Oh HELL No
There were two more distinct occurrences. They were the last two straws for us; the first was unnerving, but after the second we started making active plans to move. The first incident happened to my husband; it disturbed him enough that he still doesn’t like to talk about it. He told me the story once and that was enough for him; attempts to get him to repeat it are met with a gentle but stubborn refusal.
It happened in broad daylight. I was away on a “girls’ day” with my sisters; my husband was home alone with our son. Our son was playing on the swing set in the backyard while my husband supervised. It was then he began hearing a strange, pounding noise coming from inside the house.
If you faced the house from the back yard, you were looking at the small porch and the back door that led to the kitchen. Beside the door was a large window. My husband said the pounding noise sounded like someone inside the kitchen beating slowly and steadily on the outer wall with a fist. Then the pounding began to move, as if the one doing the pounding were walking across the kitchen and beating along the entire length of the wall.
My husband, I should add, is hard of hearing, but the pounding was so loud he could hear it from halfway across the yard. It was heavy enough that when it reached the window and then the back door, he could see them rattling in their frames, one right after the other — as if someone were playing a death march across the length of the kitchen wall.
It reached the far side of the kitchen and stopped. It was never repeated again.
The second incident happened to me. I taught piano lessons for a brief period, usually in the evening, and my husband would use piano nights to take our son out for dinner so my student and I could have the house to ourselves. On the evening in question, I had just said goodnight to my last student and I was alone in the house.
Everything was silent; I hadn’t turned on the television, or anything else. I went to the back of the house to use the bathroom. While I was sitting on the toilet, having a pee (yes, it’s funny — but at the time, not so much!), I suddenly heard laughter in the living room.
A laugh. Very clear, very distinct. It was a low, cracked, malicious “old man” chuckle.
Every hair went up on the back of my head. I can’t begin to tell you how terrible it was, sitting there with the door open and hearing someone laugh in a room that I knew was empty. (I can say with complete honesty that I have never pulled up my pants faster than I did that night.) I knew I needed to get out of the house — there was no way in hell I was staying in there with Mr. Creepy Chuckles — but to do so, I would have to go through the living room, unless I wanted to climb out a window.
I ran. Straight from the bathroom, down the hall, and through the living room — my hands acting as blinders, because I was terrified of what I might see in the living room as I ran through it and into the kitchen. I hit the back door and fled into the night. It sounds melodramatic, I know, very Gothic romantic — I fled into the night and across the moors — but it really was that sort of blind, panicked run. I had to get out of that house.
Unfortunately, once I got outside I realized a thunderstorm was coming. Great. The fields surrounding the house were high with tobacco; the wind was making the leaves move and swell. While it hadn’t started raining yet, thunder rumbled and the sky was lit up with lightning; I had run out of my apparently haunted house and straight into a horror movie. I was standing in the middle of a treeless back yard, surrounded by fields on either side, like a human lightning rod.
I needed to get under cover, but the only option was my car and it was locked, with the keys still inside the house. I knew exactly where they were — on the kitchen counter, next to the living room door. I did think about it, but I could see through the screen door straight into the living room. I remember feeling like the open door mocked me. A sly and silent invitation, if you will: Come on back inside. Let’s have a chat, dearie.
I was NOT going back inside that house, keys or no keys.
Luckily it wasn’t long before my husband came home. I was in borderline hysterics when he arrived — I think I scared the poor guy half to death — but I adamantly refused to go back into the house until he had gone in and checked it out. Of course, he found nothing and I did eventually go back inside, but I didn’t have many restful nights in that house after that.
While that was the last of the major happenings in the house, the smaller, petty poltergeist-like activity continued right up until we left the house for good that winter.
Continued in Part 5