The House Of Nightmares

03 January 2019 | Your Stories

Old houses tell some strange stories… this is one of those stories from Misty K. Read the tale and see if this supposedly true creepfest leaves you awake tonight…

Something about old houses evokes a sense of terrible majesty and loneliness. They tell a story of lost joy, forgotten love and the fleeting frailty of human life. Lives are lived, passed on and forgotten as new families write their own history within their walls, ignorant of the trials and tribulations of previous occupants.

I am from a small town in the South where life is simple and rent is cheap. My town shows the faded splendor of an opulence that has not graced these parts for well over a century. Amid the low-slung Spanish Moss and an ever-encroaching sea of pollen-filled foliage, lay monuments of a prosperous past where jobs were plentiful and cotton was king. The stately mansions and homes of long ago share the narrow streets with burned out shacks and a culture of disposable materialism gripped in poverty.

For a while, my momma and I lived on one of these streets, in an old two-story white house with tin panels from a previous age that somehow was available for a tiny family on government sustenance. It was an odd home. The bedrooms, living areas and bathrooms were thrown together in a hodgepodge menagerie that comes from being added to from necessity to satisfy the needs of a moment. This was our moment.

No one spoke of ghosts, hauntings or unsettled spirits—this was just a peculiar old house whose boards and foundations groaned amid the diverse and ever-changing weather conditions of the South. Momma worked late at the hospital in town, leaving me most days to walk home from school and care for myself. My room was in the center of the house near what had once been a central staircase. The  nearest neighbors lived a quarter-mile down the road, and there were no street lights. The area was heavily wooded and was dark even on the brightest days.

One night I was reading The Stand by Stephen King in my room. Momma was working the night shift. I don’t know if I was freaked out by what I was reading, but the house made a hollow groaning that wasn’t typical for the old place. I looked quickly about my room. Nothing out of place. I opened my door to the hallway beyond and gingerly looked out. It was dark, like it normally was. I clicked the switch for lights in the hallway. Nothing. Fabulous. I carefully stepped into the black hallway, stretching out my arm to feel the wall as a guide, and headed in the direction of the stairs. My fingers felt every notch, indent and splinter in the old planked walls as I inched my way down the darkened hall.

Just past my mother’s room, I turned right to head to the stair. A large casement window let in some of the muted moonlight.  I was able to step away from the wall and start making my way down to the first floor. That’s when I saw her.

She seemed like more of a shadow, but as I drew closer down the stairs, I made out the clear form of a young girl, roughly my age. We hadn’t expected visitors for the night, and certainly no one would just drop by our house. “Hello,” I called out. The girl remained silent, facing away from me towards the entryway to the house. I was starting to get a little weirded out. “Do you need something? My momma ain’t home right now…” At the word ‘Momma,’ the girl turned. To this day, I have never forgotten her face, or perhaps the lack thereof. There were some features that might have been an eye or a mouth, but they were more similar to melted ice cream draped in light strands of wispy hair.

At the sight, I stopped and started trying to walk backwards up the stairs. I initially tripped. Pulling myself up, I screamed. The thing started climbing the stair after me. I turned and sprinted into the darkness of the hallway, stumbling on the carpet runner. The fifteen-some feet of hall felt like it stretched for a block. But I kept running until I found the door to my room, ran in, and slammed it behind me. I was still sitting with my back barricading the door when my momma got home some time that night. All these years later, I still have nightmares of that girl.

Misty K.

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© 2019, G. Michael Vasey & My Haunted Life (Unless indicated otherwise by author’s own copyright above). All rights reserved.

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