Our Spooky Lies Will Haunt Your Face

As you may have gathered, we are in a yarn-spinning mood this week. Also, say hello to new staffer (and lady-type invader of our secret clubhouse), Cathleen.

Before I begin with our sacred duty to scare the pants off of you with words, let me take a moment to say that short babies lead lives of tragedy - so I suppose that Spartans are paragons of mental health.

Scared yet? Just wait.

Gather 'round, younglings, for I am about to tell you a true tale of my youth, when I was still a young man. First, some background; the events of that night occurred when I was a lad of 17 summers, still naive in the ways of the world. I lived at home, in the ancient farmhouse of my family. My great-grandfather purchased it from the descendants of the Ashleigh clan, a group of now-defunct local aristocrats, who suffered financial setbacks and family in-fighting enough to drive them to ruin. Back when the house was constructed, though, they were steadfast Christians, and put all of their efforts into helping their fellow man, enough to the point where the house was actually a small branch along the Underground Railroad. I've seen the hidden spaces in the basement, beneath the floorboards (larger than I thought they'd be) and even a false wall behind a closet (barely large enough for me as a child).
The house is relatively large; three floors, two basements (one old, one new), a sunning room, and one of the first electrical garage doors in the state (very impressive). It's also old and shadowy - the third floor, where I had my bedroom, was sloped to match the curvature of the roof. And there were... other features. Doors that were only three feet tall, leading to rooms that I presumed were for storage, which had even smaller doors in them, leading to smaller rooms, and smaller doors still, which led to the breezy non-rooms of the attic - just dark spaces above the ceilings but below the roof, home to bats and, one notable summer, a wasp infestation.
Regardless, I didn't think much of it. The third floor had always been my floor. While my sisters had bedrooms below, I got the one up on the top, sacrificing comfort for privacy. They were both away at college, though, and my parents were on vacation to Italy, and I was left alone, to see to the maintenance of the place. Which was okay. It had been four days already, in the warmth of that summer, and I woke up, ate, cleaned, and basically whittled away at my time. I made plans with friends that night, and was in the shower when I first heard the noise.
I couldn't quite make it out in the shower, but turned off the water when I clearly heard it the first time. It sounded like something on the roof, sliding down the side of the old tarpaper. I didn't really think much of it at the time - the house was old, and was always making strange noises like that. The water pipes groaned in winter, so I figured that maybe some of the old beams were just readjusting, or maybe one of the old sheets of roofing fell off. I got out of the shower and began getting ready, when I heard another noise, like footsteps downstairs. Now, I knew what footsteps sounded like, because I could hear a person on the first floor walking around, if their stride was heavy enough, but these were completely unusual. Now I was beginning to get a bit afraid. I got dressed, and tried my best to ignore the sounds. As I had hoped, they began to fade away. I finished getting dressed, and calmed myself. It was just the house, of course.

When I got downstairs, the window to my sisters' bedroom was open. A chilly late-summer breeze gusted in.

I closed the window, and tried to put it out of my mind. If we were being robbed, I was just going to go ahead and let them take whatever they wanted - I wouldn't be in the house. I closed the window, rushed downstairs, grabbed the keys to the car, and took off to hang out with my friends.

A few hours later, I came back, and was relieved to find out that all of my fears were unfounded. I cursory examination of the first and second floors revealed nothing out of place - no open windows, nothing removed, nothing knocked over. As I walked up the stairs to the third floor, though, I heard the noise that I'll never forget, as long as I live - the sound of a small door closing, followed almost immediately by another, and another. As I topped the stairs, I saw that the tiny doors - the doors that lead to the attic - were all closed. I paused for a moment, and listened. Nothing was shifting around, no footsteps, no noises. I didn't sleep at all that night, and heard every old groan the house made, and I could have heard a pin drop.

The next morning, things seemed normal again. In a few days, my parents came back, and life kept going. It wasn't until that Christmas, when I went into those little rooms to retrieve the ornaments, that I remembered that night in late summer. As I opened up the smaller and smaller rooms, I saw that the last door, the door to the attic space, hadn't closed the whole way. As I reached out to close it, I felt a chill run down my spine, and slammed it shut. I gathered the ornaments, and went back downstairs as fast as I could.

Later that evening, the house was freezing cold. My mother complained, and I went upstairs to check. Every one of the attic doors was open, as was the window in my bedroom.



And if that didn't do anything for you, how about this?