The previous tenant of my new flat died in my bedroom, and my wife said it's okay because she's gone now. By "she's gone now" my wife meant the ambulance guys.

My wife and I got our first flat when we turned 18. We're living together in a nice little studio flat in a tower block, we have a view of the city and it's a really nice place.<br><br>Because we're poor students, we didn't have enough money to furnish the place the way a proper couple would, but we made do with what we had, most of the furniture was my wife and I's stuff from childhood. The only thing we splashed out on was a queen sized bed. We'd never had a bed that big before, and we felt like a couple of princesses in it.<br><br>In the days following moving in, we settled in quite nicely. It was a nice place and we loved living there, and when we went to work (I'm in retail and she works in children's day care) we'd get excited to come home and rest in our bed.<br><br>But then weird things started happening.<br><br>It started when I tried to make a cup of coffee, only to find a mug already in the basin, as if the previous resident had left it there. I complained to my wife.<br><br>She looked at me and raised an eyebrow. "There *isn't* a previous tenant, we're the first people to ever live here, I know because I saw the guy who built it chatting to my coworker. I'm sure it's just a sample mug."<br><br>The next day I came home from work and heard my wife momming and cooing. I followed the noise to the bedroom, where she was sitting on the bed cuddling a little doll.<br><br>"Where did you get her?" I asked.<br><br>"Oh, don't you remember? We had her since we were kids, her name is Mrs. Snuggles."<br><br>"No, I don't remember that." I said.<br><br>"Oh, well, never mind. It's probably just a false memory or something." She said.<br><br>A few days later my wife was in a panic because she'd *lost* Mrs. Snuggles. She searched everywhere, but she was nowhere to be found. I offered to check the bedroom, and she said "make sure you're gentle, she's very special to me."<br><br>I looked under the bed, and there she was. I picked her up and held her in my arms. She was an old porcelain doll, with red hair in pigtails. I wondered if my wife was suffering from some sort of mental illness, maybe she had some trauma from her childhood and she was imagining things because she was scared of living so far away from her parents. I told her that I found her and we cuddled up in bed with Mrs. Snuggles.<br><br>*A few days later* and my wife was in tears.<br><br>"Where is she? I thought you said you found her!" She wailed.<br><br>"No, I found her in the bedroom, you're just misremembering things. Maybe we should go to the doctor."<br><br>"I *know* that I had her, and I *know* that I lost her, and I just don't know what to do now!" She said.<br><br>"I'll help you find her. Where did you last see her?" I said.<br><br>"Right next to me in bed." She said.<br><br>I looked under the bed, and sure enough, there she was. I picked her up and handed her to my wife, and she looked at Mrs. Snuggles like she was the most precious thing in the world. She never took her eyes off of her, she cuddled her and talked to her and even made her little clothes out of her old shirts.<br><br>As much as I was happy to see my wife so happy, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, so I decided to do some research. I looked up the address of our building and read the news articles, and that was when I found out that a little girl had fallen from her tower block flat, and had died on impact.<br><br>It was a local news story that happened just a few months before we moved in. The family moved out, and they never mentioned that anyone had died in the house, I'm guessing that they were afraid that we'd move out because of superstition, but the way they handled it was honestly more terrifying than just mentioning that a girl fell from the balcony.<br><br>"What if she gets hurt?" My wife said.<br><br>"She's a doll, she can't get hurt." I said.<br><br>"No, she's a real little girl. I know because she was my best friend."<br><br>I don't know where my wife's memories came from, but a few days later my wife let out a blood curdling scream and I found her holding the most disturbing thing I'd ever seen, Mrs. Snuggles, covered in blood, red paint splattered on her face, with a little note that read:<br><br>"I'm sorry for what I did, I didn't mean it, and I'm so sorry that I hurt you."<br><br>I was horrified, who could do such a thing? Where did my wife get this idea of *Lily*, the girl in the article? Why is she making up stories to cope with her depression, why is she making herself suffer like this?<br><br>But what really terrified me was the little note, the note really chilled me to the bone, because it was written in my wife's handwriting.<br><br>I confronted her about it, but she said that she didn't do it, and when I pressed the issue, she said that it was Lily who did it.<br><br>"Lily died in this house." She said. "There are some things you just have to accept. But she's gone now."<br><br>I'm really not sure what's going on, but I know that I don't want to be here anymore. I'm going to move out, and I'm not going to let Lily hurt the person I love most again.<br><br>[Edit because I didn't log in correctly]