With Halloween near, with longer and darker nights the standard, it’s easy to think of those things that frightened us as children. So I wish to share something a bit more personal this time around.
I grew up in a house with ghosts. Could I prove this? Probably not. Did other family members see, hear, or feel things, yes, but not all of us. As a kid, I didn’t exactly walk around broadcasting news about the ghosts in my house, but on occasion with children, others might broach the topic of the paranormal and their own ghastly encounters. Often, an instant rapport formed. Meeting another kid who’d had encounters with ghosts often resulted in a bargain: they’d share; I’d share. They believed; I did too. For this Halloween, it seems like a good time to share my own frightening story and I hope others might share back.
I was five at the time. We lived in a house just shy of its hundredth birthday. The small rural town we lived in was such that it had probably seen a short burst of growth in its founding days, but that growth petered out and most buildings had simply stood for many generations to this point. As an old structure, our house had some pieces added at various times, so think of it as compartmentalized. We had a first floor with essentials: the kitchen, living room, bathroom, bedrooms, etc. We had a stone pantry off the kitchen, and a porch that though enclosed, still felt more like an old porch with carpet more than anything comforting.
The biggest sort of separation was with the upstairs of the house. In fact, sometimes I’d have friends over for hours who would react completely dumbfounded by the idea that we had a second story. Many thought the simple door in the corner belonged to a closet. By the time I came along, my parents mostly used the ill-insulated upstairs for storage. Still, we’d go up there to see our dad’s radios and old computer, to grab toys stored up there. My mom sometimes refused to let us go up alone, and sometimes she refused to go upstairs if our dad was away at work. Her reasoning was that she heard things. Usually, it was one of two sounds. The first was the cascading echo of footsteps on the old wood stairs, only stopping when these steps reached that aforementioned door that was always closed. Other times, she’d hear a thump similar to someone punching a wall, or dropping something heavy. Such thumps shook the house.
As for my dad, he used the upstairs to occasionally listen to radio shows, and only after we moved from the house did he tell stories of how when he’d be up there alone late at night, he’d wonder why one of us children had walked all the way up to twist the doorknob and try to get into the little room where he sat. He’d open the door only to find a hallway completely empty.
Back to that staircase, we kept it closed off, but the neighboring wall was also right next to the bedroom where we children slept. At some point, we arranged the room so that the bunk-bed my brother and I shared was against the same wall neighboring the staircase. This brings me to a night when I was five and had a nightmare. Sure, common enough, but I definitely woke from the dream and I wanted consoling. To get this, I knew I’d have to go from our bedroom, opening the closed door, into the dark living room and across it, to reach my parent’s room. So I decided to jump from the bed, and suddenly something that defied all my five-year-old logic happened. As I stood, something reached atop my head and yanked me back into the bed.
I fell back and I tried to understand what could have happened. I was in a bunk-bed, so perhaps my older brother above could have stopped me. Except, I knew the feeling had come from behind and pulled down. And I knew my brother, and whatever grabbed me had a far bigger hand than him. Besides, I muttered my brother’s name only to be met with silence. Then I felt something else. Myself, I barely made a dent in my mattress, but something bigger than me caused the bed to cave in the center. I tried to breathe, tried to summon courage, but then I felt from that same void of weight, something that began to breathe on my neck. Logic again, I hoped this was my dad behind. I didn’t want to look though. Some instinct kept me from turning, and even if this thing felt as big as an adult, I knew it wasn’t my dad.
So I sat, for moments, maybe up to a few minutes. I was terrified of the thing behind me, but also terrified of it touching me again should I try to run. I waited, and there was a moment when instinct or luck told me that I should go. I jumped. This time I stood and charged forward with as much courage as I could muster. Nothing grabbed me. I ran through the dark house, and when I reached my parent’s bed, I saw my dad was sleeping in here. I woke them, begging to sleep in their bed. Their all all too common response in this event was to tell us to go sleep on the couch just outside their bedroom door. I was too frightened to argue. I walked to the couch, just happy to be away from my bed and whatever was in the bedroom.
As I lay down on the couch in the dark room, I vowed to watch the door and make sure that thing didn’t come after me again. That’s when something stepped through the closed door. I guess corporeal might be the best word, but this thing had a detailed shape, and it was that of a full-grown man. The image only lasted for a second before it seemed to turn into mist before my eyes. Then it disappeared. I closed my eyes, and I eventually did fall asleep.
Luckily, that was my only incident in the house that came with both physical contact and a clear vision of something. I would hear the same thumping noises or footsteps from upstairs that my mom did, only usually when I was a little older and home alone. Mostly, I learned to trust any instincts when I’d on occasion get a feeling that I should not go upstairs alone.
Alas, we did move from that house and I appreciated having some distance from it. I obviously never forgot the night, and though I did at first share the story more often, I grew weary of dismissive adults who tried to tell me I was still dreaming. It was real, and if I think back enough, I can still get a sense of what that hand felt like as it wrapped over the top of my head.