by Willow Cross
Haunted
by
Willow Cross
Copyright 2011 Willow Cross
License Statement
This book is for your personal use. You may gift this book to anyone you think might enjoy it. Haunted may not be duplicated or used in any format digital or otherwise, without direct written authorization from the author. Please respect the hard work of this author.
Dedication
Dear Children,
You are always asking me to retell the happenings of those days and houses. This is for you and your children. Someday I’ll be gone, but you will still be able to tell my grandchildren and great grandchildren our family’s ghost stories. When you tell them, remember to add as much suspense as possible. And most importantly, after you get them good and tense…don’t forget to yell BOO!!!!!
Prolog
This book is an actual accounting of my personal encounters with ghosts. Although I’m fully aware that many will believe I’ve lost my marbles while simultaneously flipping my lid…I can assure you each event happened exactly as written. At no point did I embellish or add to the story to make it more interesting and dramatic. If you are expecting to see chairs fly around rooms and protoplasmic blood seeping out of walls, stop reading now. Like I said, these are true ghost stories. You’ll be sorely disappointed and quite probably feel this a waste of your time. If, however, you are interested in hearing absolutely 100% true ghost stories, please continue on. To protect the identity of the people involved the names have been changed.
The Protector
My first experience with a live in ghost happened shortly after I became a grown up. Now I stipulate live in because I had a few minor experiences as a child while visiting friends in their houses. However, they were fairly insignificant and could probably be chalked up to the after effects of too much hot cocoa and several scary movies.
I’d just turned 18 and graduated from high school. It was glorious! My coworker had a crazy ex and was in dire need of a roommate. I jumped at the opportunity. For the sake of this story, we’ll call my roommate Sandy and her boyfriend Mike.
Sandy was as petrified of the place as I was enthralled. The antiquated building had been a 3 story home. Over time the owners had renovated the structure into several apartments. Ours was an efficiency on the top floor. One bedroom, bathroom, and a kitchen/living area. It was cute, cozy, and frequently held the sweet scent of pipe tobacco. I loved it!
The first week there I’d made up my mind she was crazy. Every so often she’d get goose bumps and say, “Do you feel that?” Her eyes would grow wide as a terrified expression came over her face.
I wasn’t sure what ‘that’ was. I felt warm, peaceful, and protected. The scent of pipe tobacco grew stronger during those times. Something about the presence, and there was definitely a presence, made me feel safe and warm. He (we were sure it was a he) reminded me of my Grandpa. You see, I didn’t think she was crazy for believing the place to be haunted. I thought she was nuts because he seemed like such a nice old man. Not that we had conversations or anything, just the ‘feeling’ I got.
Strange things did happen there. Mostly little things like the doors opening and closing for no apparent reason. Half of which we could debunk by believing it was a change in air pressure when people entered or left the building.
My second week there I realized Sandy wasn’t as nuts as I’d thought. Although I still felt the warm fuzzies, it had become obvious our visitor either didn’t like her or had an enormous amount of fun scaring her. It seemed like all the bumps and bangs would happen just behind her or over her head. She’d jump, squeal, and move as close to me as she could get.
I could stay home for hours alone and thoroughly enjoy it. Poor Sandy couldn’t stand to be there five minutes unless someone was with her.
Now I realize this is all relatively uneventful, even boring. But what happened the night before she moved out is the entire point of telling this story. So I will fast forward to that night about a month after I moved in.
Sandy’s ex harassed her terribly. Any fear I had of living there came solely from him. He’d show up in the middle of the night, beating on the door, screaming at her to open. I don’t even know how many times we called the police. A lot, for sure. It was awfully hard to get a restraining order back then. I’d taken to keeping a baseball bat by the front door. He was a big guy and I wanted to protect my friend.
That night I’d been soaking in the tub and decided to try to communicate with our visitor. At the time, I had a name for him. It wasn’t his real name of course, but it seemed to suit my mental picture of him. So many years have passed I’ve forgotten it now.
I’d been in the tub at least a half hour when I had the strangest feeling I needed to get out and get dressed. I didn’t to start with, but the feeling grew stronger and the water got cold, so I did exactly that. No sooner than I’d put clothes on, Sandy burst through the door, slammed it, and locked both locks.
“Call the police! Quick!” she said.
“What’s going on?”
Her pale skin was whiter than I’d ever seen it. She was absolutely petrified.
“It’s Mike. He’s drunk. I’m really scared this time. He said he was going to kill me!”
About that time, the entry door down stairs slammed. From the bottom of the stairs, Mike screamed, “You ain’t getting away this time!” Thump, thump, thump echoed up the stairwell as he made his way to our door.
I grabbed the phone and dialed. Nothing. It was completely dead. I tried again. Still nothing. “Sandy, go to the bedroom and lock the door,” I said as I picked up the baseball bat.
“These doors are paper thin; the locks won’t keep him out.”
Holding the bat as if ready to hit a homer, I replied calmly, “Someone in this building will call the police. There’s no way they’ll just let him break in here. Go to the bedroom.”
The door rattled on its hinges with the force of the first impact, but the locks held.
I bent my knees in anticipation of his entry. As big as he was, I knew I only had one chance to get in a good hit. If I didn’t get him good the first time, I was toast.
Another boom announced his second hit. It seemed stronger than the one before. Once again the door rattled violently. The locks held.
The third hit sounded as if he’d thrown his massive body against the paneled door. Close to 300 pounds of man should have sent that door swinging wide open, but the locks held. The scent of pipe smoke had grown so strong it nearly choked us.
Four strikes, then five, then God only knows how many more. Each time, the noise was louder than before, but each time the door remained closed and the locks held.
Soon the sound of running footsteps and yelling wafted through the door. Another slam, followed by swearing, and then a knock on the door. “This is the police. We have him in custody. Open the door.”
I dropped the bat and unlocked the door. I could have hugged that cop! He came in and asked us a bunch of questions. We answered, and right before he left he said, “You girls don’t know how lucky you are. He was nearly through the door.”
We moved into the narrow hallway to see what he was talking about. The door was made up of two thin sheets of particle board that looked like paneling. There were giant holes all over the outside panel. You could easily see where he’d pushed his shoulder through and the places he’d kicked. The inside panel remained pristine. Not one dent, crack, or mark of any kind. It wasn’t possible. Even though the door opened outwards, he should have busted right through.
Sandy moved out the next day. Between Mike and the ghost, she’d had enough. I stayed for another week, but couldn’t find a roommate and unfortunately had to move back home. There are many who will say this wa
s all just coincidence. Just the over active imaginations of two teenagers who’d never been out on their own before. Possibly they’re right. However, if you have the opportunity, I suggest you hit one of those flimsy panel doors sometime. See how easily they break. Then consider the force a 300 pound man would exert when throwing his entire weight against it. Coincidence? Or maybe, just maybe, we had a protector no one could see.
To this day, I still love the smell of pipe smoke. And when I smell it, it brings a smile to my face and a reminder that we are not alone.
Inherited Troubles
While I was pregnant with my first child, my best friend (for story purposes we’ll call her Lola) came to me with a peculiar tale. She lived in a duplex on Central Ave. with her roommate Tina, who was a police officer. When Lola started spending the night at our house on a fairly regular basis, I didn’t think much of it. We’d been friends our entire lives and were prone to doing so. However, one night it wasn’t terribly convenient to have a house guest. Being such good friends, it was easy to explain the situation and ask her to go home for the evening.
Lola’s eyes grew wide and for a moment, I thought she was going to cry.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” I said.
Lola shook her head and replied, “No, it’s not you. I-I just can’t go home. Tina’s working tonight.”
“Okay?”
She took a deep breath and grabbing my hand, pulled me into the living room. “Okay, sit down. And don’t laugh at me,” she said as she plopped on the couch.
I eased my pregnant body onto the other end, leaned back, and rested my feet in her lap. “Spill it, sister. I promise not to laugh.”
“I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to blurt it out.”
I laughed. “You’re pregnant?”
Lola rolled her eyes and let out a nervous chuckle. “No! Now shut up and let me talk.”
I gave her my best long suffering expression and waited for her to continue.
“My house is haunted.”
“What makes you think it’s haunted?”
She paused for a moment to think it over, before saying, “I see shadows all the time. Places where there shouldn’t be any. When I’m upstairs I feel like someone’s watching me, it really creeps me out. And then there’s the other thing.”
“What other thing?”
She shook her head. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“I already think you’re crazy,” I laughed, “But that has nothing to do with your haunted house. So what other thing?”
It took Lola a long time to answer me. Several minutes it seemed. When she finally did, the words nearly tumbled from her lips. “I’m hearing voices. I know that sounds nuts, but every time I sleep alone in the house, something whispers my name in my ear and wakes me up.”
Lola scrutinized my face and waited for me to say something.
I didn’t know what to say. I believed her. After my experience with the Protector, it would have been hypocritical for me not to.
“Well say something!”
“What do you want me to say? You’re house is haunted.”
Her face flooded with relief as she sighed. “So what do I do?”
“Move?”
We both laughed a bit, and of course Lola slept over that night. In fact, for several weeks, every time Tina worked, she stayed with us. The atmosphere in the house continued to bother her. Within that time period, Tina decided to move in with her boyfriend. Unable to bear the idea of living there alone, Lola moved back in with her parents.
Now we fast forward a couple months to a month before my first child was born. This was probably one of the single most ridiculously arrogant decisions I’ve ever made. Solely because I was under the impression I knew what I was getting into. I soon found out I didn’t.
Our tiny apartment was in the top floor of one of the downtown businesses. Not only were the stairs getting more and more difficult to navigate, but the landlord didn’t want any children living there. We’d been looking for a new place for several months when Lola’s duplex opened up. The price was right, it was a beautiful place, and it was close enough to my husband’s job that he could easily walk to work if he needed to. Sure it was haunted, but I’d already had an experience with ghosts, so no big deal--right?
Honestly, I lumped Lola’s feelings in with Sandy’s and figured it would be the same as the last time.
Our first week there, I did feel uncomfortable, but I was pretty sure it was because of everything Lola had told me. The second week there…I began to clearly understand how both Lola and Sandy had felt.
It started with shadows where shadows shouldn’t be. Have you ever looked out a window on a sunny day? The sunlight streams in heating the entire room and fills it with light. Then, for no apparent reason, a shadow would form on the floor. Now I’m not talking about shadows shaped like a person, ghoul, or devil. Just an ordinary, circular shadow in the center of the sunlit floor, with absolutely nothing at all on or by the window to make it. Those were bad enough, but when they started wandering around the room…that freaked me out!
You couldn’t watch them move. It was very strange. The shadow would be in the center of the room. I’d leave the room, come back a few minutes later, and it would be on the other side of the floor. Now many people would say it was the sun moving across the window, but they’d be wrong. Because the next time I’d enter the room, the shadow would be all the way across the room in an unlit corner.
After the shadows, came the footsteps and voices. By then I’d had my daughter. I’d started keeping her downstairs with me until my husband came home. I couldn’t stand being upstairs. When you were upstairs you could hear someone walking around downstairs. When you were downstairs, it sounded like someone was upstairs. But the voices only came when you were upstairs. And there were lots of voices.
Voices is probably a bit of an exaggeration. Whispers would be more appropriate. Most of the time I couldn’t understand what they were saying. But occasionally, just like Lola, I’d feel a puff of air in my ear as something whispered my name. It scared the crap out of me every time. And it only happened upstairs. I’d get out of the shower and immediately hear whispering. Sometimes it sounded like overheard conversations while other times, only one voice could be heard. When it first started I assumed it was the neighbor’s television. However, after peeking out the window to see if his car was there and finding it gone, I began to wonder not just who was speaking, but what was being said. Hence the staying downstairs.
Within a few weeks of the baby’s birth, the Landlord told us we’d have to move. He was putting the house up for sale. I was thrilled to pieces. Like my best friend, I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
The House on Rivermet
In September of 1992, just seven days after my second bio-child was born, we had to move from our apartment into a small duplex on Rivermet. Things were pretty tough back then. I’d been working at a local bar as a bartender/waitress and my boss felt it was too dangerous for me to continue once I’d really started showing. With only my husband’s income, we couldn’t afford the expensive apartment. We went house hunting and found this quaint little duplex. It was definitely a fixer upper, but the price was right.
I’ll never forget the first time I walked into the place. It was dingy and small, but with two bedrooms and a decent sized living room, it was good enough. Except for the smell. The air was thick with must. I knew I had some major cleaning ahead of me, and just seven days after having a baby, I wasn’t sure I was up to the challenge. We signed the lease, took the kids to his parents, and went back to clean. By the end of the day, we were ready to move in.
Now I have to admit that the place was really cute once the layers of dust and crud had been removed. It had all kinds of potential. Or so I thought. I was uneasy being there, but who actually likes being in an empty, dirty house? I sloughed it off and the next morning we moved in.
Looki
ng back (because we all know the hind sight adage), the strange happenings began that very first day. My oldest daughter refused to sleep in her room. She was only 3, so that’s to be expected in a new place. However, she also refused to play in her room. And that was pretty weird. I didn’t like that room either. I can’t tell you why, I just didn’t. It made me terribly uncomfortable to be in there. So much so, that I wouldn’t put the baby in there either. I tried a few times, but found myself continuously checking on her to make sure she was still breathing. Probably normal behavior for a new mom, but then again, I wasn’t the freaking out kind of person.
The disappearances started immediately. The baby’s pacifier, bottles, everyone’s shoes, and even silverware came up missing all the time. I mean every day, ten times or more a day, something would go missing. I could lay the baby down, stick her pacifier in her mouth and go to the kitchen. I’d go to the sink, or fridge, or wherever, and the pacifier I’d just given her would be sitting right in front of me. The first few times it happened, I laughed about it. Maybe post partum or something? Obviously, my mind wasn’t working right.
Five days after we moved in, the scary stuff began. Chrissy, my friend’s 3 year-old, had come for a sleep over. My husband had left to bowl with his brother, leaving just me and the three little ones at home. The baby napped on the couch while the toddlers and I played. Both sat on my lap as we practiced the alphabet song. All of a sudden, Chrissy glanced over my shoulder toward the door. She stopped singing and her face went white. She looked terrified. I turned to see what she was looking at, and the face of a man peered through the small window in the front room door. His shaggy, dirty-blond hair hung limply around his narrow face. The dark circles under his eyes could have been bruises. His face was really pale. I mean hadn’t seen the sunlight in 100 years white. Unblinking, he stared at me. Then he was gone. Poof. Nothing.