Good morning my darklings.  There was once a time when I had a boyfriend who lived in a haunted house.

I won’t go into all the details of what being there could be like, things didn’t always happen but it was always cold and dark.  I would have nightmares about it and the picture there on the side is one I picked because it does closely resemble what that house looked like, I think.

What I’m going to tell you about is just one night when only my boyfriend and best friend, Michele and I were there and the things that happened on just that night.  My boyfriend’s room was in the attic which was bad enough and it did have those arched windows like this picture.  The point is we were at the very top of the house with no one below us and that where a lot of the…things happened.  But it started in the attic where we were sitting around deciding what we going to do for the night.  Between the slant of the ceiling and the floor, there was a cubby space that went all the way around the room and was packed with stuff because his mother was just this side of a hoarder.  Even though it was full, the cubby was creepy because it was large enough that a person could fit inside and crawl around in there like something from The People Under the Stairs.  Then the scratching started in there.  The first time Michele and I looked at each other in that silent “yeah I heard it too” way.  Then it would start again and Michele said, “All right.  What the Hell is that scratching noise?”

By that point Michele and I had moved to sit closer to each other on my boyfriend’s bed.  He laughed at us, said maybe it was a mouse and turned some music on to drown the sound out.  The mouse would have been an acceptable excuse if the scratching didn’t come from different parts of the cubby all the time.  We started making phone calls to see who of our friends were where so we could leave whether my boyfriend came or not.

Then the scratching became like a teaser as a stomping somewhere below us started.  It was loud enough to be heard over the music and hard enough to be felt on the floorboards of the attic.   STOMP!  STOMP!  STOMP!  He says maybe one of his brothers has come home but a glance out the window shows no other car but mine.  STOMP!  STOMP!

Michele and I have decided we were leaving.  The only problem was that we had to get through where and what was clumping around the empty house below us to get to the door.  I don’t even remember anymore if my boyfriend left with us but we had cell phones and pagers, yes it was that long ago, and we could drive around just as well as sit there and we were getting out.  So we went down the steps from the attic the ended in, of course, a squeakly-no-snkeaking-out door.  I opened it a little and called to his brothers and they didn’t answer.  Their cars still weren’t out front anyway.

Once out of the attic and on the second floor, to our right was a bathroom and to our sort of left was a room full of broken cupie dolls which creeped the Hell out of me anyway.  We were about to gather our courage for the mad dash to the front door when the faucets in the bathroom turned themselves on.  Adrenaline from fear beat out courage and we hauled ass for the door.  We got to my car and I don’t know about Michele, but even when we were with people I couldn’t get my mind off of what had happened in the house.  I think that was the last time she went inside but I had to keep going back.  I can honestly say that house is haunted, probably still, and I’m very glad that I’ll never have to go there again.

 

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