I always felt there was something wrong with my first apartment from the moment I stepped through the front door. It wasn’t that it was rundown, or derelict. It was actually a really nice apartment, painted brightly and was actually very conveniently near a shopping mall. I moved into the house in May 1985.
At first trivial things would happen. I had a big poster of Eddie Murphy fall of the wall in my bedroom several times. I heard some creaks and had a few unimportant things go missing around the house. One of the strangest incidents took place in the bedroom. I would play music at night after I’d finished school. At least once a week my boombox would eat my tapes. I tried replacing the boombox, I would buy brand new tapes—but they would always get chewed up. It didn’t bother me much though. I was single, living alone, and enjoying my independence. I just tried to ignore the negative vibe of the place.
Getting a TV reception in that house was impossible so I would spend much of my time listening to music, reading and cramming for exams. I would normally stay up until 11pm and then get some sleep.
One night I felt something tapping me. I ignored it. It kept tapping me. Awake and annoyed at this point, I sat up in bed. I saw a hand emerge out from under the bed and it tapped my leg. I looked under the bed expecting to see someone. Nothing. There was nothing under my bed.
This is when things started to get strange. I stood up, turned the radio on and went to get a glass of milk. I came back with my drink. The radio was turned off and a sheet on the bed shot up in the air. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t even process what was happening. I tried to turn on the light. It wouldn’t turn on. Then violent knocking came from the closet and bedroom doors. The boombox was pushed onto the floor. Posters came off the wall. My bookcase was pushed over. It was like something out of a movie. The whole room shook.
I turned to leave when I felt something scratch my back. It felt like a claw. I was too hyped up to feel the pain though. I ran down, and out of that apartment. I wouldn’t go into inside again. I called my dad who came over, half-asleep, and went inside. When he came back out he was white as a sheet. He didn’t tell me what he saw. We hired a couple of guys to move my stuff out and I moved back into my parent’s place.
Later, I learned that the house had been a drug den before it had been renovated for use by students. Apparently, the area had been one of the chief drug hangouts in the 1970’s. I still wonder who, what, or why that place was haunted, but it goes to prove that a few cans of paint and some new doors does not change the feel of a house. That place needed to be knocked down, not renovated.
Lani Worden, Michigan
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