In honor of the second book in the Dead Rapture trilogy releasing, I thought I would share a true ghost story with you all today. I know it’s true, because it happened to me.
My parents house is haunted.
Not just, oh, things go bump in the night, but full on, the ghost is present, haunted.
We named our ghost Chandler years ago because it seemed like the least intimidating, scary name, and it stuck. My mom swears Chandler isn’t a ghost and is, in fact just weird, unexplained electric currents that turn on random boxes of twenty year old toys and radios and such. Maybe, but that doesn’t explain this:
In 2006, I was living with my parents to save up for my wedding. I was taking twenty-one hours of classes trying to graduate and working two jobs, and of course, planning the upcoming nuptials. One night, after a long shift of waiting tables and nearly dead on my feet, I ambled into my parents’ dark two-story and set my purse on the stairs. I narrowed my eyes at the double lock and debated. My fiancé would be over any minute from his shift at the same job to spend some time with me, so I’d leave it open for him because he didn’t have a key. Someone was walking around upstairs, so I turned on the light and called my brother’s name.
Meh, he was probably in the bathroom or had his door shut or whatever. I walked into the kitchen and flipped the light switch before making a sandwich to the soundtrack of someone walking around just above me.
Mayo, turkey and cheese on wheat—my favorite post-work snack after serving tables straight through dinner. The walking noises continued, so I went to the bottom of the stairs and yelled my brother’s name again. The walking stopped but why the hell was he so active in complete darkness? I clenched my hands and frowned at the kitchen, listening.
I checked the unlocked door again and silently wished for my fiancé to come home so he could run up there and see what my crazy brother was up to. I didn’t want to do anything other than satisfy my empty stomach at the moment.
As soon as I got back into the kitchen the walking started up again and sent chills up my spine when it turned to stomping. Okay, someone was in the house, and it wasn’t my brother. I grabbed the the cordless and the long knife I’d used to cut my sandwich in half and in true horror movie fashion, walked slowly up the stairs to the open door of my parents dark room.
Go for the neck, I thought. If you go for the chest, you could hit the rib-cage and the knife will be useless.
The stairs creaked as I approached the room and when I set one tentative foot inside the doorway, such a feeling of fear and dread struck me I was frozen for a moment. I wasn’t alone. I could feel it down to my bones that I wasn’t alone in that black room and the footsteps started running toward me. I bolted down the stairs, just flew over each step and sprinted for the front door, screaming. Any second the thing would be on me but the door was now locked, both deadbolts. I didn’t do it. I specifically remember leaving it unlocked for my fiancé. I fumbled with the locks and threw it open, then ran outside. Shaking and crying, I dialed my fiancé’s number and he picked up right away.
I was standing maybe ten feet away from the opened front door. No car keys, no streetlights, all alone and unsure where to go to feel safe.
“There’s someone or something in the house,” I sobbed into the phone when he picked up.
At that moment, the door slammed with such force, I could feel the wind of it. I could see through both windows and no one was there. And then the banging started. Something was pounding against the inside of the door with such anger, and then it shifted outside of the house to the other side of our fence and trailed off into the night. I was screaming and crying as my fiancé yelled through the phone not to go back into the house. He’d heard it all.
Ten terror-filled minutes later, my fiancé and my dad showed up at the house. They checked every square inch of that house but nothing was amiss and no one was there. I had been alone the whole time.
When I think about it, it’s so clear in my head what happened. Burned into my memory. I can still feel my terror when I realized something had locked the door on me and the fear of turning around to see what was coming down those stairs after me.
My siblings and I are convinced whatever that was wasn’t Chandler. Our ghost has always been relatively quiet, nice almost, setting off favorite forgotten toys, or picking wedding songs, standing in corners of rooms like he is just a curious observer. Two weeks ago, he appeared as I was doing laundry late at night, but disappeared as soon as my three dogs went ballistic at the place he’d been standing. He’s not malicious, he’s just there, like a sometimes present, quiet, one of the family almost.
That night was something different.
It may sound like just another ghost story, but it’s all true.