My own ghost story

Or, one of them, anyway.

Okay, I am calling it a ghost story because I do not know what else to call it. I am just one of those people that attracts weird events. Maybe because I’m weird?

I have been intending to share this since writing the entry for the Ghosts episode.

Originally posted here, written December, 2012. This happened exactly as I reported it, because it is seared into my brain due to adrenaline. Draw close, lovelies.

I was reminded last night of a striking experience I had, about fifteen years ago in Revere, Massachusetts:

I was alone in a older New England home, the type that has a street level for company, and a basement for family living. The basement stairs opened directly onto the side door, and were visible from the front door.

Prequel: I had already had one experience in this home. I saw my first full-body apparition in that basement.
(Now, this–this I would call a ghost, or the smoothest practical joke ever played, and never owned up to…)
I saw the older lady who had convalesced and died in the basement. I went downstairs and saw, superimposed over the sofa, her in her hospital bed. I could see the sofa and wall through her and her hospital bed.

Fast forward: I was alone in this house, at street level, preparing to go out for the day. I heard an older woman’s voice through the floor vent. At first, the voice was indistinct, enough so that I thought it might be a neighbor outside. I looked outside, but the neighborhood was empty and quiet–it was the type of neighborhood where everyone works during the day. Not a soul was in sight.

The voice became more distinct, and louder. An older female was calling for attention. Not “help”, per se–she didn’t sound as if she were in distress, just as if she needed assistance. As the voice became clearer, I could hear words: “Please come down here”, and somesuch. I put an ear to an air vent at one point, to further clarify that the voice was coming from the basement. It was.

I became frightened at this point. The voice was growing in volume and distinctiveness, and I knew the only two ways out of the house passed the yawning darkness of the basement stairwell. I was so unnerved that I actually considered climbing out of a window.

Meanwhile, the voice continued to entreat me to come downstairs…and I had the strongest feeling that I should not go downstairs.

I finally dashed past the stairs and out the front door–I was so pumped with adrenaline and fear that my memory of doing so is fuzzy.

The most terrifying part, in some ways, is that I remember that I could hear her voice through the basement windows outside the house–as if she was a real person, calling from the basement. By this time, she was calling me, or whomever she thought I was, “honey”.

I never allowed myself to be alone in that house again.

About Carla

This Bluestocking bookworm is your friendly Dollop web-wrangler and digital library curator. In other words, pay no attention to that woman behind the curtain. I'm just here to John Nash all this stuff together. It's all about connections. IT'S ALL CONNECTED. I live atop a mountain, geographically isolated for the protection of others. Yes, an American mountain.

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