Ghost Stories & Paranormal Encounters

I stared up at the old grayish blue building. This edifice from my childhood memory that stood off on a cement parking lot with gravel pushed up to the very sidewalks I ran across so long ago. This old broken down palace that seems to immobilized time as the old oak tree behind the back sways its branches. I can see the orange yellowed leaves fall gracefully to the ground like an autumn song that plays without the hum of melody. Somehow it all look smaller then how I would had imagined it those days in the past.
Everywhere around the neighborhood there shoot green grassed lawns and nice shady tree. Everything that would make it as though one has driven into a secluded secret suburb. But this mangy lot of stones and pebbles is like a dark tower that stood over the whole street. Gray shadows hovering over the sky while sunshine penetrated all else. I finally found it. After all these years I’ve finally located my bogeyman.

I was barely four and tough as a tomboy. Chasing my two older brothers up the street I turned back to look at the stoned and pebbly entrance that lead to our kingdom. The stark gloomy apartment complex was built like a fortress that has seen better days. Never less, through the eyes of us children, it was a haven where our parents will let us run wild as long as we stay confined within it’s walls. A slight shiver sled down my spine and thinking that the air was getting a little too chilly I called out to my brothers. As the three of us walked home together I happened to look up and see the curtains of the upstairs apartment fluttering shut.

Little things happen from time to time. We’ve never thought it strange that we can hear footsteps from the vacant apartment over ours. Nor that we will come home to our front door slightly ajar. Our pitiful apartment held so little that not even a thief would dare put so much effort into robbing us. Yet my parents would still fight over who was careless and forgot to lock the doors. I guess they were afraid to admit that there was something eerie and mysterious afoul in our neck of the woods.

My story begins one hot summer day where the fresh smell of diarrhea was in the air. I was being very productive that morning much to my parents dismay for everywhere I go I dragged the sticky pooh-pooh smell with me. Minutes after father changed my diaper the sound of incisive farting rumbled from my tush and he groaned again. The diarrhea war rages on far into the evening. My father consistently slapped me thinking that such actions would make me stop. “It’s all in her head,” he bellows at my mother.

Being sent to bed I lay my head down on the pillow. I closed my eyes and I felt my pillow shift. I position my pillow again and felt it shift again. Getting frustrated I woke up and grab my pillow yanking the thing from the wall. There was a hand there gesturing me towards it. During that time I was too young to have even captured an episode of the Addams Family. But lo and behold a moving hand. There was no blood and I remember how cool it was for the hand to move not thinking for a second it wasn’t attached to a person. My father’s voice barking at me made me hasty cuff the pillow back into position. When he turn away I quickly remove the pillow only to find the hand gone.

I told my father the amazing story of the moving hand under my pillow but he took it as a make believe and gave me a harsh spanking.

I guess I was closer to the truth then anyone would had thought for a couple days later my mother and my little brother became ill. The shaman was summoned and he cast his readings from the doorway. After several readings he ask my father if there was anything strange about the apartment. Was there any signs of communication from the beyond and if so what were the signs. My father quickly came back to my story realizing I’m a precocious child that hasn’t learned the art of fibbing yet.

My father bent down to my level and ask me what I saw that day. The day of the hand under my pillow. I shook my head from side to side fearing another spanking. “Do you want mommy and you baby brother to get sick?” asked my father. So I recounted what I saw and he took that to the Shaman. After a few weeks my mother and my baby brother got better. We packed up our things and moved away. “Closer to family,” said my father. But I guess he wanted to say was “farther away from this cursed place.”

Many years later I learned the story of the biker gang war with the residents of that tiny complex. There was a shoot out massacre where many people lost their lives. Funny how these facts tend to stumble out after all that’s said and done. But it was this place of peeling blue paint and stony pavements that shaped my future for me. It was here that at four I learn that anything is possible. A good chuck of my childhood sparked from this haunted playground of restless ghosts. When I almost died from a childhood illness, to when I contracted tapeworm, to when I broke my arm to when I first fell in love with storytelling.

Mister Bogeyman… I have returned. And this time I’ve come alone.

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