen shadows. Watched objects move. But touch is different. It breaks the boundary between observer and unseen. It changes everything.
Because once something reaches out…you can’t pretend it isn’t there.
We left together when the night finally released us.
But as we walked away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something lingered just beyond sight — watching from the doorway, waiting, as if it had only just begun to make itself known.
This is an older memory, but some investigations don’t fade with time. They stay sharp — like they’re still happening somewhere, just out of sight.
Years ago, I investigated a house with a close family member. The history of the property was violent. Multiple lives lost within its walls. You could feel it before even stepping inside. The air was wrong heavy, suffocating like the space didn’t belong to the living anymore.
From the beginning, the energy wasn’t just sad. It was dark. Oppressive. The kind of weight that keeps your instincts locked on edge. We didn’t have to say it out loud. We both felt it. Something in that house didn’t just linger… it watched.
The basement was where it settled in the deepest.
The moment we stepped down those stairs, it felt like crossing a boundary we weren’t meant to cross. The temperature dropped, but not in a normal way. It was invasive. A cold that pressed in from every direction and settled in your chest. Every sound echoed louder than it should have. Every shadow felt closer. More intentional.
We experienced sensations that crawled across your skin. A heaviness that made it hard to stay grounded. And beneath all of it, the overwhelming certainty that we were not alone and whatever was there knew we were.
We left that night shaken, but trying to rationalize it the way investigators do. You pack the gear. You drive home. You tell yourself it was just an intense location. Just another case.
But the feeling didn’t stay behind.
By morning, the family member I had investigated with was violently ill. Not a cold. Not exhaustion. Something sudden and severe. Within hours, they were in the hospital.
Doctors diagnosed a rare form of viral meningitis — unusual for someone their age, their health. They remained hospitalized for weeks. There were moments when the outcome wasn’t certain. Moments where everything felt like it was hanging by a thread.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, recovery came. Slow at first. Then steadier. Until finally, they were strong enough to come home.
We were grateful. Relieved. But something had shifted.
That was the last investigation they ever went on.
We never claimed to know what caused what happened. As investigators, we try to stay grounded. Logical. We look for explanations before we accept anything else.
But sometimes… experiences don’t stay contained to a location.
Sometimes they follow.
And sometimes the line between what can be explained… and what lingers with you… becomes harder to see.
Some places don’t just hold memories.
Some places hold onto you.