Posted by: Super Locrian
I live in a townhouse with my girlfriend and two of my best friends. I've lived here for about two years, without incident. We're in kind of a bad neighborhood outside of Washington D.C., but the most crime we've ever experienced was the theft of an unlocked bike from our backyard.
A lot of stuff began to happen a few weeks ago, on a Wednesday. We had several friends over to watch the Rose Bowl and talk shit about Matt Leinart. We ended up being up pretty late, and two of my buddies, Andy and Ryan, crashed on the living room couches. At about 4:00 am, Andy and Ryan burst into the room that I share with my girlfriend. They were freaked out because they thought they heard someone break in to the house. I didn't buy it; it'd be all but impossible to break in here, short of breaking a window. We went downstairs and a did brief check which of course turned up nothing. I called them pussies and went back to bed, and forgot the event by the morning.
A few nights ago, Erica (the girlfriend) woke me up in the middle of the night because she thinks heard someone downstairs. Just to appease her, I went downstairs to "check"; of course no one was there. I came back upstairs and was denied the sexual compensation that I felt was deserved of such a bold foray. I fell back asleep and once again forgot about the phantom intruder.
I spent this weekend in the house alone. The male roommates went to Pennsylvania for some god awful concert, and Erica went to spend some time with her mother; needless to say, I was very excited at the rare opportunity to indulge myself in loud porn for a few hours a day. Unfortunately, my plans were damned never to come to fruition.
I woke up early on Saturday morning so that I could get to the library to meet with my math discussion group. Somewhere around the shampoo phase of my shower routine, I heard Erica's voice.
"Nick? Hey Nick!"
"I'm in the shower, baby." I replied.
"Nick! NICK!" she continued to yell.
"Erica! I'm in the shower!"
I finished, toweled off, and shaved. I left the bathroom expecting to find Erica home early from her mother's place; much to my confusion, no one was in the house. Once I got dressed I called her cell phone. She was, in fact, still at her mother's. I ignored the eerie feeling that was brewing in my stomach and went about my morning routine, writing the incident off as my imagination. I gathered my books and went downstairs to grab some breakfast. I walked into the kitchen, where I found that the floor was COVERED IN PAPER TOWELS. The empty roll was sitting on the counter top. Someone was IN THE HOUSE.
At this point I panicked. I ran outside, jumped in my car, and went to my meeting. By the afternoon, I had calmed down enough to convince myself that there was a rational explanation for what had happened. Despite this, I am and always have been a huge pussy; I spent the night at my friend's apartment in Northwest.
I finally came home around 7 o'clock last night. The male roommates were home, but not Erica. I walked into the house, ready to tell them my story and have them laugh at my expense. When I walked in the door, however, they both looked at me, perplexed.
"When the hell did you go out there?" Ian asked.
"I went to some bars in Adam's Morgan last night, and spent the night at Matt's." I replied.
"What? I JUST saw you, upstairs, not ten minutes ago."
Both roommates swear up and down that they saw AND heard me moving around upstairs.
So now here I am, a grown man, terrified in his own home. I have always been a total skeptic of the supernatural, and I still am; however, I'm absolutely terrified. Are all of these weird occurrences coincidences? Is some crazy hobo living in our house, spreading paper towels and bumping around while we sleep? Is there really a ghost in our house, like Erica has joked? Of course not, I'm embarrassed to publicly say that I've even entertained that thought for a second.
A lot of stuff began to happen a few weeks ago, on a Wednesday. We had several friends over to watch the Rose Bowl and talk shit about Matt Leinart. We ended up being up pretty late, and two of my buddies, Andy and Ryan, crashed on the living room couches. At about 4:00 am, Andy and Ryan burst into the room that I share with my girlfriend. They were freaked out because they thought they heard someone break in to the house. I didn't buy it; it'd be all but impossible to break in here, short of breaking a window. We went downstairs and a did brief check which of course turned up nothing. I called them pussies and went back to bed, and forgot the event by the morning.
A few nights ago, Erica (the girlfriend) woke me up in the middle of the night because she thinks heard someone downstairs. Just to appease her, I went downstairs to "check"; of course no one was there. I came back upstairs and was denied the sexual compensation that I felt was deserved of such a bold foray. I fell back asleep and once again forgot about the phantom intruder.
I spent this weekend in the house alone. The male roommates went to Pennsylvania for some god awful concert, and Erica went to spend some time with her mother; needless to say, I was very excited at the rare opportunity to indulge myself in loud porn for a few hours a day. Unfortunately, my plans were damned never to come to fruition.
I woke up early on Saturday morning so that I could get to the library to meet with my math discussion group. Somewhere around the shampoo phase of my shower routine, I heard Erica's voice.
"Nick? Hey Nick!"
"I'm in the shower, baby." I replied.
"Nick! NICK!" she continued to yell.
"Erica! I'm in the shower!"
I finished, toweled off, and shaved. I left the bathroom expecting to find Erica home early from her mother's place; much to my confusion, no one was in the house. Once I got dressed I called her cell phone. She was, in fact, still at her mother's. I ignored the eerie feeling that was brewing in my stomach and went about my morning routine, writing the incident off as my imagination. I gathered my books and went downstairs to grab some breakfast. I walked into the kitchen, where I found that the floor was COVERED IN PAPER TOWELS. The empty roll was sitting on the counter top. Someone was IN THE HOUSE.
At this point I panicked. I ran outside, jumped in my car, and went to my meeting. By the afternoon, I had calmed down enough to convince myself that there was a rational explanation for what had happened. Despite this, I am and always have been a huge pussy; I spent the night at my friend's apartment in Northwest.
I finally came home around 7 o'clock last night. The male roommates were home, but not Erica. I walked into the house, ready to tell them my story and have them laugh at my expense. When I walked in the door, however, they both looked at me, perplexed.
"When the hell did you go out there?" Ian asked.
"I went to some bars in Adam's Morgan last night, and spent the night at Matt's." I replied.
"What? I JUST saw you, upstairs, not ten minutes ago."
Both roommates swear up and down that they saw AND heard me moving around upstairs.
So now here I am, a grown man, terrified in his own home. I have always been a total skeptic of the supernatural, and I still am; however, I'm absolutely terrified. Are all of these weird occurrences coincidences? Is some crazy hobo living in our house, spreading paper towels and bumping around while we sleep? Is there really a ghost in our house, like Erica has joked? Of course not, I'm embarrassed to publicly say that I've even entertained that thought for a second.
Why I don't want to go to LSU
This is my brother's account of a house he lived in when he first went away to LSU. Ben is two years older than I am, but he has always had quite an imagination and a propensity to exaggerate.
His story started in that summer when that serial killer was loose in Baton Rouge. I'm sure any female goons from LSU remember that! Anyway, Ben transfered from a community college in Maryland to LSU when he was about 20. He rented a room in a house near University Lakes, if anyone knows where that is (I don't). He described the house as older and incredibly charming. Ben talked about the house with such reverence that at times he would refer to it almost as a conscious being. When he first moved in, he started saying things like
"It's such a great house. It's always cool enough, and it's visibly welcoming."
"You really have to respect a house with so much history."
"This house has been here for so long it would be a shame to uproot the trees in the yard to make land for more homes."
As time went on, however, his remarks began to actually personify the house, which I always found pretty creepy.
"There's air in the house is really disturbed when the roommates are fighting."
"The house doesn't like it when there are too many people over!"
I always took these statements in stride, albeit with a raised eyebrow. Like I said before, Ben has always been eccentric and overly imaginative.
At the end of his first semester at LSU, things began to get out of hand. Ben called home one Sunday morning, obviously disturbed. He and his friends had thrown a huge party to celebrate the passing of the semester and, as always with LSU, celebrate football. They had close to 70 guests whose appetite for debauchery was fed by multiple kegs and most likely copious amounts of marijuana. Sometime around 1:00 AM, the party got really swinging. The music was loud, the people were loud, and the energy was very high. Without warning, the air in the house suddenly become choked and stagnant. It become unnaturally cold. With a loud *POP*, the lights in the house flickered twice and then went out. All of the guests became instantly terrified. The lights came back on in a few seconds, but people began streaming out of the house. The situation was probably best described in an e-mail Ben sent me later that Sunday:
"it was totally bizarre. it was like house was just completely pissed off that that many of us were in there making all that noise. the air in the house was palpably BELIGERENT. if it was just a passing feeling that i had, i would have written it off. but EVERYONE at the party became instantly uncomfortable and the house emptied out. like the house had had enough and was telling us that wed gone too far."
Ben moved out in the spring semester to live with some new friends he had made. He's all but forgotten the house incident, but I certainly haven't. For whatever reason, this story has stuck with me for a long time.
This is my brother's account of a house he lived in when he first went away to LSU. Ben is two years older than I am, but he has always had quite an imagination and a propensity to exaggerate.
His story started in that summer when that serial killer was loose in Baton Rouge. I'm sure any female goons from LSU remember that! Anyway, Ben transfered from a community college in Maryland to LSU when he was about 20. He rented a room in a house near University Lakes, if anyone knows where that is (I don't). He described the house as older and incredibly charming. Ben talked about the house with such reverence that at times he would refer to it almost as a conscious being. When he first moved in, he started saying things like
"It's such a great house. It's always cool enough, and it's visibly welcoming."
"You really have to respect a house with so much history."
"This house has been here for so long it would be a shame to uproot the trees in the yard to make land for more homes."
As time went on, however, his remarks began to actually personify the house, which I always found pretty creepy.
"There's air in the house is really disturbed when the roommates are fighting."
"The house doesn't like it when there are too many people over!"
I always took these statements in stride, albeit with a raised eyebrow. Like I said before, Ben has always been eccentric and overly imaginative.
At the end of his first semester at LSU, things began to get out of hand. Ben called home one Sunday morning, obviously disturbed. He and his friends had thrown a huge party to celebrate the passing of the semester and, as always with LSU, celebrate football. They had close to 70 guests whose appetite for debauchery was fed by multiple kegs and most likely copious amounts of marijuana. Sometime around 1:00 AM, the party got really swinging. The music was loud, the people were loud, and the energy was very high. Without warning, the air in the house suddenly become choked and stagnant. It become unnaturally cold. With a loud *POP*, the lights in the house flickered twice and then went out. All of the guests became instantly terrified. The lights came back on in a few seconds, but people began streaming out of the house. The situation was probably best described in an e-mail Ben sent me later that Sunday:
"it was totally bizarre. it was like house was just completely pissed off that that many of us were in there making all that noise. the air in the house was palpably BELIGERENT. if it was just a passing feeling that i had, i would have written it off. but EVERYONE at the party became instantly uncomfortable and the house emptied out. like the house had had enough and was telling us that wed gone too far."
Ben moved out in the spring semester to live with some new friends he had made. He's all but forgotten the house incident, but I certainly haven't. For whatever reason, this story has stuck with me for a long time.
Why my visits home have been infrequent
I grew up with my older brother and my grandfather in western Maryland. We live in a very small town on property that my grandfather (Pop) farmed with his father way back in the day. Pop served in WWII, and during his time in Europe his father died. When pop came home, he bought the small grocery store in town, which is way more lucrative than dairy farming ever was. Now our 50 acre property consists of old fields that run into a beautiful wooded area. All in all it was an awesome place to be a kid.
My brother and I played all over our property, but we were always a little creeped out by a wooded patch at the extreme northeast of the land. This patch of woods has a really cool history:
Pop was incredibly peaceful by nature, but like many people from that generation, he was obligated to fight in the war. In France somewhere, he shot a German soldier during some skirmish or something. The kill traumatized him for years after the war. In 68, he went to Germany and somehow tracked down the family of the soldier. The family responded warmly; Pop returned the typewriter he had taken from the soldier (it was valuable or something, I don't know), and the family gave him a pin that had belonged to the soldier. Both families still exchange letters. I have always been incredibly proud of this.
Well apparently, Pop still felt guilty. A few years after the Germany trip, he still didn't feel like he had closure. He decided he would bury the soldier's pin on the most beautiful part of our land to give the soldier the perfect resting place. A billion years later, my brother and I knew this “most beautiful resting place” as the creepy woods.
My brother swears that when he was 7, he ran into an old man in the creepy woods who pinched his arm to the point of bruising. Although he had the bruise to back it up, I'd always figured the old man story was fabricated to save face after being bullied or something. We had always known about the buried pin, so it was pretty likely that he would try to make up an accommodating ghost story. I hadn't thought about the incident in about fifteen years, and the memory was pushed way back in my brain.
Well you can imagine my surprise when, at the end of last summer, the neighbor's six-year-old boy came running home in tears, complaining of an old man that had pinched him in the woods. I tried to calm him down, but the coincidence resonated with me, so I went inside and told Pop. I was expecting him to say something to the effect of “Shut up boy, go mow the grass!” But instead, he said the words that I now recognize as a signal that his mental condition was decaying:
“Stay here.”
I watched in disbilief as pop went to the shed, obtained a SHOVEL, and trudged off in the direction of the woods.
Sadly, pop is now at Pinebrook, an assisted living community. His last actions as a completely independent man, on that day with the shovel, are what convinced my stepmother that he no longer has the mental stability to live on his own.
Pop was convinved that the “pinching old man” was the ghost of the soldier that he killed. So at a critically low point in his mental condition, he went back to the woods, dug up the pin, and melted it in the woodstove.
When he was done, he came to my stepmother and I, and said:
“If he bothers anyone, I'll kill him again.”
I suppose this is more of a sad story about an old man being driven slowly insane with guilt, and a weird side story of kids getting pinched. I hated seeing the man who was a father to me slip away to old age. At the time, it was admittedly quite scary, but now the memory is mostly just really sad.
Regardless, I still find the old woods creepy, and I never go back there.
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