We Were About to Move Into a New Rental When a Stranger Messaged Us on Facebook: “Don’t Do It — You’ll Regret It”

When we stumbled upon what felt like the perfect rental in a peaceful neighborhood, my wife and I were convinced we’d won the housing lottery. But before long, unsettling things began happening during storms. Refusing to live in constant fear, we decided it was time to outsmart the situation.

Moving day was meant to be joyful. Emily and I had spent weeks boxing up our belongings and imagining our life in this new place. Yet even before we officially settled in, an ominous message appeared, warning us not to stay in the house.

The rental was a beautiful craftsman-style home, tucked neatly into a quiet cul-de-sac. Our landlord, Adam, came across as a pleasant older man, and the outgoing tenants, a couple named Ben and Sarah, were present during the walkthrough.

They were warm and polite, exchanging contact details with us and even leaving behind a basket of homemade muffins as a farewell gift. The house itself looked pristine, almost as if it had been freshly renovated. It was clear they’d taken good care of it.

Emily and I were immediately charmed by the sunlight streaming through the windows and the thoughtfully designed layout. We returned to our old apartment that evening buzzing with excitement—until something strange happened.

While finishing up our packing, my phone vibrated with a Facebook notification. A stranger named “Bee Warned” had sent me a friend request along with a message. Curious, I opened it.

It read: “Make an excuse. Tell the owner you changed your mind, but DON’T move into that house. You’ll regret it. He didn’t tell you the full truth.”

I stared at the screen, frozen. The account was brand new—no profile photo, no posts. Before I could reply or even show Emily, the account disappeared.

“Everything okay?” Emily asked, setting down a box.

I hesitated. The message rattled me, but I didn’t want to alarm her. “Yeah,” I said. “Probably just spam.”

I tried to brush it off as a tasteless prank, though the warning lingered in my mind.

When we finally moved in, I half-expected disaster. Instead, everything seemed perfect. Adam appeared honest, the house was quiet, and nothing felt off. I convinced myself the message was nothing more than a bad joke.

For three peaceful weeks, life was wonderful. The neighborhood was calm, the house cozy, and the excitement of living in our dream rental pushed away my doubts. Then one stormy night, just as the message had warned, everything changed.

The wind was the first sign. It howled through the trees, shaking the windows as we prepared for bed. When I reached to turn off the lamp, the light began flickering—bright, dim, out, then back on—far too erratic to feel normal.

“That’s unsettling,” Emily said nervously.

“It’s probably just the storm,” I replied, though my voice lacked confidence. I shut off the lamp and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up like a child hiding from imaginary monsters.

But the storm intensified. The wind carried strange sounds—whispers that seemed to slither through the walls and floorboards. Then came creaks, as though someone were pacing the hallway outside our bedroom. Emily grabbed my arm.

“Do you hear that?” she whispered.

I nodded, my heart racing. Then the power flickered and went out completely, plunging the house into darkness.

“Stay here,” I murmured, grabbing my phone for light as I crept toward the door. The noises stopped when I opened it. The hallway was empty. I checked the other rooms—nothing. Still, the air felt heavy, charged, as if the house itself were alive.

When I returned, Emily was sitting upright, pale. “Something’s wrong with this place.”

“Let’s try to sleep,” I said, though neither of us closed our eyes all night.

Despite being adults in our mid-thirties, we felt like terrified children, lying awake, listening to eerie sounds echo through the dark house.

The next morning, I woke to a message from Ben, one of the former tenants. It read: “So… do you believe us now?”

A chill ran through me. I replied immediately, asking what he meant.

His response left me stunned.

Ben explained that he and Sarah had experienced the same things—flickering lights, strange noises, drafts, and unexplained sounds during bad weather. They had reported it to Adam, but he ignored them.

“When we finally decided to leave,” Ben wrote, “Adam offered us a deal. He let us skip the last month’s rent if we promised not to warn anyone.”

My stomach sank. I asked why they hadn’t told us directly.

“We tried,” Ben replied. “That Facebook message was me. I guess you didn’t take it seriously. I’m sorry you’re dealing with this.”

Suddenly, everything made sense. We’d been set up. Adam knew exactly what he was doing.

I told Emily everything. She was just as shocked, and together we decided Adam wasn’t getting away with it. That night, we came up with a plan.

A couple of days later, after carefully tracking the weather, we invited Adam over under the pretense of discussing minor repairs. We left the front door slightly open and set up a hidden camera in the living room.

Right on schedule, the storm arrived. Wind roared, lights flickered, and the whispers began—soft at first, then louder. Adam’s confidence faltered as he glanced around nervously.

“What’s that noise?” he asked, his voice tight.

We stayed hidden, watching. A gust slammed the front door shut. A loud crash echoed from the attic. Adam’s face drained of color. He tried using his phone—no signal. He attempted to force the door open, but it wouldn’t budge.

Terrified, he sank to the floor, shaking, completely unaware we were nearby.

When the storm peaked, we finally stepped out.

“What’s going on?” he stammered. “Where were you?”

“We’ve been living with this since day one,” I said firmly. “And we know you’ve ignored it for years.”

“I didn’t realize it was this bad,” he admitted.

“Well, now you do,” Emily said. “And it ends now.”

To our surprise, Adam promised to fix everything.

And he did.

The very next day, he arrived with contractors. Over the following week, they sealed drafts, repaired wiring, and reinforced every creaky board. By the end, the house felt completely different.

When we told Ben and Sarah, they were stunned.

“We never thought he’d actually fix it,” Sarah said.

“It wasn’t easy,” I replied, “but we couldn’t live like that—or let anyone else suffer.”

Now, as I write this, rain taps softly on the roof. No whispers. No flickering lights. Just the quiet comfort of a home finally at peace.