Is your house just drafty...or does something older and colder live there rent-free?
You know the feeling: the floor creaks when no one’s walking, the lights flicker like they’re trying to communicate, and your cat keeps staring at the empty corner of your room. Maybe it’s nothing. Or maybe your house is haunted. This quiz digs into your home’s vibe (and yours, honestly) to find out if you’re just living in an aging building or if you’ve got a full-blown haunting on your hands.
Underneath the spooky stuff, this quiz is really about intuition, denial, and how much weirdness you can rationalize before calling a priest. It’s about energy...the kind that lingers, the kind you create, and the kind that sometimes looks back. Take it seriously or not, but either way, you’ll walk away knowing if your house just needs better insulation or a full spiritual cleanse. Go ahead. Let’s find out.
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What’s the weirdest thing about living in your house?
• Nothing. It’s aggressively normal. Like IKEA furniture in house form.
• The walls creak a little more than they should. Which feels rude.
• Sometimes the lights flicker when I talk about my feelings, but that could just be coincidence.
• Every photo I take here looks slightly cursed. Like there’s an extra blur, and it isn’t aesthetic.
• I once heard someone whisper my name through the air vent. I live alone.
If your house had a personality, how would you describe it?
• Chill, organized, maybe a little boring. Good credit score energy.
• Kind of weird, but like, eccentric-aunt-who-likes-crystals weird.
• Moody. I swear it has opinions about who it likes inside it.
• Possessive. Every time I talk about moving it starts acting up.
• Predatory. Feels like it’s watching me make toast.
What’s your relationship with your mirrors like?
• Normal. I check my hair, my fit, my mortality. Standard stuff.
• Sometimes my reflection feels slightly delayed. Probably lag.
• Once in a while, I catch something behind me that disappears when I blink.
• I avoid eye contact with my own reflection after dark. It feels… mutual.
• I covered them all with towels and blankets. Problem solved, I think.
How do guests describe your place when they first walk in?
• ‘Wow, it’s so clean!’ or ‘This is cute!’ Love that for me.
• ‘Smells like old books’ or ‘This place has character,’ whatever that means.
• ‘It feels like someone else lives here too,’ said in a nervous laugh way.
• ‘It’s… heavier in here than I expected.’
• ‘Can I step outside for a sec?’ before sprinting out the door.
What’s your bedtime routine like in this house?
• Scroll TikTok, pass out, dream of nothing. Easy.
• I check locks, lights, and maybe talk to the house a little. For luck.
• I sleep with music or white noise so I don’t hear… whatever else is awake.
• Every night a new noise tries to lure me out of my room. I keep the lights on.
• I don’t sleep here anymore.
What happens when you try to fix or renovate something?
• Everything goes fine. My house respects the DIY grind.
• The tools disappear mid-project...things go wrong...probably me being messy.
• Certain, very specific things refuse to be fixed. Like the paint won’t dry in one specific room.
• Every time I fix something, something else breaks immediately after.
• The walls bleed dust. The screwdriver bent itself.
How often do you feel like the house is ‘responding’ to you?
• Never. It’s wood and drywall, not a therapist.
• Sometimes things happen right after I say them out loud, but I assume it’s coincidence.
• It occasionally answers back through knocks or static. Weirdly polite.
• If I say ‘stop,’ things stop. I don’t know what to do with that power.
• It finishes my sentences. Out loud.
What’s your theory about what’s going on in your house?
• Nothing. Humans are just bad at silence and shadows.
• Weird energy from the past. Maybe the land just remembers things.
• Probably a spirit that got too comfortable. I respect it's claim to the land.
• Something’s attached to the property. It doesn’t care who lives here.
• I think I live inside a thin spot between worlds. It’s fine, mostly.
If you had to spend one night completely alone in your house with no lights, how confident are you?
• Easy. I’d fall asleep immediately and wake up refreshed.
• Uncomfortable, but manageable. I’d just put on a podcast about murders.
• I’d do it, but I’d keep my phone flashlight on the whole time.
• I’d stay up all night whispering ‘please don’t start’ into the dark. It's good for my mental health.
• You could not pay me enough. The dark here breathes.
What do you think would happen if you tried to cleanse your house?
• Nothing would change, except I’d feel silly waving sage around.
• The air would feel lighter, but that might just be the placebo effect.
• The house would get quiet for a while, like it’s thinking.
• All the doors would slam at once, and then it’d start laughing through the vents.
• I’d probably burst into flames before finishing the first chant.
Congrats, you live in a place with zero paranormal energy. Every weird sound has a totally boring explanation, like pipes, cats, or your brain slowly giving up. You probably keep your space tidy, grounded, and full of normal human energy. Ghosts take one look and decide it’s not worth the effort. Deep down, you might kind of wish something spooky would happen just so you’d have a story.
Your house has that faintly cursed vibe, but it’s probably just drafty windows and bad wiring. You still flinch when a door creaks, though. You’re open to weird stuff but also love pretending you’re the logical one in the horror movie. Maybe you’ve saged once just in case. You don’t really believe in ghosts, but you still avoid mirrors after midnight.
There’s definitely something up, but it’s more annoying than terrifying. You’ve heard footsteps, caught shadows in your peripheral vision, or had lights flicker in a way that felt personal. Whatever’s in your house seems more mischievous than malevolent, like a bored roommate haunting out of habit. You’ve probably made peace with it by now. It’s basically your third utility bill.
Your house has entered its main character in a horror movie era. Objects move, the air feels thick, and there’s always that one cold corner that freaks out your pets. You don’t even bother explaining it to guests anymore. The energy is intense but weirdly intimate, like the house knows too much about you. You’ve learned to live with it, but deep down you wonder if it's going to turn bad some day.
You’ve got the deluxe haunting package. Things fall, shadows linger, and your sleep paralysis demon probably pays rent. At this point, you’ve gone from scared to exhausted to oddly proud. It’s creepy, but at least your house has personality. Friends come over once and never again, which honestly saves you a lot of cleaning.
