When I attended graduate school, I was fortunate enough to rent a small, affordable, cabin along a river. The abode was rudimentary at best, though functional. It sat on a hill on the corner or two roads and had no yard to speak of. On most accounts it was dreary and undesirable, except for two features. The wrap-around porch being the first and most dramatic of the alluring attractions.
The second being the upstairs bedroom. A spacious and bright room, it had sloping ceilings, with shelves lining the bottom of the walls. On each side of the room was a door leading to a veranda. The soft rotting wood of the stoop facing the back of the house, not to mention its slightly slanted surface, made this one unusable. But the balcony facing the front seemed flawless.
The remainder of the cabin served its purposes and my dog and I found it suitable for our needs.
Not long into my stay, I began hearing noises. Most seemed to be emanating from the upstairs. Now, I am not the type of person who immediately jumps to a supernatural explanation for unexplained occurrences, especially when I really want something to work. I loved this little cottage. I most certainly was not sharing this space with a ghost. It had to be squirrels or mice or any number of small woodland creatures. For this was a preferable explanation to the idea of being haunted. Besides, the dog, who admittedly was not the most astute animal, had not given any indication of something being amiss.
So, I carried on my merry way; studying, walking the dog and sleeping in the perfectly perfect bedroom. Until, one night (you knew it was coming) as I turned the corner to take the stairs up, a pale blue, smoky light passed across the top of the staircase. Gooseflesh rose over my skin and an electrified current sent a tingle through my nerves.
Just the lights from a passing car. Come on dog. She wouldn’t move. She stood at the base of the stairs, hackles raised, looking up. Fine, you stay down here. Up I go to bed. Nothing to be afraid of here.
The dog, loyal creature that she was, eventually followed me upstairs to bed. Just as I began slipping into sleep, a loud clunk sent my heart racing. In the moonlight, I spied one of my books on the floor. It had fallen off the shelf. The dog, who’d been curled up next to me on the bed, jumped off, fur fluffed, and began barking at a darkened corner. Every hair on my body stood on end.
This I could not ignore.
I grabbed my pillow and the dog and raced down the stairs, closing the door to the perfectly perfect bedroom behind me.
I stayed out my lease, but slept for the remainder of the months on the couch – only slipping upstairs in the daylight for needed items.
As frightened as I was, I still love the fact I have such a tale to tell. Even now, writing it out, my skin prickles with the remanence of fear. Do you have a story to tell? Has something like this ever happened to you? I would love to hear about it. Tell your story in the comments below.
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