My house was built sometime between 1899 and 1900 on the site of an old Civil War encampment in a neighbourhood called ‘Nebraska’ by those who first established it because – relative to the centre of the city at that particular time – it was very like being in Nebraska.
Most of the homes are a random collection of late Victorian ‘shotgun’ style houses, Balloon Framed curiosities, unadorned Upright & L constructions, and a few Queen Anne Wannabes – virtually all of which had been built with the cast-offs and left over bits from the construction of the far more opulent manor houses and mansions of the now-historic area called ‘West Central,’ almost a mile ‘closer’ to downtown.
When I was digging the giant hole that would eventual become my pond, I found a rusty iron cannon ball, a pick (what is plunged into the top portion of the cannon to pierce the black powder charge) and all manner of broken pottery, blown glass, old brick, and the clear evidence that something had once burnt to the ground in my back yard.
Needless to say, the area has some history.
When I first moved in to my house I got the feeling that someone – or something – else was already there. Way back when a girlfriend and her kids lived with me, her daughter would swear that periodically, when she would walk by my room, she would see an old woman sitting on the foot of my bed, watching her. I had never had any experiences that I could directly attribute to a haunting – a door opening on its own or objects moved from where I had put them – but I often suspected that I wasn’t completely alone.
Then, about six months ago, I went upstairs in the middle of the afternoon to change clothes for work and, after I was finished and turning to leave, discovered that I was locked in my room. This wouldn’t be such a big deal except for two things, 1) the actual locking mechanism is above the door knob (and therefore above your hand) and designed such that it is not likely that you would inadvertently lock yourself in, and 2), in ten years of living in this house I had never accidentally locked myself in a room. I thought it was odd, but I shrugged it off. And I am perfectly convinced that, after ten years of never having done so, I could have accidentally locked myself in the room – just the same way I am convinced that my head could burst into flames as I am shampooing my hair.
A short time later, lying in bed very late at night, my electric guitar (sitting in a stand across the room) strummed itself. Just once. Very softly. Without even looking, I slid down deeper under the covers and tried my best to ignore it.
Two months ago I came home from work a little after 11pm and had just thrown my ‘dinner’ Tupperware in the sink and started to feed the cats when the telephone rang. I rolled my eyes (a natural habit with all of the creditors hounding me these days) and marched to the phone. ‘Unknown name, unknown number’ the caller ID informed me. Figures, I thought. I pressed Talk and, in exasperation, said ‘Hello?’
Nothing but static.
Only then did I realise that the telephone was still unplugged at the wall jack, just the way I had left it. All of the hair on the back of my neck promptly stood at attention. And then I went to watch something funny on television and tried to ignore what had just happened.
Early in September, once again lying in bed, I was having horrible nightmares. I have had a number of what might be referred to as ‘Latent Abduction’ style dreams that have kept me wondering if what was happening was, in fact, a dream or something much worse. This night, the dream was exceptionally bad. So bad that I finally pulled myself up and yelled at the empty room, ‘All right! You’re fucking scaring me now! Is that what you want to hear? Are you happy now!?’
‘Yes,’ said a very low, very deep voice.
I hadn’t screamed so hard since I was a little girl.
Happy Samhain!
