Ghost Goons

GhostGoons

Posted by: Kendrik

My father was a military man. Retired back in '95 from the Navy after 20 years of proud service to our country. But before that, we moved often... every 3-4 years or thereabouts we'd pack up and get shipped somewhere new. Early 1989, a wonderful opportunity arose and dad took it. A 16 hour flight later, and we were stationed at N.A.S Sigonella, Sicily. I guess I was about, ohhh 10 or 11 at the time. Those years were blurred save those pinpricks of memory that still haunt me. That still plague my dreams from time to time.

Our first home there was an apartment in a complex called "Bellavista" far from the Naval base. There was a waiting list to move into Base Housing that generally ran for about a year and a half's wait. Until your time to move, you had to live amongst the locals wherever you could. Bellavista was a beautiful place... we lived on the upper floor of the complex and had a wonderful view of the countryside off our back balcony. At night, one could look up at the night sky and see a thin trail of fiery red lava slowly ebbing from still active Mt. Etna. And in the morning, everything left out in the open was often found to be blanketed ever so slightly in volcanic ash, almost like a light dusting of snow.

But naturally, as perfectly nice as Bellavista was, it wasn't meant for us for long. The lnadlord's daughter was pregnant, engaged... and homeless. Guess who got the boot? So we moved, with the landlord's assistance, into another home. Motta S. Anastasia, a little cobblestone-streeted town near Catania, and much closer to the Navy base. The day we drove up to the new place, I felt ill. Of course, nothing was thought of this at the time, but I'd swear in retrospect I was being told something. The place was a 3 story house with an apartment on each floor. I really don't remember the neighbors, but both were similarly Navy families. And I can imagine I pissed them off a lot with the screaming.

Dad unlocked the door and proceeded into the small entryway. The cobblestone street gave way to a marbled floor entrance and a matching set of marble stairs up to the second floor, which was our new home. The place was stunningly beautiful. Marble floors... glass french doors into the living room area... balconies attached to nearly every room, save the one that was to be mine. Claw foot bathtub...bidet... all the modern conveniences expected of a home in Europe.

I walked into the room that was going to be mine. Small, simple, square and quite cold. To the left, at the end of the wall was a door covered with a "persiana." Basically, a form of window blinds made from heavy horizontal flaps that was operated via a cloth strap attached to the wall. I pulled it up to see that the door was mostly glass and beyond it was a very small "room" lined with brick along the floor and walls. I opened the door and stepped into the room and looked up to discover the room extended all the way up through the third floor and up to a hole in the roof. There was no covering on the hole either... it went straight into open air. The shaft allowed a fair amount of light to shine into the only room in the house without a window in it, which I thought was pretty damn cool initially.

The chill seemed to come from the room, despite the glaring sun nearly directly overhead. It was then I heard the first whispers. Like... if you were to take a wire brush and softly rub the stiff bristles against your jeans. At the time, I attributed it to echoes off the brick... but I couldn't help but feel weird about it. It wasn't coming from any discernable direction or source... but it surrounded me like a blanket, as if sound could be tangible and touchable. It pressed in gently on my ears like pressure on an aircraft ascending or descending. I turned to leave and I noticed a glinting drain in the middle of the floor. It was obviously for rainwater to drain away but my nausea increased when I saw it. My stomach gnawed at itself as I ran out of there and I swear I saw the drain cover jiggle a bit on my way out. I lowered the persiana quickly and rejoined the family in the living room, shaking and sick as a dog.

Now granted... a little brick room was far from the norm for paranormal ghosty stuff. But try telling that to whatever was in there. Christ. For weeks and weeks, I'd get up the nerve to open the persiana in broad daylight and risk a peek... only to stumble back from the door sick as all hell to my stomach and trembling. I tried telling my parents of course... but an 11 year old's ramblings about a scary brick room generally get chalked up to too many "Freddy" and "Jason" movies. The whisperings rarely stopped at night. They were persistent from the time I laid down until I finally forced myself into slumber. Often, I'd wake up in the middle of the night to silence, and then the whisperings would start up again, as if it was waiting to make sure I was awake.

There was never any real words to the whispering... just a hollow "ksssh sshhhaww hissssshhhhh haaahhh ooooshhhh aaashhhhh" that seemed to repeat, but never in the same cadence. There was no emotion behind it either that I can remember. It wasn't angry, it wasn't sad nor happy. Just there. Always fucking there.

One night, after about 2 months of this, I was awoken by a particularly horrifying dream. I seemed to start having those dreams after we moved in... I had never had constant nightmares prior. But I awoke from the dream with the feeling that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Immediately my eyes darted to the door... and saw that the persiana was up. Now, European goons with experience, back me up... Persianas are about the noisiest damn things to have in a house. They're generally metal slats hooked in with metal hooks that grind and squeak loudly in protest as they're pulled open. There was no way in hell that the persiana, which was always closed, could have been opened without waking up everyone in the house. But sure enough, it was open about 3/4 of the way up the damned door. A bit of moonlight reflected off the bricks in the shaft and into my room with a dull bluish tone. I lay there for hours, paralyzed in my bed, but unable to look away from the door, lest there be something there when I looked back. Eventually, I just conked out...

The next morning crept up finally and I was freed from my paralysis. I ran to the door amidst a wave of nausea and pulled the persiana shut as fast as I could. There was a light dusting of volcanic ash on the brick floor and I'd swear I could make out footprints or scuffing in it. Mom, still asleep at the time, yelled at me from across the hall after hearing the noise, but I couldn't care less.

Over the course of the next 3 months, it was the same routine. The whisperings never faltered. The persiana would be found at least 2 to 3 times a week opened, and the blackness of the room would stare out at me in my bed. Then one night, it was different. I still have nightmares of this incident and it makes me cringe and want to curl up in a ball still whenever I conjure it up. I had awoken again in the midst of a terrible nightmare. And sure enough, the persiana was up, but this time it was all the way up. The moonlight was barely filtering in that night, but I'd swear I could make out something there in the room. It felt like I was at just the right angle for me to see whatever it was, and if I were to move the slightest bit, I'd lose sight of it. It was a small sphere that shimmered like a soap bubble does. But it was so faint I could barely make it out. I watched as it hovered there for the longest time. It began to shrink like some TVs used to do when you turned them off... shrink into a tiny dot of light.

But before it winked out, it flashed and expanded. It did so at an alarmingly fast rate and solidified into the form of a woman. She looked to be in her early to mid thirties, dark curly hair... definitely a local Sicilian. When she became "whole" and a solid image, she began shrieking and pounding on the glass doors with both fists. Her head swiveled wrong on her neck, shaking back and forth like if you put a teakettle on a stick and shook the stick around. Her eyes were completely black and full of anger and hatred... The skin around her mouth flapped loosely, giving me glimpses of her teeth and tongue and her hair was tossing around violently. Some sort of liquid oozed in small spurts from the corners of her mouth and flecks of whatever it was flew as she shrieked. Her screaming was horrific and nonsensical, and all I could do was scream back. My dad charged into the room to my bed, thinking I was having a nightmare. She shrank back from the door and... ugh. She slithered down the drain somehow. She twisted and distorted and I'd swear I could hear her bones splintering and cracking as she wound herself down into it. It was awful and to this day, dad says he's never heard anyone scream so inhumanly before. I often ask him jokingly if he meant from me or her.

GhostGoons

Posted by: ChuckMaster

I don't like telling this one to people I know, since it either makes them afraid for my safety or sanity, but the goons here might find it interesting.

I live in a duplex with a hard wood floor. It's not a very old house but it creaks all the freakin time. It's two floors, with a basement/garage and an attic too low to stand up in. The weird thing about the attic is that you can only get to it from the closet and through an access panel.

Last year I woke up to a loud noise. Now granted, in my neighborhood people come home at 3 am, party, and to make things worse I can hear my neighbor walking around since the house creaks. So it's usually a loud car door, a door slam, and sometimes the domestic fight. The year before that the other side was broken into, so I was on my guard.

Now normally, I have learned to tune myself out, since often I would get scared, search the house with a weapon, and then feel stupid and paranoid afterwards. Nevertheless, I keep a 45 inside the bed's two small sliding drawers, one side keeping the gun and the other keeping the ammo (I don't load a gun unless I'm using it.)

Well, so I'm wide awake in my bed, and I heard another bang. I turn on my reading light, and then I walk over and turn on my bedroom and hall light on. I peer over the stairs and I just listen. I hear it again, but I'm having trouble pin pointing it. And it's loud enough to cause me concern. So I walk downstairs in my boxers, check the living room door, check the kitchen door, and everything is fine.

I have the dishwasher in front of my kitchen door which blocks it from opening. Rather than pulling that away I flicker the basement light on a few times, figuring that would freak out an intruder. I hear nothing. So as I walk back up stairs I hear it again, but I attribute to my neighbor walking around again.

So as I turn off all but my reading light I hear it loud and clear. It's above me. I then hear slow footsteps moving about, and some small shuffling. I wait for a moment while listening to it, making sure I'm hearing what I think I'm hearing.

I grab my 45 from the head of the bed and push the clip in. I turn on the light again and I open up the closet door and turn it on. The noise continues, but seems startled now since the pacing of the footsteps increase.

I push my clothes aside that are handing and I proceed to tear away the empty boxes I placed in front of the access door (I was meaning to put these in the attic but I got lazy.) My heart is racing, I'm half terrified and half hoping to catch the intruder before he gets away.

I pull open the attic door and reach for the chain light. The light comes on, and I hear footsteps and stumbling on the other side of the attic, opposite of the small staircase.

Now, there still isn't a lot of light in the attic with the naked bulb, so I reach outside the closet and grab a flashlight I had on a small dresser. I crawl onto the shelf that the boxes were on and shine the flashlight in the direction of the noises, while keeping me safely hidden in the staircase. The noises continue as I blindly shine it on the far side of the attic. So I slowly crawl on the first step and rise to poke my head above the attic floor.

My flashlight is shining on a white figure. It's skinny and lanky and it’s hunched over like an ape. At first I'm thinking it some crack head that crawled on my roof and somehow found a way in my tiny attic but couldn't figure out how to get out. So I yell at the guy, asking him how he got in here. He just stares at me with these black eyes. I didn't know if he was naked or just wearing underwear, and at this point I'm just pissed and disgusted. I put the flash light down, figuring the light in his face may be scaring him more than I need to. After that he still isn't moving or talking. So I yell at him again, telling him he needs to get the fuck out of here.

Well, the white figure stands up, as much as he could in that little space, and strikes a pose that reminds me of a bull about to charge. I can hear the joists creak as he shifts his weight.

I chamber the gun and point it just below his feet. I'm doing my best to breathe slowly to keep myself calm. I tell him he needs to sit down and tell me how he got in or how he plans on getting the hell out of here. I tell him I have a loaded 45 on him and he'd better sit down.

He starts making slow strides towards me. He takes about two steps, each one creaking the floor boards, exaggerating each sound. I start to squeeze the trigger and I am damning the slow trigger pull on this cheap browning knock-off. He takes a third step, he's halfway across the attic, and I'm aiming at his legs. The gun finally goes off.

Now there is a loud band, the shell ejects and bounces off my face, slightly burning me, and the attic fills with dust. My hearing goes away for a moment and I can smell the gun powder.

A moment later the dust starts to clear, but there's now a white cloud where the figure was, and that clears away as well. At first I think I'm seeing things or going crazy, but I'm alone in the attic and I just fired a gun in a residential neighborhood. I uncock the gun and set it down. I pick up the flashlight and check every corner of the attic. I don't see a damn thing. I check the small window above me, but it's intact. There seems to be no way in or out other than the stairwell I'm standing in which I had to clear crap out of my closet to get to.

I walk over to where the white figure was standing. I look down and I see black footprints on the joists. I trace the prints and see that they seemed to have moved back and forth the attic several times. There were even prints on the stairs.

I peer down at one and poke it. They're made of some soft, black mud and the smell like shit. I look down at myself and I seemed to have kneeled in it when I was on the stairs and didn't notice until now.

So leave the attic and head to the bathroom to clean up, I'm still in disbelief of everything that had just happened. Then the front door starts pounding.

It's the police and they're pissed. My neighbor called them when she heard the shot. I let them in, and there are three of them. I tell them I saw an intruder, shot at him, and tell them where the gun is and how many rounds are still left.

So they sit me down on the couch and two go to check upstairs. This takes them maybe ten minutes. I can hear them muttering amongst themselves and they don't sound happy. They come back down and start drilling me to go over my story several times. I mention the foot prints, and they said they say them, but if someone was in the attic they're gone now. Then they start asking if I've been drinking or on drugs or medication. I tell them no, and that I'm drug tested at work.

So they have a pow-wow outside with one babysitting me inside. I can see a few neighbors trying to peak into the open front door from across the street. I'm tired, pissed and embarrassed as all hell. I'm in my damn underwear with a tiny burn on my face and shit smeared on my legs that's half washed off.

So one sergeant comes in, gives me a speech about gun safety and how I could have hurt someone, and tells me they're going to call me to come to court and issue a citation. They don't leave until I give them a trigger lock to put on the gun and close it in its case.

So I'm awake the rest of the night. In the morning I check out the attic again. The foot prints are still there but the wood has absorbed most of it. I look at the window again and wonder if there was any possible way anyone could have got through it.

I take one last look and I notice something in the corner. There is the skeleton of a rat or other small rodent. Its head is crushed and its back legs are torn off. There are some tiny bits of rotted fur or flesh around it.

I reluctantly clean it up.

So a year later, the cops never called me back, and I'm moving out of that place.

GhostGoons

Posted by: TacoCriminal

The sealed, séance room at the old farm house.

My grandmothers house is a restored and remodeled farmhouse. The foundation,
and most of the downstairs, is unchanged from when the original house was built
around 150 years ago. All of the materials, the lumber, iron nails, thick door frames,
are all the same. For a better mental picture of the house, the downstairs is very
similar to the house in the 1990 return of the living dead. The difference is the
hidden basement, and the previously sealed room.

Without going into boring detail, a hidden basement was discovered at my
grandparents house about 40 years ago, and there was a strangely shaped room
down there. No one knew what the room was for, until a local psychic looked at the
room and immediately told my grandparents to stay away from it, and to move the
antique furniture out of the room.

The psychic, or as the town called her "witch," left the house in a panic repeatedly
mumbling "bad people," and "cursed." My grandparents didn't do as she said, and
only moved out the furniture when my father and mother bought a house.

Family and friends always thought the old witch was just a crazy woman, until the
problems started. Now, no relative on either side of the family will accept the
furniture, and some can't even bring themselves to look at it when they're at my
parents house.

No one goes in the basement. No one can figure out why the basement has smelled
like rotting meat ever since the furniture was moved. There has never been an
explanation why the door to the basement will unlock itself, and open. The fresh
flowers grandma used to arrange downstairs will always wilt in a day, and everyone
who has stayed and been in the bathroom has heard at least once someone knock on
the basement door and quietly ask "hello?"

Like my parents house. . .except not as worse.

This is the background story before the serious stuff.
The death bed/ The silent mirror.

The worst part of the furniture that was moved was an old wooden bed that was
painted in a faded, pea soup green, and the matching mirror cabinet. Everyone
hated these pieces of furniture after the move.

The bed frame had a huge, plain headboard, and there were pillars in the four
corners of the bed that ended in a dull, arrowhead shape. Because of the design of
the bed, the mattress would rest just below a thick frame that connected all the
pillars. When you laid down in the sunken bed surrounded by its high, wooden
walls, you always felt like the bed was swallowing you. About 150 years ago, an
unknown relative of the family built this bed, and no parts had been changed since.
Every time you rolled on the bed it would creak loudly, moaning under the stress it
has had to endure over the decades.

The matching mirror was a huge and flawless despite its age, and the ornate frame
for the piece showed no signs of wear. The mirror was attached above cabinets, so
an average size man could only see his reflection above his waist. In the room that
had both pieces, the mirror faced the bed. The headboard of the bed faced the door,
and the mirror was on the same side as the door. If you wanted to see your reflection
in the mirror, you had to walk into the room and stand in front of the bed.

The reason the bed is called the death bed is because family members would always
sleep on the bed when they were extremely sick, or going to die. Almost all of my
dads family had died on that bed, and by coincidence, a few of my mothers family
passed always as well there. My first experience with the death bed was when I was
a child, and I had a bad case of strep throat. I had to sleep on the bed.

I had fallen asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow, but my fever was too
strong, and I woke up in pain around midnight. As I lay in the bed, struggling
against the pain and facing the wall on the left side of the bed, I heard the bed creak.
Not only did I hear the bed creak, but I could feel it move.

I lay motionless until the creak happened again, and I felt someone roll over closer
to me. Thinking it may be my mother who might have come in to keep an eye on me
since I was sick, I rolled over to see if she was asleep. Someone else was there.

A woman, probably in her thirties, was facing me. She was staring right at me with
her eyes and mouth wide open. She looked like she was going to start crying and
wail out in pain, but she just stared. Surrounding her eyes and mouth were dark
blue circles, and her straight black hair was thrown covered part of her face. Her
cheeks were sunk in, and her mouth kept dropping more and more open like the
sorrow was becoming too much. I turned away to try and grab a hold of the side bed
and pull myself out, and when I looked back she was no longer there. I crawled back
into the bed, put the sheets over my head, and didn't move for the rest of the night.

I told my mother what I saw in the morning, and she didn't seem too concerned
until I mentioned how sad and hurt the woman looked. My mother, who was sitting
at the kitchen table with me, stood up, went to the bedroom where my father was
getting ready for work, and starting talking to him. I couldn't make out what she
was saying, but he came out soon after and said "don't go in that room again, and
you're not to sleep in there again, I don't care how sick you are." I asked if it was
because of the woman and he said yes, and then I asked if I'm going to be in trouble
and he said "your great aunt is dead, she won't bother you and she was nice
woman."

She is the only young woman to die on the bed. She died of some type of
asphyxiation that the farmland doctors couldn't figure out. Apparently she stopped
getting enough oxygen being pumped in her blood, and she died being virtually
paralyzed and unable to call out for hours.

The good poltergeist stuff is coming up; this is the calm stuff.
More death bed/mirror

Although this particular mirror (there are three total) never conjured the big
problems like the other mirrors, it did something strange always. The room with the
bed and mirror had blinds that keep all the light out of the room when closed, and
at night, there was no light at all. The room was always pitch black except the
mirror, which would glow. It wouldn't project light or illuminate anything, but it
would glow brightly despite no light being directed to it at all. If you went to look in
the mirror, you could see a clear reflection of yourself, but NOTHING else in the
room. It was like you existed in a void.

Death bed silent man

My first encounter with the silent man was about two years after the dead woman
on the bed. It was during the day, and I was looking through the mirror cabinet
draws for an old stapler. I found the stapler, and I as I was looking at it to see if it
needed staples (or if it would work), I heard a man clearly say:

"Hi"

He didn't say it in a friendly tone, but more of "I see you" sort of tone. What's
worse is I looked up into the mirror and I was alone in the room. I moved as quickly
out of the room as I could, and as I did I heard the same voice, but in a growling,
angry voice say:

"Get back here"

I didn't, but whatever it was now angry, and people started to take notice.

Since the room with the bed was at the end of the end of the hall, you could look
right in to the living room from the doorway. Also, you could always see me leave
my room since. I remember the first time I left my room and froze in fear as I
looked into the doorway of the death bed room. There was something like a man,
translucent, crouched down like a panther ready to pounce. I stared into the top of
the head of the "man" (because the figure was looking down), until I gathered
enough courage to run for the living room where my parents were. As I took off, so
did it, and it jabbed me in the small of my back, knocking me down. Over the period
of a year, this happened a few more times, and I have scars on my lower back the
size of fingertips. There are no fingerprints, but there are unusual and consistent
oval scars.

Also, since my parents room were right next door to the death bed room, the door to
my parents room would slam shut. It would only slam shut when someone was
trying to enter or leave the room, sometimes hitting one of my parents in the face
with the door. My mother was pissed one day that the doors would do that and I
said it was the ghost in the death bed room. She said she knew, and her and my
father could hear something laughing through the walls sometimes.

She closed and bolted the door shut until we moved. Occasionally you would hear
something knock lightly on the door and ask "hello" very quietly. When we moved,
my parents had the bed and mirror destroyed to take care of the problem.
Unfortunately we then decided to keep the old music boxes and the buried mirrors.

On a kinda side note: No one had ever experienced anything bad with the bed, or
anything with the angry male ghost until it was moved into the séance room in the
farm house basement. People don't go down there anymore because something else
also knocks lightly on the closed basement door and asks "hello."

The big stories about the old music boxes and the two mirrors are next.

First the old music boxes.

I hated this fuckin' things since the first time I saw them. They were about 100 years
old, ceramic (mostly), highly decorated with sky and clouds type themes, and the
music that came out of them were perfect. All three of them, the two clouds and
soaring ballerina (the top had a ballerina that would twirl when the box was
wound), were in perfect condition. They just didn't seem right. The people had left
these boxes and everything else their daughter had behind. They were angry with
her because she committed suicide, and didn't want a reminder of such a bad child.
Wow, what a happy family.

We stored everything she used to have in the attic except the boxes (my mom loved
them), and we didn't take down this mirror thing she had in her room. Instead of a
full-length mirror, she took mirror squares and glued them almost next to each
other on a part of the wall. It was like a broken, full-length mirror that faced the
bed. Luckily, I got the room with the horrible mirror.

One day, the dog was chasing one of our cats around, bumps into the dresser that
had the music boxes on them, and all the boxes fall to the floor and break. There
were only two people that were upset that happened: my mother and the daughter.

We were there only one month after that, and it was a nightmare. Our dog suddenly
developed over 50 ulcers in her stomach and died. . .in three days. Even though
there was no smoke, you and everyone around you would start choking and
coughing. Air would rush so strongly by your ears sometimes that you couldn't hear
the world around you. People would start sleep walking (the only time ever in this
house during this period) and leave the house. You would always wake up outside
like it was an eviction of a supernatural kind. Then there was her mirror.

She looked very similar to the girl in the ring (no drowning symptoms, evil whitish
eyes, or any of that stuff, but she wore a white night dress and has long, dark hair). I
remember being in bed and looking at the mirrors, when I saw her for the first time.
It was like the mirrors were really one big, broken window, and she was looking
through. Just her upper body because she was like peering around through the
mirrors at me, and she was angry. Sometimes she would look scared or worried, but
most of the time is was pure anger. I hid every time I saw something like that, except
when I was leaving the room. Sometimes I would be walking out and I would look at
the mirror at an angle, and I could see her kinda like hiding behind the wall so you
couldn't see her if you looked directly at the mirror.

She apparently appeared in some other mirrors in the house, but I didn't see them.
New tenets moved in after us, and then quickly moved away. The house had been
abandoned for a few years and was recently torn down.

Next are the antique mirrors that used to be buried. (Why my mother and father
wanted them, I have no idea.)

More about the death bed I forgot

Just about everyone that knows the death bed room remembers the mumbling
voices. If you left my room at about 1 a.m., or at noon, you could hear about 10
people "talking," but it was more like a whole bunch of mumbling voices. If you got
to about two steps from the doorway to the room, they would stop but not all at
once. It was like someone said "everybody quiet," and not everybody did right
away.

I had a sleep over, and one of my friends got up to use the bathroom at night. He
said when he was coming back that he heard the mumbling in the room that I told
him about a while ago. However, he didn't go up to the door, but stood there and
tried to listen to what's going on (the angry male ghost hadn't appeared yet, so there
was no reason to be scared). Eventually, the voices quickly died down and he left
about 5 seconds after it was quiet. As he started to walk to my room, the door to the
death bed room closed very slowly, and he says he heard something like a giggle.

When he made it to my room he was so scared he was crying.

would rather have the death bed than this mirror. Sure, I don't live at home
anymore, but the fact that it exists bothers me. It's called the blood mirror because
the seal used to keep the back of the mirror to the frame is blood. Blood isn't like
glue so we were able to crack the frame off easily (we were going to save the frame
and replace the mirror around the first week we had it, but we put everything back
together). One of my mothers relatives (the first woman to kill herself) used to do
this with cabinet seals and stuff, so we weren't shocked when it happened, but we
were spooked.

She tried to put her blood in everything because she was some type of witch, and she
was trying to live forever or something. I know that's going to raise questions but we
don't really know because there aren't any records of her anymore or any solid
information or basis really in witchcraft. She was probably just plain nuts.

Here's a diagram of the upstairs where the mirror is. It will be important later.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Brothers Room | Bathroom | Parents Room
| |
| |
|--------------------D------------------------------|
D D
-----------------| Hallway |
Blood Mirror D |
Room |--------------------------------D------| |
| Metal frame mirror room | Stairs |
| | |
| | |
----------------------------------------------------------

It's crude, but there you go. It's all upstairs.

Ghost stairs

There are three types of ghosts on the stairs. The first is the casual walker, who will
walk at a calm pace. Even if you stare at the stairs, whatever it is will keep walking.
This doesn't happen to often anymore, but it was really cool when it did.

The second is the clumsy runner. Someone just takes off and kinda trips and
stumbles on the stairs on the way up. It's like a kid running. Very rare to happen.

Both all reach the landing on the second floor and walk towards the blood mirror
room, past the metal mirror room. That's how I connect the stairs walkers, but I
could be wrong.

The third is horrible.

I was asleep one night and I woke up to a loud thud downstairs. I listened as
whatever it was ran full speed to the stairs, up the stairs, down the hall, and
slammed into the door with the blood mirror in it and kept slamming. . .where I was
sleeping. I started shaking because I just woke up and it sounded like some madman
was in the house coming for me and I wasn't ready. My dad comes out of his room
and yells "what the fuck are you doing at. . " and trails off. No one was there in the
hallway.

The knocker

The knocker comes in two varieties. The knocking with the death bed room is more
of someone making a fist, sticking out his or her index finger, and gently rapping on
the door. The first knocker with the mirror is nothing like that. It's more of a full
fist, all four knuckles rapping on the door. This one comes once in a while and just
knocks on the blood mirror door for about two minutes, sometimes during the day.

"knock knock knock" (quickly but gently)
Me: "yeah, what?"
"knock knock knock"
Me: "yeah?"
"Knock knock knock"
Me: "what?!" (I go to answer the door)
I open the door and there's only dead silence.

The second knocker is a full-fist pounding that shakes the door. This has happened
twice.

The first time was 10 seconds of beating on the door at 2 in the morning. I go to the
door because I think it's an emergency, and no one is there.

The second time I heard the pounding and didn't get up (this was about six months
later). Every ten seconds something would pound on the door and pause for about
one minute. Then I heard the doorknob wiggle. Scratching on the door. The
doorknob shaking slightly.

Then BAM!! One big hit smacks the door and I hear something run downstairs and
into the kitchen, where there is no more noise.

Scratching.

Scratching has been heard on many separate occasions, from either inside the closet
or from behind the mirror. I would have to say from behind the closet is scarier to
me because I saw the movie House when I was young, and if you've seen that movie
you know that a certain part can leave an impression on a kid.

The scratching is very light, and not in one spot. The scratching will go from low in
the closet to high like something trying to figure a way out. If you see the original
haunting, there is a scene when something is trying to get into a door and it sounds
just like this. The pounding on the door wasn't similar, but the scratching is dead
on.

Behind the mirror you hear scratching sometimes, only around 1 or five in the
morning. Sometimes there is a tapping sound, but mostly scratching.

I got more, but I got to take a break for a sec if that's ok.

Why I hate the blood mirror.

Sure it attracts things that knock on the door and run up the stairs. Yeah there's
scratching and tapping from the closet and mirror. When you look at it though, it's
just noise. The blood mirror, however, is more than just noise.

It could be any day, at any time, with any one in the room, and then it attacks. Since
the mirror has no way to directly hurt you, it makes you hurt yourself. I have been
quietly watching TV or talking to friends that are in the same room with me and the
blood mirror, and you can feel it come alive.

The room temperature will drop 40, 50, 60 degrees within minutes so you can see
your breath. You can't concentrate or focus on what you were doing. Your eyes
can't focus on one point, and you're unaware of what you're body is doing. All you
can really hear is your heart pounding at a rhythmic pace. Suddenly you, and
anyone else around, is in a haze. . .a trance.

When you regain focus, you realize you're bleeding.

The most common thing people will do is scratch themselves with their fingers on
their left hand on their right arm or upper chest. Without thinking, people will dig
huge gashes into their bodies with just their fingers and not know it. Every time
they will look at the mirror when they realize what they just did.

It doesn't happen often, but when it does it's truly frightening. The best example I
have is when I brought my now ex-girlfriend to show her the room because I had
told her about all the ghosts in my house. When we walked in I said:

"Here's my old room, and there's the mirror."

And as soon as I said that and pointed to the mirror, the temperate began to drop
drastically. I went over to some shelves to see how much of my stuff my little
brother had taken since I had left, and I took my eyes off her. When I looked back
at her she was staring at a wall, with a desperately sorrowful face, and digging into
her right arm. I grabbed her, and as I did I must have woke her up out of her
trance. She looked scared until she saw the cuts in her arm and screamed. She was
out of the house before I could leave the room. As soon as she left, the room
instantly got warmer. It wanted her. . .something about her she liked.

The blood mirror still stands today behind an old dresser. My mother always gets
crippling arthritic pain whenever she goes to take down the mirror and get rid of it.
The pain is so bad she can't even grip silverware. . .until she decides to do something
else. I moved the dresser drawer to hide the mirror, to bury it, so it won't bother
anyone else. Some day the dresser drawer will be moved and the mirror will reflect
the light of day again, and I know it will be even angrier than it was before I hid it. I
pity the person that inherits it then.

Thank God for eBay.

Sorry for the crappy joke. Anyways, I need to clarify some earlier stuff I wrote
about so I'll do that in another post if you want me too. Also, I've got some other
stories, some of which are my friends if you want them. Thanks for all the support
so far.

In regards to the séance room in the basement:

Furniture from upstairs was moved downstairs, and into the séance room
accidentally. The furniture was later moved out when my parents bought a house,
and put the death bed and mirror into the third bedroom for guests. I have no idea
why they would want to use the family death bed for a guest bed, but I guess it was
free.

If you want a mental picture of the basement, here it is. The basement is a simple
rectangle, maybe 20 feet long, and 15 feet wide. Then there is a séance room, I forget
the specs but it's built for "satanic" type rituals, attached to the basement walls. The
séance room is right by the steps up to the basement door.

The basement door was hidden on a wall in the huge downstairs bathroom. The
mirror faces the basement door, so you could be looking in the mirror and hear the
knocking behind you.

Whatever it is in the basement "talked" to me three times in one day. The first time
it knocked and asked hello, the second time it knocked and asked hello but a bit
more worried than before, the third time it just angrily "breathed" out at me. If you
exhale lightly at first and then exhale strongly and quickly at the end, you can kinda
get the idea of what I heard.

As for why my parents keep these things, I have no idea. My parents are addicted to
anything that has been passed down through the family, and their house is now
loaded with stuff from both sides. My mother hates the mirrors, but she only wants
to take them down and not throw them away because they've been in the family. It's
a weird mix of stuff from both sides of my parents families. My father has old, ratty
stuff like the old death bed, and my mother has expensive stuff from when her
family was rich and lived in a mansion. It's like we have stuff from Night of the
Living Dead, and The Haunting all in one place.
My mother has the family opals, which are exquisite pieces of jewelry that only
women in the family can wear, not because of tradition, but of some type of super
bad luck. She also has these 80+ year old ruby glasses. The glasses aren't made of
rubies, but they are a beautiful blood red and flawless. When she inherited them
about 10 years ago, she said she had to put them in a sturdy china cabinet or they'll
fall and break. That's because every other day you can hear someone run through
the dinning room and to the china hutch, where the glasses are.

My dad has this old trunk from Ireland that has the creepiest lamp (that used to be
kept in the séance room too) in it, pictures of my Indian (native American) relatives
that we no longer know who they are, and some sentimental news clippings from a
cousin of ours in Ireland who was with the IRA, but was really a child killer. No one
wants this stuff, the trunk used to be in the basement next to the séance room, and
it's ugly to boot, but it's old and has stuff from the family.

They just won't get rid of stuff that's old and has been in the family. Destroying the
death bed was kinda hard for my dad to do, but WE STILL HAVE PARTS FROM
THE MIRROR. All of it is ugly, everyone knows the pieces are cursed or at least
haunted, and we don't need any of the pieces at all, but they still keep them. I mean
Christ, those opals, once put on, cannot be taken off until right before the coffin
closes, and you are to be buried in the ground. If you take them off the body earlier,
or accept them as a gift while the original wearer is still alive, you will go mad.
Apparently that's not enough to call the pieces cursed since it has only happened
TWICE in the past 40 years. It also happens 100% of the time too, but that doesn't
matter.

I'll take as many pictures as possible while I'm there. It's like sentimental pieces
from a haunted mansion all over the place.

About why there are things happening in the basement to our house, I don't know.
There are things everywhere in the house, and the basement is no exception. I'll do
an outline of the house, and when I get a Chicago ghost hunt going, we'll stop by my
house for a quick tour.

Basement:

Only thing here is the shadow man and the swinging boxing bag. The shadow man
has only been seen twice, and has "charged" every time he knows you're looking. He
doesn't come straight at you, but follows the walls around.

The swinging punching bag was really fun. It happened about every other time
anyone was downstairs, and it was really cool. I had a 110 pound leather punching
bag attached to the ceiling of the basement. Really simple construction: just a swivel
hitch bolted into the ceiling, and a three chains attached to the hitch. You would be
sitting downstairs, watching TV or talking to friends, and the chain would start to
creak. For a while we thought vibrations somehow moved the bag, until two of us
saw how it started. The bag would be perfectly still, then it would move about a foot
in one direction, and then swing back. It was creepy because you knew something
was moving that bag.

Ground floor:

All you get are the occasional runner, the night light painting, and I guess orbs.
Once in a while you see a quick flash of light like a firefly, usually in the spring or
fall.

Upstairs:

This is where the mirrors are and the knocking. Sometimes you hear mumbling,
something moving papers (and always fucking up the system you have), lots of
motion in the mirrors (bathroom and metal frame), and one of our dogs growling at
something in the hallway briefly. If you have cat in your room, the cat will wake up
sometimes and just stare at the door for a good five minutes, and then sometimes go
under the bed. The upstairs is where the fun is.

Oh, and I should mention that our new dog won't go into the dinning room where

Ghost Goons

lørdag 1. januar 2011

Pentology

Mother?

The Lady in Blue

Witch in the Woods

Drainlady

Ghosts, Guns, and You

Blood Mirror