There are differnent kinds of hauntings, from what I have heard and read. I am by no means well informed on this topic. One kind of haunting is residual, where the energy released from a human experience, traumatic or joyful, stays in a place and replays itself. Another type is an active haunting: where a person or persons remain attached to a physical locale or object. There are other types of hauntings, as well.
When I was 8 years old, my parents moved us into a huge (13 bedroom) Queen Anne era Victorian home in New Orleans. We were a huge family (I have 10 siblings) and they needed the space. When I was 8, I had mostly brothers. My folks did over the attic of this house as my bedroom. I loved it. The ceiling was coffered, the walls slanted, and the windows were double dormers set within deep arched alcoves to the north, south , and east. My little single bed was in one of these alcoves. This room encompassed the entire 3rd floor, and it had 2 flights of stairs with a landing in between separating if from the 2nd floor. It also had a little balcony outside the door, overlooking the 2nd floor hallway.
I had a ghost there for company although I didn't know this when I was a little girl. I did know that I would push my bed (no headboard or frame, just a metal rack with wheels) right up against the open double dormers in my little alcove, and when I would awake in the morning, my bed would have been pulled away from them by a good four feet. My toy chest at the foot of my bed would have been moved, too.
Summers in New Orleans were ungodly humid. Being in the attic, the summer temperatures should have been extremely uncomfortable, but my room was never overly hot. It was comfortably cool and breezy. If it was hot when I entered it, it would cool down within a few minutes. I believed in guardian angels, and I felt the presence of mine when I would say my nightly prayers, hovering over me and emanating love for me.
Fast forward to the time I was 15. My room was trashed: littered with every imaginable bit of female stuff - clothes, lingerie, books, school papers, magazines, shoes... you get the picture. My mom came up to my aerie to ask me something and freaked out about the state of my room. I sassed her. She got angry and stomped down the stairs on her way to complain (long and loudly) to my dad.
I went down to the 2nd floor bathroom where I could cry in peace, but where I also knew I could hear every word they exchanged in the kitchen through the old fashioned heating register. She unloaded on him about the state of my room and my disrespectful, unrepentant attitude. She insisted that he make the trek to the 3rd floor to witness the chaos.
The next thing I heard was them coming down the attic steps arguing. Dad was dismissing Mom's criticisms, and she was hotly declaring that she wasn't crazy. After they returned to the first floor, I went up to the 3rd. My room was spotless, pristine, and welcoming. The bed was made. Every surface look polished. Even the glowing lamp globes had been dusted. Everything was in its place. The magnolia scented evening breeze was ruffling the curtains.
I thought I either had a ghost, or it was my angel. Either way, I loved her. Decades later my mom told me she knew we had a lady ghost in the house. She believed her to be the ghost of a maid named Esther who had fallen to her death on the attic stairs in the 1920s. Mom had done some research after Eshter had bailed her out a few times, too.