What you are about to read is totally REAL and creepier than a Hollywood horror movie. Welcome to Scary Story Week on The Stir ...
At age 18, I was over-confident. I'd sorta pish-poshed the whole haunted house bit. Ghosts were something that scared me when I was 5, well before the age in which logic outweighed the creepers. I didn't believe in ghosts. But that was about to change.
My mother had asked me to watch my brother's house while both she and he were out of town. In my teen mind, this meant: a couple of nights with my boyfriend in a HOUSE! A house NOT FULL OF HIS SIBLINGS! Make Out City, Population, Us!
Until it hit me -- this was my BROTHER'S house.
Normally, that wouldn't be an issue -- beyond the ick factor of being in my older brother's home (he was away for business) -- but my brother, being macabre, bought a special home in my hometown of St. Charles, Illinois.
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A HAUNTED house.
The house my brother had bought had a sorted history -- first, it had been owned by a famous medium; a medium so famous that Mary Todd Lincoln once visited it to communicate with her deceased husband, Abe. Creepy, right?
It got weirder.
My brother had purchased the home from a former doctor; but not the sort of doctor you'd see on cheerful television dramas. No, this doctor was a mortician. Who practiced in the very home in which he, before my brother, lived.
Okay, weirded out yet? I am. And I lived it.
That night, I informed my boyfriend that we needed to stop by my brother's place for a bit to make, in the words of my mother, "the house look lived in," which meant, "let's make out." We raced to the car.
We pulled into the driveway of my brother's house, armed with keys and the desire for a major make-out session. I fumbled a bit with the key in the lock, attributing the lack of hand control to being a teen who wanted to get down, before finally hearing the telltale click, and the creaking of the door open.
My boyfriend and I went inside, the uneasiness growing in our guts, only slightly overpowered by the desire to have some "quiet" time alone. I walked inside, looking around for any evidence of, well, anything hilarious my brother might not want me to find.
Finding nothing particularly hilarious, we began to flip through his CD collection, looking for some good make-out music, and settled in on the floor.
Two things then happened. Unrelated? I don't know.
The phone rang, and upon answering, no one said hello. Then sirens began to go off from somewhere nearby.
For some reason, both of our heads began to fill with a buzzing sound; fear gnawing at our guts, the hairs on the back of our necks standing straight up, even though it was a beautiful spring evening.
We did something no teens in their right minds would ever admit to doing -- we got our clothes back on and we hightailed it out of there like we were being chased by a cadre of attack animals.
Once back in the car, we panted at each other, unsure where we'd left the keys, not particularly caring that we hadn't locked up.
"Let's," I said to him as we drove off, still rattled to the core, "never speak of this again."
He nodded, his eyes wide as dinner plates.
And we hadn't. Until now.
Have you ever experienced a ghost? Do you have a ghost story?
Image via St. Charles Historical Museum
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