Encounters

A lot of people may not believe in ghosts, but I do. Especially after my own encounters with them. In two homes.

When I was about 15 or 16 years old, I lived on a street called Bellows in Columbus. It was on the West Side in the Bottoms. In other words, it was the ghetto. But, I pretty much grew up in that area.

The house we lived in was a little over a hundred years old. It was all brick on the outside with real glass windows. Very old. But, it was big. Big enough for my mom, my brother and sister, my cousin, and myself. My siblings, cousin, and mom had rooms on the second floor as well as the bathroom. My room was in the attic.

After living there for about two, maybe three weeks, we began to notice things. Items would be moved around the house or go missing before popping back up where they should have been. Doors would open and close, lights would flicker off and on by themselves. And the footsteps.

My very first encounter was when I was laying in bed. I had two windows and the streetlights would filter through. Shadows were always present. The chimney, which was no longer in use, shot through my room. And there were shadows, tall and lithe, that dart across my room, behind the brick of the chimney. I would watch them, unsure, as they did. Before they would race down my bedroom steps.

My next encounter was the one had me truly speculating. It was around five in the morning. My room was so empty, that you could tap on my door, with two, small flights of steps separating it from my room, and I would hear it easily. But, at around five in the morning one day, I heard banging on my door. It was like the damn police were trying to beat it down. I simply thought it was my mom, and when I saw the time, I just yelled to give me another hour. When I finally did get up with my alarm, I walked down the steps of my room to the second floor.

At the top of the stairs, the bathroom was to your right with a linen closet against the same wall as the steps. No one in the house was tall enough to reach the top shelf. But, when I got up that morning, the blankets from the top shelf were strewn across the floor. My sleep addled brain thought nothing of it. But after both my siblings and my mom said that they had not knocked on my door, nor opened the linen closet, I felt chills.

After that, I was home alone one day. I had the TV off, sitting on my tablet, reading in the front room. It was quiet, until I heard footsteps. Heavy footsteps.

I sat my tablet down, listening. They sounded as if they were coming down the steps from my room. And then, and I swear this on my children, I heard my door open and slam shut. I was cold, covered in goosebumps. And once it sounded like the footsteps were coming down the steps to the living room, I grabbed my house key, ran out the house, locked the door, and ran down the street to my mawmaw's.

My cousin, who was two at the time, lived with us. I was babysitting her one night. She had a bed in my mom's room. She was asleep, the TV on, and I was reading on my tablet. Out of nowhere, she shot up in bed, pointed at my mom's closet, and screamed. "Don't get me! No! No let him!"

She called him Closet Man. And she was terrified. But what really solidified my belief, was the basement incident.

Our basement terrified me, and I hated going down there. My mom had bribed me. Do the laundry, I'll buy you a pack of cigarettes. Whatever. Fine.

I went down to put clothes in the dryer. There was literally a single light in the center of the musty old basement. As I started the dryer, the lights flickered. I thought it was just old. I shrugged, started walking up the stairs. I heard a creaking and watched as the door slammed shut, the light going out.

I screamed.

It was so dark, I couldn't see my hand in front of my face. I couldn't see anything. And all could hear was the dryer. But I could feel something. It made my blood run cold, like a river of ice running through my veins. I could feel the goosebumps rising across my skin. The hair on the back of my neck standing on end.

I dunno how, but I just knew that I was not alone in that basement.

I know it wasn't anyone in my house pulling my leg. I remember that day vividly. My brother was with my dad, my cousin was with my mawmaw, my sister was with her boyfriend. It was just me, my mom, and my two dogs. Both of which were outside.

My mom heard me screaming, beating on the door. She pulled it open, and I fell to the floor, crawling through the doorway and kicking the door shut behind me.

I cried. The fear had gotten to me so badly, I cried. My mom didn't question it. She already knew. She had witnessed events in that house. We all knew that there was more than one. But one of them just felt cold. Evil. Dark.

The other one, my cousin named him. We all called him Jerry. He was her friend. We all witnessed, at one point or another, my cousin playing with her toys. We've seen them move on their own, my cousin lighting up in joy.

He followed us.

When we moved to Grove City, Jerry had followed. He would 'prank' us by making the lights flicker, move my cousin's and niece's toys. He was always around. And we didn't mind. His was a warm presence.

I know that the evil that resided in my old home is still there. Before I moved to Kansas, when I would see it, or walk past it, I would feel shivers of fear run down my spine. I don't know who the spirit belongs to, but I know that its evil. My family knows. As I said, we had witnessed its evil. All of us, in one form or another. And to this day, just remembering what had happened in that house, still terrifies me and gives me goosebumps.

I know it may sound crazy, but I put it on my children's lives, that this is all true.