What Walked Past Our Table When No One Was Home

 

What Walked Past Our Table When No One Was Home

Mark and Stacy weren’t expecting anything strange when they moved into the yellow house on Holloway Lane.

It was quiet. Secluded. Set just far enough back from the main road that you’d miss it if you blinked. The house had character, creaky floors, stained-glass panels in the hallway window, and a built-in table by the kitchen that looked handcrafted. Stacy loved it instantly. Mark said the place felt spiritual, in a good way. They prayed on the porch before unlocking the front door.

Everything felt normal.

At first.

The table by the kitchen became a centerpiece. Mark would lay his Bible open on it in the mornings. Stacy placed flowers in the middle—always fresh. They ate there. Laughed there. Prayed there. That table carried blessings.

Until the night they weren’t home.

They’d been out late. Church meeting, a little grocery run, nothing unusual. When they walked back in, Stacy stopped cold. The flowers had been knocked over. Water soaked the table. And Mark’s Bible? Closed. But not just closed. Moved. Shifted sideways like someone had sat down and flipped through it.

They didn’t speak. Just cleaned it up. Maybe the wind, they thought. Maybe gravity. But the next day, the speaker in the kitchen turned on by itself and played static. Full volume. From nowhere.

That night, while they slept, the camera in the hallway flashed. No recording. No movement alert. Just a single flash like someone walked past and took a picture in silence.

Mark checked the footage the next morning. Nothing. Just a blur. Like a shadow that forgot how to be solid.

Then came the smell.

Sweet. Sharp. Not floral. Not food. Like burnt sugar and candle wax. It lingered near the table at night and vanished by morning. Stacy lit incense to clear the air. Mark prayed over the chairs. The scent stayed.

One afternoon, Stacy came home alone and heard footsteps walk past the table. Clear. Heavy. Right across the floor. No one there. Just movement.

She didn’t panic. She sat down. Opened Psalm twenty-seven. And read until the footsteps stopped.

Later, she told Mark. He didn't dismiss her. He just nodded and placed oil on the corners of the table.

That night, they left again—another late errand.

When they returned, the table was clean. Mark’s Bible opened to Jeremiah. Verse highlighted. But he hadn’t done it.

Stacy noticed one of the chairs had moved slightly. Not pulled out. Turned. Angled toward the hallway. Like it had been watching something pass.

They prayed again.

Two days later, Stacy had a dream.

She saw a figure standing beside the table. Not violent. Not loud. Just present. It never moved. But every few seconds, it blinked slowly. It had no eyes. No mouth. But it blinked. As if it understood. She woke up sweating.

Mark said his dream was worse.

He saw the table floating. Slow. Rising just inches from the ground. And under it—feet. Not his. Not Stacy’s. Just standing.

They called the pastor.

He asked one question. “Did you dedicate the house—or just the people?”

Mark paused. They had prayed over themselves. Their possessions. But never the structure. Never the bones and beams.

They hosted a prayer vigil the next night.

Four friends came. Bible in hand. Songs lifted. Scriptures read. Oil on every wall. Chairs blessed. They declared the presence of God louder than any echo in the air. The house didn’t creak. The lights didn’t flicker. Even the air felt afraid to interrupt.

At the climax of prayer, one of the friends pointed toward the kitchen and said, “There.”

Everyone turned. The air shimmered. The table shuddered. Just once.

Then silence.

They finished the prayer. Sang one more worship song. Ate dinner with joy around the same table.

And from that night on, nothing walked past again.

But Stacy still checks the angle of the chairs before bed. And Mark never leaves his Bible closed.

Because sometimes, it's not what moves while you're watching. It's what watches when you’re away.