Boo.
Old Mrs. Harrow swore the cottage had been empty for thirty years. But every evening at seven, smoke rose from the chimney. Thin, white, and smelling faintly of lavender. No one dared approach after dark.
The chair in the parlor moved on its own. Not rocking gently like wind would cause, but deliberately -- forward and back, forward and back -- as if someone were settling in for a long evening. The cat refused to enter the room.
She sprinkled flour across the kitchen floor before bed. A test. Come morning, there were footprints -- small, barefoot, leading from the back door to the pantry and back. The door had been locked all night.