The Protector

Next in the series of 100% Totally True, Ghost Stories is The Protector.  Happy Halloween!!! :)

The Protector

            The house on Rivermet wasn’t my first experience with something otherworldly.  It wasn’t my last either.  At the time, I was very young and not in tune with myself or my surroundings.  I hadn’t learn to recognize those little tinglings and ‘feelings’ you get when something, or someone, not of our plane is around.  The very first experience I had was quite different than the Rivermet episode.

            I’d just turned 18 and graduated from high school.  It was glorious!  My coworker has a crazy ex and was in dire need of a roommate.  I jumped at the opportunity.  For the sake of this story, we’ll call my roommate Sandy, and her boyfriend Mike. 

            Sandy was as petrified of the place as I was enthralled.  The antiquated building had been a 3 story home.  Over time the owners had renovated the structure into several apartments.  Ours was an efficiency on the top floor.  One bedroom, bathroom, and a kitchen/living area.  It was cute, cozy, and frequently held the sweet scent of pipe tobacco.  I loved it!

            The first week there, I’d made up my mind she was crazy.  Every so often she’d get goose bumps and say, “Do you feel that?”  Her eyes would grow wide as a terrified expression came over her face.

            I wasn’t sure what ‘that’ was.  I felt warm, peaceful, and protected.  The scent of pipe tobacco grew stronger during those times.  Something about the presence, and there was definitely a presence, made me feel safe and warm.  He (we were sure it was a he) reminded me of my Grandpa.  You see, I didn’t think she was crazy for believing the place to be haunted.  I thought she was nuts, because he seemed like such a nice old man.  Not that we had conversations or anything, just the ‘feeling’ I got.

            Strange things did happen there.  Mostly little things like the doors opening and closing for no apparent reason.  Half of which we could debunk by believing it was a change in air pressure when people entered or left the building. 

            My second week there, I realized Sandy wasn’t as nuts as I’d thought.  Although I still felt the warm fuzzies, it had become obvious that our visitor either didn’t like her, or had an enormous amount of fun scaring her.  It seemed like all the bumps and bangs would happen just behind her or over her head.  She’d jump, squeal, and move as close to me as she could get. 

            I could stay home for hours alone, and thoroughly enjoy it.  She couldn’t stand to be there five minutes unless someone was with her.

            Now I realize this is all relatively uneventful, even boring.  But what happened the night before she moved out is the entire point of telling this story. So I will fast forward to that night about a month after I moved in.

            Sandy’s ex harassed her terribly.  Any fear I had of living there came solely from him.  He’d show up in the middle of the night, beating on the door, screaming at her to open.  I don’t even know how many times we called the police.  A lot, for sure.  It was awfully hard to get a restraining order back then.  I’d taken to keeping a baseball bat by the front door.  He was a big guy and I wanted to protect my friend.

            That night I’d been soaking in the tub, and decided to try to communicate with our visitor.  At the time, I had a name for him.  It wasn’t his real name of course, but it seemed to suit my mental picture of him.  So many years have passed that I’ve forgotten it now. 

            I’d been in the tub at least a half hour, when I had the strangest feeling I needed to get out and get dressed.  I didn’t to start with, but the feeling grew stronger and the water got cold, so I did exactly that.  No sooner than I’d put clothes on, Sandy burst through the door, slammed it, and locked both locks.

            “Call the police!  Quick!” she said.

            “What’s going on?”

            Her pale skin was whiter than I’d ever seen it.  She was absolutely petrified.

            “It’s Mike.  He’s drunk.  I’m really scared this time.  He said he was going to kill me!”

            About that time, the entry door down stairs slammed.  From the bottom of the stairs, Mike screamed, “You ain’t getting away this time!”   Thump, thump, thump echoed up the stairwell as he made his way to our door.

            I grabbed the phone and dialed.  Nothing.  It was completely dead.  I tried again.  Still nothing.  “Sandy, go to the bedroom and lock the door,” I said as I picked up the baseball bat.

            “These doors are paper thin; the locks won’t keep him out.”

            Holding the bat as if ready to hit a homer, I replied calmly, “Someone in this building will call the police.  There’s no way they’ll just let him break in here.  Go to the bedroom.”

            The door rattled on its hinges with the force of the first impact, but the locks held. 

            I bent my knees in anticipation of his entry.  As big as he was, I knew I only had one chance to get in a good hit.  If I didn’t get him good the first time, I was toast. 

            Another boom announced his second hit.  It seemed stronger than the one before.  Once again the door rattled violently.  The locks held.

            The third hit sounded as if he’d thrown his massive body against the paneled door.  Close to 300 pounds of man should have sent that door swinging wide open, but the locks held.  The scent of pipe smoke had grown so strong it nearly choked us.

            Four strikes, then five, then God only knows how many more.  Each time, the noise was louder than before, but each time the door remained closed and the locks held. 

            Soon the sound of running footsteps and yelling wafted through the door.  Another slam, followed by swearing, and then a knock on the door.  “This is the police.  We have him in custody.  Open the door.”

            I dropped the bat and unlocked the door.  I could have hugged that cop!  He came in and asked us a bunch of questions.  We answered, and right before he left he said, “You girls don’t know how lucky you are.  He was nearly through the door.”

            We moved into the narrow hallway to see what he was talking about.  The door was made up of two thin sheets of particle board that looked like paneling.  There were giant holes all over the outside panel.  You could easily see where he’d pushed his shoulder through and the places he’d kicked.  The inside panel, remained pristine.  Not one dent, crack, or mark of any kind.  It wasn’t possible.  Even though the door opened outwards, he should have busted right through.

            Sandy moved out the next day.  Between Mike and the ghost, she’d had enough.  I stayed for another week, but couldn’t find a roommate and unfortunately had to move back home.  There are many who will say this was all just coincidence.  Just the over active imaginations of two teenagers who’d never been out on their own before.  Possibly they’re right.  However, if you have the opportunity, I suggest you hit one of those flimsy panel doors sometime.  See how easily they break.  Then consider the force a 300 pound man would exert when throwing his entire weight against it.  Coincidence?  Or maybe, just maybe, we had a protector no one could see. 

            To this day, I still love the smell of pipe smoke.  And when I smell it, it brings a smile to my face and a reminder that we are not alone.

           

           

The House on Rivermet part 2

 The House on Rivermet (part 2)

            

           For the next several days, different items continued to disappear.  Now I want to make sure I’m very clear about these so-called disappearances.  We could be sitting at the table eating, put down a fork or spoon, reach to pick it back up--and it would be gone.  I realize this does happen from time to time.  Especially when there’s a 3 year-old around.  However, when it is occurring during every meal, and you can’t find the utensil on the floor or stuck in the high chair, it’s a bit unnerving.  In addition to the silverware, shoes, clothing, and other things would go missing too.

            Our visitor (and by that time I was certain we had an unseen visitor) seemed particularly fond of my makeup.  But it only messed with it, while I was putting it on.  If I put down an eye shadow, and went to check on the children, it would be gone when I returned. 

            Except for the man in the window, most of the activities seemed playful and childlike.  At times I nearly convinced myself that it must be the ghost of a youngster playing pranks.  Other times, it was difficult to live in that delusion.  The overwhelming feeling of dread and fear that emanated from the bedroom could be completely debilitating.   

            The feelings weren’t subtle and came on quickly.  I could walk by the bedroom door 10 times and feel nothing.  The eleventh time?  It would hit me full force, stopping me in my tracks.  Almost like I’d ran into a tractor beam or force field.  In an instant, I’d be freezing and paralyzed with fear.  My racing heart would thud against my chest so hard it was actually physically painful.  It only lasted a few seconds, but that was long enough to scare the crap out of me.

            On Friday, we’d lived there two weeks.  By then, our ghost had added something new to his bag of tricks.  From time to time, no matter which room I was in, I would see this white mist in my peripheral vision.  As soon as I’d realize it was there, I’d turn to look and it would be gone.  I got smart after awhile.  I stopped looking head on and would watch it from the corner of my eye. The mist itself was nearly transparent.  Almost like a sphere shaped cloud of smoke, it hovered about a foot from the floor and reached nearly to the ceiling.  As long as I didn’t look at it directly, it would stay for several minutes at a time.  Floating in and out of my blind spot as if it were trying to get my attention.

            Friday night we decided to get out and have some fun.  My nerves were jangled and my husband was sick of hearing me gripe about the haunted house.  It’s not that he didn’t believe me, he saw the mist too.  He was there when things disappeared.  He just didn’t believe there was anything to be afraid of.  And if it weren’t for that occasional heart pounding fear, I’d have agreed with him.

            We took the kids to his parents for the night and went out on the town. 

            The next morning, he was working on the bathroom floor.  I walked up to the door to ask him a few questions.  He started to answer me and abruptly stopped talking.  His eyes locked on something over my shoulder and his jaw dropped. 

            “What is wrong with you?” I asked.

            He didn’t say a word, but all the color drained from his face.

            I spun around to see what he was looking at.  A tall shadow, shaped like a man, paced along the kitchen wall.  I gasped and the shadow stopped and turned to face me.  It looked as if it were staring right at me.  Within seconds it took off and went down the wall disappearing into the pantry.

            Both of us were silent for a moment.  “Did you see that?” he finally asked.

            “I told you.”

            “I know.  But did you SEE that?”

            “Yes, I saw it.  This house is haunted!”

            He shook his head and pulled himself to a standing position.  “Now honey,” he said.  “Don’t get all freaked out.  It’s just a ghost.  They can’t hurt you.”

            But he was very wrong.  Very very wrong.

The House on Rivermet

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays!  In honor of that, I'm going to do something I've NEVER done before.  I've had the fortune (or misfortune) of living in several haunted houses.  This month, I will be writing short stories that are an actual accounting of events that happened in these homes.  These stories are 100 percent true.  Only the names have been changed to protect the identity of those involved.  As I am not bothering my editor with these, you can expect to find errors.  I've done my best, but--comma queen I am not. LOL

Remember, sometimes the things that go bump in the night...isn't the house settling, or noisy neighbors.  Sometimes, there's really something there.

The House on Rivermet

            In September of 1992, just seven days after my second bio-child was born, we had to move from our apartment into a small duplex on Rivermet.  Things were pretty tough back then.  I’d been working at a local bar as a bartender/waitress and my boss felt it was too dangerous for me to continue working once I’d really started showing.  With only my husband’s income, we couldn’t afford the expensive apartment.  We went house hunting and found this quaint little duplex.  It was definitely a fixer upper, but the price was right.

            I’ll never forget the first time I walked into the place.   It was dingy and small, but with two bedrooms and a decent sized living room, it was good enough.  Except for the smell.  The air was thick with must.  I knew I had some major cleaning ahead of me, and just seven days after having a baby, I wasn’t sure I was up to the challenge.  We signed the lease, took the kids to his parents, and went back to clean.  By the end of the day, we were ready to move in.

            Now I have to admit the place was really cute once the layers of dust and crud had been removed.  It had all kinds of potential.  Or so I thought.  I was uneasy being there, but who actually likes being in an empty, dirty house?  I sloughed it off and the next morning we moved in.

            Looking back (because we all know the hind sight adage), the strange happenings began that very first day.  My oldest daughter refused to sleep in her room.  She was only 3, so that’s to be expected in a new place.  However, she also refused to play in her room.  And that was pretty weird.  I didn’t like the room either.  I can’t tell you why, I just didn’t.  It made me terribly uncomfortable to be in there.  So much so, I wouldn’t put the baby in there either.  I tried a few times, but I found myself continuously checking on her to make sure she was still breathing.  Probably normal behavior for a new mom, but then again, I wasn’t the freaking out kind of person.

            The disappearances started immediately.  The baby’s pacifier, bottles, everyone’s shoes, and even silverware came up missing all the time.  I mean every day, ten times or more a day, something would go missing.  I could lay the baby down, stick her pacifier in her mouth and go to the kitchen.  I’d go to the sink, or fridge, or whatever, and the pacifier I’d just given her would be sitting right in front of me.  The first few times it happened, I laughed about it.  Maybe post partum or something?  Obviously, my mind wasn’t working right. 

            Five days after we moved in, the scary stuff began.  I was babysitting, Chrissy, a friend’s 3 year old.  My husband was gone and just me and the three little ones were at home.  The baby was sleeping and I was holding the toddlers on my lap.   We were singing the alphabet song and all of a sudden, Chrissy’s face went white.  She looked terrified.  I turned my head in the direction she was looking, and there was a man peering in the small window in the front room door.  He had shaggy, dirty-blond hair, and dark circles under his eyes.  His face was really pale.  I mean hadn’t seen the sunlight in 100 years pale.  And he stared at me without even blinking.  Then he was gone.  Poof.  Nothing. 

            The girls had already started crying, but before I could put them down and get my gun (which was what I had every intention of doing), his face appeared in my living room window.  I was stunned and couldn’t move.  He disappeared again, and my body went into overdrive.  I shoved the girls behind the couch, grabbed the phone and dialed 911, and headed into my bedroom to grab our gun.  By the time dispatch answered I was locked, loaded, and back in the living room with the children. 

            Standing in the middle of the room gave me a clear view of the kitchen and the back door.  That’s what I was waiting for.  I figured he’d try to kick in the back door, if he was coming in.  As expected, his face appeared in the kitchen window.  He looked right at me.  Now a normal person, even a peeping Tom, doesn’t just stand there and stare at you when you have a loaded 45 pointed at their head.  But this guy did.  No expression on his face whatsoever.  No fear, no recognition that I was about to shoot him, nothing.  And then he was gone.

            I still had the phone to my ear and the dispatch officer told me the police had arrived out front and that I was to secure the weapon.  My reply?  “No way!  You tell them to get someone around back and when they knock on my door, I’ll put it away.  Hell, I’ll hand it to them, but there is NO way I’m putting this down until one of them is in the house.”

            When they knocked, I released the chambered round, dropped the clip, and opened the door.  Butt first, I handed the officer the gun.  He came in and I was finally able to sooth the terrified 3 year olds.

 

            Several minutes went by, and the other 3 policemen called the one talking to me outside.  They were out there a long time.  Finally, he returned and looked like he was trying not to laugh.  He asked me again exactly what I’d seen.  Frustrated, I repeated the story.

 

            When I’d finished, he laughed.  “Mamm, have you taken a good look at the outside of this building?”

            “No, we haven’t lived here that long.”

            “Well, I’ll tell ya what.  I’m not sure what you thought you saw, but the ground on the west side over here slopes down.  The man you think you saw would have been 9 feet tall to look in those windows.  There’s no footprints out there anywhere.”

            My jaw dropped.  I wasn’t crazy.  And it wasn’t just me!  The girls saw him too!

            “When will your husband get home?”

            “He’s on his way now,” I answered.

            “Okay, that’s good.  Now you need to put the gun away, and I’ll wait outside until he gets here.”

            It was blatantly obvious he thought I was a whack job.  But what could I do?  He was right about the slope.  I hadn’t thought of it when I’d seen the man, but it was there.

            After that, it got weirder.