This post is part of Rhobin Lee‘s monthly Round Robin Blog Hop. This month’s theme is fittingly “paranormal.” Enjoy!
I was fifteen and home alone. Janna was out somewhere, my other siblings had long since moved out, and my parents were at a party and not expected until late. I sat on a stool behind the kitchen counter, watching something on TV, my legs tucked up under my nightgown. It was cold and going on 10 pm. One of the three stations we had to choose from had some program on. I don’t remember what it was, but it was not something you should be watching when you are home alone, have a vivid imagination, and don’t like scary movies. I watched it anyway because, quite frankly, it was better than a quiet house.
You see, I grew up in a house with a lot of odd noises and happenings. I could sit on the couch, read a book, and hear someone calling my name, except there was no one in the house to call my name. Lights would turn on, doors would shut, items would disappear and reappear days later in the exact spot you had left them. While I was used to it, I wasn’t particularly comfortable with it. We lived out in the country. Although there are other houses right next door, they aren’t right on top of each other, and it is easy to sneak around without people knowing. (I know. My friends and I used to do it. We weren’t peeping toms, but we liked sneaking around just because we could. LOL)
My parents have a two story house. There is only one room upstairs. It has sliding glass doors that open to a balcony to the backyard and is open to the first story with a balcony. The house is full of windows. It’s a beautiful house. Those large windows look out into trees and greenery. You step outside and see a multitude of stars winking at you.
Every time we visit my mom, it’s like going on vacation.
That particular night, though, watching that show, I was a bit freaked out. The skin on my back crawled as if someone stared at me through the kitchen window. The sound of the sliding glass door upstairs opening had me looking toward the stairs. I stood up and grabbed the butcher knife from the drawer. (Yes, I was that scared.) Again, there was no one else home. I listened intently, holding my breath. The stair that creaks only when stepped on it creaked, but no one was there. I was still jumpy, but now I knew it was our resident ghost(s).
Apparently, the ghosts had a sense of humor. For someone like me, that was not fun. I can laugh about it now, but it explains some of my aversion to scary movies. Who needs them when you have that?
Of course, it could’ve been my imagination. What do you think?
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