don't laugh.... it's actually mostly true

i find spooky stuff fascinating. i'm not at all sensitive to spirts of creepy residual feelings. my stoic side will tell you publicly it's all bullcrap. my inner flaky hippy cries out that there HAS to be something else out there.

i'm the type who would love to have a supernatural experience, but probably too blunt to catch things. it really has to slap me in the mouth.

in highschool i was dating a girl who came from a long line of Scots who fancied themselves as psychic or at the very least, sensitive to the residuals of something beyond memory and history. she read a mean and thorough tarot, even though i admit that's 90% cold reading a person.

she was a beautiful soul, but was terrified at me loping after the chance to experience some sort of ghastly apparition. she cringed and tried to tell me that no one should look for this stuff. it sat heavily on her and thought it ignorant to be an eager explorer.

a mutual friend had recently moved into a new home. well, new for her. the home had been part of the original 200 homes in my local community. i melt in Victorian era homes. the wood, the sounds, the layouts... an infinite realm for me to explore and i was hyper to get snooping. we walked in the door and i was giddy to get the tour. my ex stopped and stood up from untying her shoes.

"let's GO! i want to see what's in Heather's place!"

she was rigid and looked right past me.

"i'm not coming in. we can't go in. let's go. my mom is probably still in the driveway."

being my first little f-ed up highschool relationship i naturally wasn't well-skilled at being a positive partner.

"fuck this! everyone's coming over tonight. i'm not having a fight here in the front hall!"

she was a very passive and easy-going chick but she got hard real fast. "i'm NOT staying. it's..."

"it's what?"

"it's too sad. we can't stay."

she said it with little feeling beyond a tremulous waiver over the word sad.

captain dickbag me just threw my hands up and walked into the house. "you can sit here or you can come in."

she wouldn't move. wouldn't even take her shoes off. heather came to see what was taking us so damn long to come in. i made a joke that we had someone who'd seen too many Scooby Doo episodes and was worried about the mystery of the haunted yellow house.

heather gave a laugh. "i know, old houses are scary. come in with us and we'll take a walk. if you're too scared, hey, it's ok. just give it a chance."

she agreed but only if she could keep her shoes on.

into the house for a look-see. to die for. modern updates bookended with original wood floors and a staircase banister that could have supported a chorus line of girls sliding down it.

i was in heaven but my lady was still upset. she would sit in the living room but there were specific rooms she couldn't walk into. the upstairs bathroom, the study and the sun room were all off limits. she said she couldn't stand to be in them without feeling sick.

tour over, and the rest of the party began trickling in. we warmed my ex up with some drinks and typical nattering banter that happens when 16 year old chicks get into a room with wine coolers. we voted to chuck on a movie for a while before we piled out to be riff raff in the community.

it was something dramatic as i know we were all very quiet watching it. booze makes for multiple trips to the bathroom so no one batted an eye if someone got up to leave. heather just asked that we stuck to the downstairs bathroom to keep the general population out of her parents room and her dad's office.

in the lulled state of staring, i clearly heard someone walk up the stairs. there's no mistaking the creak of wood that old. left foot, right foot, hand on railing daisy chaining upwards. heather absently said over her shoulder, "hey man, don't use the upstairs one after this time, ok?"

none of us responded because, well, we weren't the one going upstairs.

the footsteps went up the stairs, down the hall. floorboards flexing and crunching overhead. then a swift slam of the bathroom door. the thud was jolting. none of us would be that ignorant to swing a door shut like that... right?

a friend asked, "hey, who *is* upstairs?"

taking stock we all looked around. all 8 present and accounted for. right? or...? we had to be drunk and missing someone. nope. that's all of us.

many perplexed faces and the final ruling was that simply it was the house percolating with noises and an open window plus a gust of air slammed the bathroom door shut. i wasn't buying into it. a house doesn't churn out the sound of someone mounting the stairs to go to a specific destination in the house. my ex looked beyond nervous and stood up suddenly.

"i gotta go home... right now."

heather talked her down off the ledge again. it was just a noise. it's nothing to worry about... don't stress. she agreed to stay and i reaped the reward of soothing a disturbed damsel.

a night plying ourselves with liquor scrubbed the incident from our minds temporarily and it drowned as the night rolled on.

the next morning my mom picked us both up. when i came out she was out of her truck and gawking at the house.

"amazing! my best friend Nina lived here when she was a kid! i can't believe you know someone who has it now."

we hopped into the truck and mom went off about how much she loved that house as a child. so much room and everything spoke to her imagination, just knowing how old it was.

i know my mom didn't grow up very wealthy, let alone Nina.

"how on earth did Nina's parents afford that house?"

"oh... real sad story. the previous owner hung himself in the bathroom so the house sold for cheap."

my ex covered her mouth and i was just stunned. that noise? those footsteps? the door slamming?

the sound of some ghostly entity who forever would walk up the stairs, down the hall and into the bathroom to die.