Three True Tales of Terror: A True Hauntings' Collection

by Rebecca Patrick-Howard

  I was ecstatic at the thought of having Jackie around. He was more fun than a barrel of monkeys; I mean it. Always up to some kind of hijinks, there was never a dull moment when he was around. He could make an adventure out of anything and even a simple bike ride around the neighborhood would turn into something epic. And he’d have me in stitches laughing. Jackie and I had developed our own secret language and often talked to one another in code. He played video games with me, rented movies for us to watch, and cooked dinner most nights.

  Jackie’s positive energy had the house brightening up in no time. We were so happy to have him there. This was probably around the time the bedwetting stopped.

  One night, however, I woke up with horrible stomach pains. The cramps were unlike anything I’d ever had before and as I rolled around in the bed, clutching my stomach, I was sure something was rupturing and I was dying. It felt like I was going to have a bowel movement so I finally decided going to the bathroom might help. I wanted to wake Mom up and tell her, but after the bedwetting episodes I was afraid. I didn’t want her to get mad at me. So, holding onto my stomach, I crept down the dark hall into the dark room and flipped on the light.

  As I sat on the toilet in the quiet house, though, and tried to make something happen I felt helpless and powerless. The lights were off in the rest of the house so I stared into a sea of darkness, unable to see anything past the bathroom door. The bathroom with its cheery light felt small, unguarded. There were noises in the house; noises I’d never paid a lot of attention to at night. I could hear creaks and whispers, what sounded like footsteps walking above me in what was our guest room. (Jackie was sleeping in the back of the house off the kitchen.) As the noises closed in around me, I could do nothing but sit there on the toilet with my eyes closed, waiting for my body to finish what it needed to do. I felt helpless in my position, unable to get up and move. As my stomach wracked in cramps and my bowels ruptured into the toilet I had no defenses and could only listen and wonder about what would happen next. Something terrible felt just inches away, right outside the door, but I couldn’t do anything about it. At any moment I imagined something long, shadowy, and terrible would slither inside and reach for me, grasping my foot or my arm and pulling me into some dark, dreadful abyss I’d never be able to escape from. I’d never been so scared in my life but I didn’t dream of crying out to my mother. I knew she’d be angry for waking her up.

  I ended up having to get up three more times that night to go to the bathroom and each experience was worse than the one before it. I cried as I ran from our bed of safety, through the dark hall, to the illuminated bathroom. The dark grabbed at me and pulled at my nightgown, whispered at my feet, and whipped at my face with its icy tentacles. At one point, there even seemed to be footsteps pacing back and forth outside the bathroom door as someone waited for me to step outside. My body felt used, drained. I slumped on the toilet, my head leaning on the wall, as I tried to find the courage to go back to the bedroom one last time. I begged for Jackie or Mom to wake up on their own and come and rescue me but everyone remained asleep.

  The Visitor

  With Jackie in the house, life continued on at some sort of normal pace. My mother taught at the school I attended so we’d ride in together every morning. It was often late in the afternoon before we got back to the house and Jackie, who found a job nearby selling jewelry, would return a little after us. Together, the four of us would eat dinner and talk about our day and maybe watch a movie or go for a walk.

  Those were lean times in terms of money for all of us. It took Jackie several weeks to get his first paycheck and everyone knows a teacher doesn’t go into that line of work for the pay. For almost a month we lived off of baked potatoes, piled high with whatever spices we could throw on them and cheese.

  It was starting to get late into the fall and the house wasn’t easy to heat. We quit going upstairs almost altogether and lived primarily in the living room, kitchen, and two downstairs bedrooms. Luckily, with it being an old house we were able to shut the doors to the rooms we weren’t using. A space heater kept us warm and took the edge off while we piled our beds high with comforters and feather mattresses.

  It might have been a depressing time, eating mostly potatoes and huddling together in cold rooms, but it wasn’t. In fact, it was fun. For at least a little while the shadows of the house were held back while we sat together as a family in the old kitchen at the primitive table, seeing who could pile the most cheese on top of their baked potatoes and who could come up with the most outlandish recipes with what little ingredients we had left in the cupboards.

  Walks around the neighborhood with the falling leaves and old, brick houses became after-dinner adventures for Jackie and me and we both fantasized about the day we might be able to afford something grand ourselves. People were starting to decorate for Halloween and pumpkins, scarecrows, and witches began showing up on front porches and sidewalks.

  I mostly went to bed at night feeling snug and content, despite the fact that a cloud of unease seemed to hover above us. Mom must have felt it, too, because the house was still littered with boxes. We’d never unpacked the sitting room or family room and her bedroom looked as though a tornado had gone through it. We seemed to be in a constant state of readiness; readiness for what, I wasn’t sure.

  On one bitterly cold evening Mom and I sat in the living room with all the doors closed. I had a blanket covering my lap and I sat by the window, reading a book. Mom was on the other side of the room, also engrossed in her own papers. We didn’t have the television on but the portable kerosene heater was going at almost full blast.

  Suddenly, the sound of the front door opening interrupted my thoughts. I shrugged it off, assuming it was Jackie. He was, after all, due home at any moment.

  I continued reading but kept an ear out for him. Sure enough, I heard his footsteps coming down the short hallway and then pause outside the living room door. I looked up with a smile, ready to greet him, but was surprised when I heard the footsteps turn away from the door and start back towards the staircase. A few moments later, sounds could be heard above us as someone intentionally walked back and forth in what was my room.

  The blood in me all but drained as I quietly laid my book down and looked at my mother. “Mom,” I said nervously. “Did you hear that?”

  I expected her to look up at me, smile, and say she hadn’t heard a thing. But she didn’t. Instead, she rose to her feet and replied, “It must be Jackie. He’s just playing a trick on us.”

  But there was no reason for him to be upstairs and Jackie would never try to scare me like that. I knew in my heart it wasn’t Jackie. Nor did I think it was some long-dead relative coming back to say a nightly “hello.” Mom’s acknowledgement of the noise scared me almost more than the noise itself; it meant she had heard it as well and was disturbed by it, whereas a second ago I might have thought it was just in my head.

  Mom quickly walked to the door and opened it, peering out into the darkness of the hallway. We’d forgotten to leave a light on. “Put your shoes on, Rebecca,” she said very loudly.

  The walking above us stopped.

  “They are on,” I pointed out, confused.

  Turning around, she “shushed” me and continued across the hall to the bathroom where she flipped that light on as well. There was a slight creak overhead, as though someone or something might be waiting for our next move.

  “Let’s go!” Mom said urgently, pointing me towards the front door.

  I sprinted ahead of her, scared, and fumbled for the door knob. I was convinced someone would come flying down the stairs and attack me at any second and that my childhood nightmare of being broken in on was about to come true.

  Nobody came.

  We both made it outside in a matter of seconds and stood together on the dark sidewalk in the wind. She left the front door open.

  “What are we going to do?” I cried. I looked at our car and just wanted to jump into it and drive away, never to r
eturn. Couldn’t we just leave?

  “We’ll go across the street and wait for Jackie,” she said. “He’ll be here in a minute.”

  “Can’t we just go to Betty’s?” I asked. “Can’t we just go stay with her tonight?”

  “Shhh,” she replied. “Everything will be fine. It’s probably just a mouse.”

  But everything was not fine. I was terrified. There was something in our house and it knew we were in there, too. It had listened to us and felt our presence as strongly as we’d felt it’s. Of that I was sure.

  For the next fifteen minutes we huddled there together in the cold, neither one of us had brought our coats, and waited for Jackie to come home. Our eyes never left the house. If someone had been upstairs we would have seen them come down the staircase or at least cross over the stained glass window. We didn’t see a thing.

  As soon as Jackie arrived I flew at him, giving him pieces of the story in spurts. “It was awful,” I said. “And I think there’s still someone in there!”

  We didn’t have a weapon of any kind, so as the three of us (Jackie in the lead) went back into the house he grabbed a broom standing against the wall. He started with the upstairs, with us right on his tail. As he turned on the lights and opened closet doors and peeked under beds, I cowered next to Mom, certain I’d have to make another mad dash for the front door again when someone jumped out and attacked him.

  He went through the entire house and nothing was out of order. All the windows were closed and locked. The other exits to the house were blocked by boxes. Nobody was there.

  I went on strike after that night, refusing to sleep even with Mom anymore. I didn’t feel safe. What if it came back in the middle of the night? Mom couldn’t fight off an intruder, much less a ghostly one.

  For the first two nights after that I stayed awake all night, keeping some sort of childish vigil as I listened to every noise around me. I wanted to be awake and ready should something come for us. I sat up in the bed, sometimes reading, and waited expectantly for what I knew would happen. Each sound was another pinprick on my skin, causing me to shudder and draw inside even more.

  I couldn’t go on like that without any sleep, but even Mom was spooked now. She was angry with me at first for not wanting to sleep but after a couple of nights she wasn’t able to close her eyes, either. “Let’s just not sleep in this room anymore,” she suggested. “Maybe another room would be better.”

  We moved from her bedroom to the living room after a few nights. The fold out bed wasn’t comfortable but it was a little warmer in there and at least we were closer to Jackie. I suppose that him being a man made me feel safer somehow. I was able to get a little more rest, even though I continued to wake up every few hours and had difficulty going back to sleep.

  The Girl Who Wasn’t There

  The ghosts I knew about in movies and books were mostly benign creatures. Sometimes they wanted something from those they revealed themselves to; sometimes they were simply lost souls floating around, trying to find the “light.” In either case, they were always dead.

  That’s why I was so confused the afternoon I saw someone who was very much alive.

  School hadn’t been in session for very long but I’d already made a best friend. Her name was Lori and she was a shy, quiet girl. We spent our time together listening to the radio, talking about movies, and playing around with makeup. She didn’t know about what was going on inside our house and I considered this a positive thing, afraid she might not come over if she knew the truth.

  One morning after she’d spent the night with us my mother attempted to round us up and get us out the door on time. We were going to a basketball game and running late. My cousin was staying with us, as well as Lori’s younger sister, and with so many girls in the house it was difficult to get us all out of the bathroom.

  I was the last to get ready.

  “Rebeca, we’re going on out!” she called.

  I told her I’d be there in a minute. I quickly finished brushing my hair, slipped my shorts on, and left the bathroom. As I started from the back of the house, though, something in the bedroom caught my eye. Turning, I saw Lori sitting on the floor by the bed. She was staring straight ahead, at the wall, and appeared not to notice me.

  Standing in the doorframe I called to her. “Hey, I’m ready, let’s go!”

  She turned her head very slowly, her eyes looking not at me but through me. Chills ran down my spine and I stepped back from the room. Something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. The air in the room had changed somewhat, gotten chillier maybe, or thicker.

  “Lori, Mom’s waiting,” I said again, but with less confidence. She wasn’t moving. It looked like Lori, was dressed like Lori, but lacked any of the warmth and friendliness my young friend possessed.

  Offering a thin smile she nodded her head slightly but made no move to get up.

  I wanted out of there. There was absolutely no reason to be afraid but I was shaking. “Okay, then, I’m going on out to the car,” I stammered. “See you in a minute!”

  I ran through the house, my tennis shoes hitting the hardwood floor like bullets dropping. Something was closing in behind me, something malevolent. I was moving as quickly as I could, but it felt like I was swimming through molasses. In a panic I darted through the living room and front room and jumped on the porch, letting the front door close behind me in a loud “bang.”

  My mother was in the car. My cousin was in the backseat. And, next to her, was Lori.

  There was no way she could have possibly beaten me out. We had all the doors blocked off from boxes and I’d made a straight line to the front.

  “You okay Rebecca?” my mom asked as I slid in beside my friend. Lori smiled and tugged on my hair.

  “What’s up?” she asked, concern on her face. Later, they said I was as white as a ghost.

  School was a refuge from the house, one of the few places where we could find any peace. One day, however, my mother and I were hit with something like a ton of bricks.

  “Rebecca,” my teacher began, kneeling down beside me. “Are you okay?”

  I’d been working on an assignment and my head was bent low, my ponytail laying across my desk. I looked up in surprise; I felt fine.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I replied.

  “Is there something going on at home you want to talk about?” she asked gently.

  The other students around me perked up, dropping their pencils and tuning into our conversation. I felt my face grow red and bit my lip. There was no way she could know about what was going on in our house, right?

  “Ummm…”

  She must have mistook my hesitation for something serious because the next thing I knew she was leading me out to the hallway. A few minutes later, the counselor joined us.

  “Rebecca,” the counselor asked me, “are you in any pain?”

  Startled, I jumped back a little. “No, why?”

  “Are you sure?” My teacher tenderly ran her finger across my neck, pushing a little into the skin. “Does this hurt?”

  “A little,” I replied. I hadn’t noticed it until she touched the area but it WAS a little sensitive. “It’s okay, though.”

  “Maybe you should go get Brenda,” my teacher suggested.

  A few minutes later my mother joined us in the hallway. She looked flustered and maybe even edgy from being pulled out of her classroom.

  “Brenda,” the counselor began, “do you know anything about these marks on Rebecca’s neck?”

  When she pulled back my hair, my mother gasped. “Oh my God,” she cried. “What happened?”

  “That’s kind of what we’d like to know,” my teacher said. “It’s a perfect hand print, from one ear to the other.”

  Mom moved in closer to get a better look and then shuddered.

  “Mom didn’t do it!” I cried. “I didn’t even know it was there!”

  Gently, my mother placed her hand on my neck, over the darkening bruise. Her fingers b
arely reached from end to end. The markings weren’t hers.

  “What about Jackie?” my teacher asked. She’d met him on occasion and knew who he was.

  “He’s not at home,” Mom replied. “He’s out of town this week, visiting family.”

  “This is fresh,” the counselor stated. “It’s still forming even now.”

  The three adults stood back and studied me, all trying to figure out how I could wake up from sleep with a perfectly shaped handprint across my neck.

  Nightly Sounds

  Moving into the living room worked at first. The only room that separated us from Jackie’s room was the kitchen. I also liked the fact that we were able to close all the doors leading into the living room. It made me feel shut-in and secure.

  It didn’t take long, though, for things to change.

  I’m not sure at what point I began waking up and hearing a change in the noises in the house, but it was definitely after we stopped sleeping in Mom’s bedroom. The “old” noises were spooky: creaks, clatters, and moans. Technically, though, all of those could be explained by the fact that the house was an old one and bound to make some kinds of noises. I explained them to myself a lot–several times a day, in fact.

  The “new” noises were a lot different.

  One night, as I was lying in bed on the verge of sleep, a soft scuttle darted across the floor. I opened one eye, half expecting to see a mouse in the floor. There was nothing there.

  Upon closing my eyes, the noise started again. This time it came all the way up to the bed, Mom’s side, and stopped before slowly backing away and fading into the kitchen. I tried not to think of the fact that it sounded exactly the way I did when I was running across the floor in socks.