House Of Ghosts

Hello, my name is Kitty, and what I am about to tell you is 100% true. I've had many previous ghostly experiences, and I will tell you a few.

The first time I encountered the paranormal was when I was about 7 or 8. Now, at that age, I used to wake up at about 7:30 or so, when no one else was up. This was in my old room, and if you were to be on my bed, you could turn your head to face the hallway.

One morning, I woke up early, and turned my head to look at the hall as always. To my surprise, there was a beautiful young woman, all white, long wavy hair, and in a wedding dress, running down the hallway. She was running into the washroom. I was quite terrified, although I felt she was harmless.

Well, about a week later, I was brushing my teeth in the washroom. I looked up to see none other than the face of the woman I saw in the hallway, looking at me.

Another time, age 13, I was brushing my teeth again, and I looked to my left, and saw a white figure, who immediately disappeared. I was sort of freaked, but continued on with brushing my teeth. I looked to my left again, and saw the same figure, who this time, ran down the hall, and disappeared. I began to brush my teeth again. I looked to the left one more time, and saw the same figure yet again. This time it just stood, watching me.

My room, which is now downstairs is home to what I believe to be three ghosts, one of who's name I believe is Armand. My computer is down here, in the basement, in my room. I will sometimes see a white figure peeking at me from around a wall corner, or standing in front of the T.V. He doesn't bother me too much.

Another time, I was on my computer, and I saw something walk behind me. I ignored it, and continued with what I was doing. After a while, it started to put it's arms on mine, hold my hands, tickle me, scratch my head, although he seemed to like me a bit too much, touching me all over. Whenever my dad would come downstairs, he would stop touching me, and just stand behind me, until my dad left. I think he was perhaps intimidated. Anyways, he is the ghost I believe to be Armand.

Another ghost is one who feels unwelcoming, he seems to scare Armand away. Also, when I am in bed, I feel as though he is laying beside me, and I am afraid to look, in fear of what I might see. He is the only ghost I don't feel comfortable with. I think Armand is VERY friendly, and trying to let me know.

One of the creepiest things that happened to me was that I was home alone. All of a sudden, I hear this cell phone ring. Now, there is no one home, and everyone had their phones with them, and mine was dead. A few minutes later, I heard a cat's meow, and guess what? We have no cats. The first one I had ran away the first day I got it, and the other one got locked out of my house by my mom when we went to the cottage, and ran away. I wonder what all this was.

Another time, I was in the washroom. I looked into the mirror, and behind me was an old-fashioned scene, with horses running by and such. I was freaked. One time, I even saw a soldier walk nearly behind me while I was on the computer.

I often see figures walking about, especially in front of the T.V., and all about. I've gotten used to them now.

A HAUNTED HOUSE

Whatever hour you woke there was a door shunting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure—a ghostly couple.

“Here we left it,” she said. And he added, “Oh, but here too!” “It’s upstairs,” she murmured. “And in the garden,” he whispered “Quietly,” they said, “or we shall wake them.”

But it wasn’t that you woke us. Oh, no. “They’re looking for it; they’re drawing the curtain,” one might say, and so read on a page or two. “Now they’ve found it,” one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. “What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?” My hands were empty. “Perhaps it’s upstairs then?” The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.

But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The window panes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling—what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. “Safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat softly. “The treasure buried; the room. . .” the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?

A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burnt behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us; coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. “Safe, safe, safe,” the pulse of the house beat gladly. “The Treasure yours.”

The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.

“Here we slept,” she says. And he adds, “Kisses without number.” “Waking in the morning—” “Silver between the trees—” “Upstairs—” “In the garden—” “When summer came—” “In winter snowtime—” The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.

Nearer they come; cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken; we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. “Look,” he breathes. “Sound asleep. Love upon their lips.”

Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.

“Safe, safe, safe,” the heart of the house beats proudly. “Long years—” he sighs. “Again you found me.” “Here,” she murmurs, “sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure—” Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. “Safe! safe! safe!” the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry “Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.”