Janet Smurl sat at the kitchen table, staring at the flickering flame of a single candle. The house was dark—not by choice, but because the power had gone out again. The neighbors still had electricity, but for some reason, the Smurl home was different.

A chill crept along her spine. The air had turned stale, heavy, pressing against her like invisible hands. Then came the smell.

Janet gagged, covering her nose as the stench seeped into her lungs. She pushed back from the table, standing abruptly. That was when she heard it.

A low, guttural whisper.

She turned, her heartbeat hammering against her ribs. The candlelight flickered violently, casting monstrous shadows against the walls. The whisper came again—closer this time.

Her name.

“Janet…”

The voice wasn’t human. It crawled over her skin. She gasped, stumbling backward, her hip slamming into the counter. That’s when the cupboard doors exploded open, slamming violently against the walls—again and again—BANG. BANG. BANG.

The noise was deafening.

Janet turned and ran, but as she reached the doorway—something grabbed her wrist.

She screamed. The grip was icy, crushing, fingers that didn’t exist digging into her flesh.

“Let go!” she shrieked, twisting her arm. But the pressure only tightened—until it suddenly vanished.

She staggered forward, chest heaving, cradling her wrist. The skin was turning purple. A perfect, finger-shaped bruise.

Jack came running from the living room. “Janet! What happened?”

She couldn’t speak. Her mouth was dry, her hands trembling. She lifted her arm, showing him the bruises.

Jack’s face darkened. He knew.

They were being hunted.

The First Signs

The Smurls had moved into the house on 328 Chase Street in Pittston, Pennsylvania in 1973. At first, it was small things—objects disappearing, cold spots, shadows flickering in the corners of their vision.

But then, the scratching began.

It started inside the walls, faint at first. Like a mouse trapped inside. Then it grew louder. Something clawing. Digging. It moved through the house—from the basement to the bedrooms, creeping closer each night.

One evening, as Jack sat watching television, the scratching stopped. Silence filled the house.

And then—the room went ice-cold.

Jack felt it before he saw it. A weight in the air, something watching him. Slowly, he turned his head toward the doorway.

A black mass stood there.

No shape, no features—just pure darkness, like a hole in reality. The air grew thick.

Then, the shadow lunged.

Jack recoiled, nearly falling off the couch, but the entity vanished just before reaching him.

The house felt empty again. But Jack knew it was still there. Waiting.

The Attacks Escalate

Months passed. The activity intensified.

● The foul stench of rot came and went, growing stronger at night.

● The toilets flushed by themselves.

● Footsteps echoed in the attic, even when no one was up there.

● Janet would wake to find the bed shaking violently beneath her.

Then came the whispers.

At first, it was her name, spoken in a voice that wasn’t Jack’s. Then it was gibberish, unsettling murmurs that crept through the walls.

Then, one night, something climbed into bed with them.

Janet felt the mattress dip. The sheets tightened around her body, as if something was crawling on top of her.

She turned to Jack—but he was asleep.

And then, the breathing started.

Right next to her ear.

Janet bolted upright, gasping, reaching for the lamp. But before she could turn it on—her body was yanked backward.

She let out a strangled cry as an unseen force pinned her to the mattress. A pressure on her chest, heavy, suffocating.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream.

A dark whisper hissed against her ear:

“You… are… mine.”

And then—nothing.

The weight lifted. Janet sat up, trembling, her body drenched in sweat.

She wasn’t crazy. Something wanted her.

The Demon Reveals Itself

Jack, too, began experiencing physical attacks.

One night, he awoke to burning scratches across his chest, deep red lines.

Another night, he felt a cold presence slip into bed behind him. The entity whispered filthy things, words of lust and possession. He was paralyzed, unable to move as an invisible force clawed at his body.

Ed and Lorraine Warren Investigate

Desperate, the Smurls reached out to Ed and Lorraine Warren, famed demonologists.

The moment Lorraine stepped into the house, she froze. Her face paled.

“It’s here,” she whispered.

She described a monstrous presence, a demonic entity feeding off their pain and fear.

“The demon is ancient,” she said. “It thrives on breaking you down, making you doubt yourself, your sanity. And if it succeeds… it will take more than your home.”

Ed and Lorraine conducted an exorcism, blessing the house with holy water, commanding the entity to leave.

But it only angered it.

That night, the house shook violently. Objects flew across rooms. The walls thumped with unseen fists.

And then—the growl.

Low. Animalistic. Full of rage.

The demon wasn’t leaving.

It was stronger than ever.

The Final Escape

The Smurls endured 13 years of torment.

It wasn’t until 1989 that a final church exorcism seemed to weaken the entity. The activity lessened.

And then, one night, it was gone.

The silence was deafening.

The Smurls moved away shortly after.

But those who later lived in the house… said the walls still whispered at night.

And sometimes, in the silence, a dark shadow moves through the rooms, waiting.

Waiting.

Final Thoughts

This terrifying real-life haunting remains one of the most documented paranormal cases of the 20th century.

But the question remains: Did the demon ever really leave?