posted on Nov, 17 2003 @ 03:59 AM
Well, I promised some people that I would, as the title so subtly indicates, talk about my experiences with ghosts. Wherever I seem to go, they're
there. I moved away from home (which was, incidentally, five hundred feet east of one graveyard, and about half a mile west of another) and yet still
I feel the... presences . I got some explination of that recently from my RA, who said that ten years ago a girl jumped out of her window from
the tenth floor (the one directly above us). No one knows why she did, but I'm working on digging that up.
Things happen on 9th and tenth. Doors close. Knobs turn. My door always sounds like it's being knocked on, but when I answer it, no one's there. The
worst was when the wind got really bad, and since everyone has crappy windows-this is a dorm, after all- the wind whistled through them all. Sounded
like a chorus of the damned. Now, image you're up at foru in the morning, walking aroudn these empty halls that SHOULD be populated even at this
hour, and all you can hear is this screaming of the wind and a presence.
Yes, well back to the main idea. I am a moderately skilled writer, and one day I managed to fictionalize accounts of what happened to me in my old
house. It turned out to be a not-bad story, if I do say so myself. I'll post the first chapter, and if you all want me to post the subsequent ones, I
will.Please note that while the first chapter of the story is fairly true, the ones after it are purely works of imagination based on experiences and
Journal Entry, dated 03 April
I donít know what was wrong that night. Usually, I find the darkness a comfort, like an old blanket or a well-worn shirt. That nightÖ.that night,
something was off. It felt like someone was walking (or dancing, I suppose) over my grave. My dog and I, we walked along the bike path. I was musing
to myself and he was sniffing things, as usual. Somehow, my mind wandered to spirits and the like. To take my mind off the uncomfortable thoughts, I
looked up at the sky. Everything was different. The clouds were orangy, and so was the gigantic half moon above them. The stars werenít even out.
As my dog ďwateredĒ the grass, I had a sudden flashback. I was in grade ten again, and the class was sitting in a half circle around our teacher as
he recalled stories from HIS childhood. He had lived out with his aunt on a farm briefly. He recalled, every October 24th, that the voices would come
in the night. The first time they had come, his uncle had heard them. Faint and indistinct, he thought perhaps some people had wandered onto his farm
and were seeking help. He went out with the lantern, searched the entire farm, and come back empty handed. He shrugged it off until he heard them
again, louder this time. It sounded like a family, with a father, mother, some children and an infant.
Again, he went out, and again they assailed him from all directions. I could hear the tremors in my teacherís voice as he described it. Every October
24th afterwards, his uncle would sit in the kitchen with a shotgun across his lap and a bottle of whiskey in hand while everyone else cowered beneath
the table and wished the voices away. The ghostly voices seemed to be coming from everywhere. He described each one with frightening clarity. The
fatherís voice boomed commands across the fields, angry and worried. The motherís was out towards the barn, crying in frustration, trying to calmly
keep her children under control. But they were the worst, he saidÖ they were the worst. They screamed and cried and howled like banshees. The children
called out questions and pleas, while the baby just kept crying. He didnít know what made them do that. He guessed that maybe the house had been
burnt down, but they would never know. It was an old farm, from way back in the days when Canada was just being settled.
Now, Iím not saying ghosts or spirits or whatever you want to call them exist, but if they do, I have every reason to respect them. I live perhaps no
more than five hundred feet from Munnís Graveyard. I can almost see it from my bedroom window. Iíve had my own run ins with them. Some nights, when
Iím in bed and up because Iím a bit of an insomniac, I see auras, sort of. You know, when you get up too fast and everything becomes a sheet of dotty
yellow? Put that into the shape of a person and make it transparent, and thatís what I see. Iíve seen a whole bunch. You can tell who they are by the
way they move. Thereís an old man, a farmer, a soldierÖ The longer I look at them, the more defined they become. Itís creepy.
Most nights, when I see them, I just face the wall and hide my face. Iím terrified of them. Once, one started to move towards me. It was like the size
of a five year old, and it seemed to be beckoning me to play. I just flipped myself over and started to repeat the words ďno fearĒ over and over
again. I couldnít have been more than an inch from the wall, but when I managed to open my eyes again, the face was there, half in and half out of the
wall. I just stood stock still. It did the same, and as we stood there looking at each other, it Ė she Ė started to sort of congeal. The features
became three dimensional, then started to round out, then the eyesÖthe sockets formed. I just closed my eyes. When I opened them again, she was gone.
I havenít seen her since. But sometimes, it feels like someoneís touching my body: usually my hair or head, but sometimes my legs. I know nothingís
there, though. Itís creepy as hell.
As we walked, I tried to purge my mind of these thoughts. My throat had swelled and hackles risen as we emerged into the light of a streetlamp. I
felt as if someone was staring as my back, trying to burn a hole in it. I whipped around, but no one was there. Nothing. Not a single sign of life. My
neck still felt odd, as it there was a faint pressure there. A thin line around it, actually. I rubbed it, yet the sensation did not fade. I could
still feel the presence behind me. I jogged the rest of the way home, casting worried glances of my shoulder the entire way. Once, just once, I
thought I might have caught a glimpse of a small form made purely of shadow. It was there and gone at the same time, and I could swear that there was
a smile on the Ďfaceí. Even now, as I write this, I can still feel it. I feel like Iíve tried to swallow a tennis ball whole. Except now, itís like
someoneís stepping on my throat every time I try to write a wordÖ