When I was a kid, I had a very low tolerance for scary stories. I don’t know who decided that it would be a good idea to tell me that my house had previously been used as a morgue, but as a kid who didn’t know exactly what a morgue was, the idea terrified me. I didn’t know that, generally speaking, no one actually died in a morgue. I come from a family of stone carvers, and apparently that meant that when the ground was too frozen to dig graves and there was no room left in the morgue at the cemetary, any extra corpses would be stored in our basement. Still creepy, but not necessarily terror-inducing.
Then my mother had the bright idea to tell me that my great-grandfather had died in our kitchen.
She’d intended it to be humorous, I think. He had a heart-attack, so he quite literally fell out of his chair and died.
I didn’t think it was all that funny. Suddenly, my paranoia about my house being haunted had gotten a lot more real.
Our house is at least a century old. It creaks in the night, and sometimes you can hear rodents in the walls. It’s a pretty good setting for a haunting, which wasn’t much of a comfort when I was 9 years old and saw the pendant light in the family room swinging slightly with no apparent cause.
The signs were all there. I often felt like I was being watched. Sometimes I would see things moving out of the corner of my eye, things I wasn’t quite as quick to dismiss after the incident with the light fixture. On one memorable occasion, I saw a figure pass through the hall at the bottom of the stairs, though there were no footsteps, and everyone else was asleep.
As the years passed, I grew almost used to the presence. I would whisper my greetings when I moved through the house at night, because it was easier to keep the fear at bay when you acknowledged the thing you were afraid of. Eventually, I stopped being scared. It became almost a comfort. I was never worried about being home alone, because I was never really alone.
I was 13 when my great grandmother died. We planted a magnolia tree, her favourite, in the front yard.
I no longer felt like someone was watching me when I stayed up late watching television. The only thing moving around the house at night was myself, and possibly the cat. It only occurred to me years later that there could be a reason. I talked to my mother about how I had thought our house was haunted when I was younger. To my surprise, she agreed with me. She had felt the same things, but she hadn’t been afraid like I had. Once, she had passed by the family room and seen her grandfather standing at the window. When she looked back, he was gone. She said that sometimes she had felt like he was there with her, but hadn’t for a few years.
It’s hard to place an exact date on the last time anyone felt an otherworldly presence in our house, but I believe that our house stopped being haunted the day that my great-grandmother died.
My great-grandparents, Leslie and Mary, met when Mary was on vacation in England. Leslie moved across the atlantic ocean to be with her. I suppose that’s why it isn’t hard for me to believe that he waited around two decades for her to be with him again so that they could make that final crossing together.
Fuck Yeah Nightmares Mod Fey: That’s sweet. 5/10 for scares and thank you for sharing!
9 Mar, 2016
Posted in Nightmares and tagged Ghost Stories by cnkguy with no comments yet.