Since about the middle of September, I’ve been doing what should be mandatory in the United States until the end of October. I’ve been reading ghost books. Some of them are awesome, but some of them I’ve wanted to call shenanigans on. There was one guy who wrote a book about a haunting that took place starting when he was five and he was writing down to the detail on everything. No offense, dude, but I can barely remember what I had for breakfast on Monday. I can tell you that my memories of being five are there, but they’re hazy. The point is, it made me think about all the stuff that happened when I moved in to my first house, and I thought to myself, “Self, you should throw your ridiculous and unbelievable stories out there for the world to scoff at.” So..I’m going to do that.
I’m not a diary keeper like apparently 90% of the world’s females appear to be, so when I moved into the house on Missionary Ridge, I didn’t decide to keep a record of the vasty weirdness. You can ask my ex-husband, though, and he’ll tell you. WEIRD. In fact, do ask my ex-husband. It might be the only thing he’ll readily agree with me on. I don’t suppose that I should be that shocked by a house that was built on an old Civil War battlefield would be haunted. I guess I’d never thought about it. I can’t imagine that my house would be haunted and not the others, but then again, we never discussed it neighborhood wide. Maybe they’re haunted too.
The house needed a lot of work before we moved in. It needed cleaning and painting, so I’d go over after work, sometimes alone, and work on it. Old, empty places do feel creepy and I’ll admit that, but I had the constant feeling that there was somebody watching me, and they were not pleased. I even started having nightmares about people floating around and glaring at me. My thoughts were that once things were moved in and pictures were on the wall, things wouldn’t feel so hostile and cold. In theory, it was a good plan. If only the pictures hadn’t shot off the wall regularly.
I don’t mean that they fell. I tested myself on this several times, because honestly, despite all my horror movie loving and ghost tour attending, I still don’t believe in ghosts. I STILL don’t believe in ghosts. I’ve had pictures fall off the wall before, which generally meant that they lost hold of the nail, or the nail came out of the wall, and they sort of slid down the wall. Occasionally, there have been times when they’ve just fallen forward or something after they fell. That was not what happened. I never saw one go down, but they’d land two to three feet from the wall. This, to me, never suggested a mild drop. We used nails that were in the wall when we moved in, and let me tell you, they were solid nails with lots of room for a wire. I’d actually make sure that the wires were hooked behind the head of the nail. I’d pull on the picture; wiggle it around on the wall. It would be solidly connected. I remember one particular time when I had just made it around the corner before my framed Ansel Adams smacked the floor with resounding force and shattered the glass. That didn’t ever creep me out, that just made me mad.
The creepiness involved other things.
One of the first really creepy things I remember was early on in living there. My ex and I had an argument, and I decided I’d just go sleep on the couch. It was pretty comfy and I could turn the stereo on. I was just getting good and cozy, but not asleep, when I heard a footstep on the top of the staircase. I thought I was mistaken, because I hadn’t heard the bedroom door, so I waited. When the footsteps continued, I said something to my ex about being afraid to sleep while I was mad, and did not get the smarmy retort I was expecting. Just more footsteps. I got up and went to the doorway just as the last few footsteps fell, but there was only darkness.
I could bore you all day with this type of nonsense. Instead, I’ll space it out.