Ghost Story

I have an family member who lives in an old country house in the rural midwest. When I was a kid we would visit quite a bit, and one of the first things I remember about that house was the story my uncle told me, about one of the previous owners. The man had killed his wife, claiming she fell down the stairs, where she died contorted against the front door at the bottom (though investigators would later conclude he used a weapon). The man then sunk her body in a barrel in the lake... but it floated up, and he was caught, arrested for murder. The man had been long dead, but as a kid I was told sometimes you could see lights, like two eyes, in the pond behind the house.

This was meant to scare me, and it worked. I never went in much for ghost stories, but I did have a vivid imagination as a child, and the true story of that murder stayed with me on every visit.

That all came to a head one night, when I was seven or eight. Being that there were not enough bedrooms for the kiddos, myself and my sister were bedded down in the open hall along the bannister at the top of the stairs—wall on one side and railing on the other. At the top of those stairs, where my sleeping bag feet were pointed, was the guest room door, and across from that a little hall to the master bedroom on the other side.

It was late that night, my sister and I were asleep, but I heard footsteps downstairs, and being a light sleeper, I figured some of the adults had not gone to bed yet. The steps approached and mounted the steps below. Now, I would often do that thing that kids like to do, where you are wake but pretend to be asleep—it protects us, you know. No sudden movement, just laying there invisible in the dark, like a baby deer. I was particularly good at this when it was time to wake up for school.

So that night as I heard those footsteps shuffling up the stairs, I figured it was my uncle, or my dad, but I kept my eyes shut, until the footfalls reached the top, then I planned to peek, just open my eyes wide enough to scope out who it was. Whoever it was reached the top, and moving only my head, turning slightly toward the steps, I opened my eyes just wide enough to see clearly through the lashes. There was no one there. Not only that, but the door to the guest room was shut. But I hadn't heard it close—so it must have been closed already before the steps reached the top. This was so abrupt, that at first I wasn't even scared—mostly just puzzled. I was wide awake, and whomever had climbed those stairs had vanished. I rolled over closer, just to peer down between the balusters, and immediately my eyes locked on the narrow window to the left of the front door. Through that window were two yellow lights—dim, but insistent, like eyes in the dark. I rolled back over, blanket to my mouth. I remember holding perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, that ugly gray that darkness makes of white, with this garish hanging chandelier you could almost touch from the railing. I lay there for what felt like hours, and with no memory of falling asleep, I woke up again the next morning, to the creaky daylit house, and the bustling noises of breakfast.

I still don't know if I believe in ghosts, but I will never get the sound of those stairs, or the yellow candle-glow eyes out of my head. Maybe it means nothing, or maybe it means some spirits don't rest. All I know is that house still brings a tingle to the back of my neck.