You don’t have to believe a single word here. I know there’s an audience for them because even I, a skeptic, am interested in people’s strange experiences for which they don’t have a logical explanation. It’s always fun to speculate what might’ve happened—ranging from natural to supernatural theories—and spooking the hell out of each other.
Seeing as I’m posting this on Halloween, that just couldn’t be more fitting.
It was 2011 or 2012. The end of the world as we knew it. (Hey, look at the world now and tell me that’s a lie. I dare you.) I was home alone. At the time, I was writing a ghost/demon story. My first story actually. I remember taking a break from it—which I was working on every day—because I thought I was either inviting shit into my house or simply overworking my imagination.
This wasn’t the first or last weird thing that happened to me though, and we’ll get to that.
We had no dogs or cats that could’ve made any sort of noise like this. All we had was a bird and he was in his cage. The way the house was set up, where I was sitting in the dining room, my parents’ bedroom was behind me, and that’s where the sound came from. More specifically from the walk-in closet and bathroom side.
The bang was so loud, I almost fell off my chair. I may have been listening to music, as usual. But you know when you hear something so loud that your ears kinda cringe, throb, whatever? That happened. My first thought was gunshot, but I knew that couldn’t be right. Again, I was alone, and the sound came from inside.
I got up—my ass was already halfway off the seat anyway—and went to my parents’ room. Lights were off so I flipped them on. The roof was a bit high in the closet, so they had shelves going way up with a bunch of boxes and shit. I figured one of them might have fallen. Mind you, these were heavy duty metal shelves and I couldn’t think how that could have made such a loud noise without tearing the wall between me and the closet down.
Turned on the light to the closet.
The floor was as clear as ever. I remember saying “O-kayyy…” I turned the light off, shut the door, checked the bathroom. All clear. Floor spotless.
At this point, I wasn’t thinking of anything paranormal going on and actually hopped on Google to ask what could make me think I heard a loud noise. I think I might’ve gotten tumor or something. But it never happened again and I’ve had multiple MRIs done due to migraines.
The house wasn’t too old and I doubt anyone died in there, but I was writing about a girl who saw ghosts and accidentally got tangled with a demon. At the time, I’ll admit, I was still a bit of a believer, growing up with a religious family and all. There was always bad energy in the house. At least, I think so.
I’ve never been good at history. Numbers, names, etc… they all just blend into an incomprehensible mess for me. I wish that wasn’t the case because some history is pretty kick-ass.
There was one day, though, in which I was almost an expert at history. I haven’t been able to do this many times, but this is the one time people actually noticed and asked me “how the hell are you doing that if you don’t even know who the third president is?”
We had to answer history questions, practicing for some exam I hadn’t started studying for. Whichever team answered the most questions correctly got the most points and blah blah blah . . . Each time he got to me, I had the answer before hearing the question. I swear I could see it in my head scribbled in red.
At one point, I did see the teacher’s sheet and saw the red ink. I was spooked, but in a good way.
I mean, it’s impossible, but I mostly still can’t believe I was a history nerd for an hour. That was . . . since I never use this word . . . superb!
How any of this happened, I don’t know for sure, but there is something that has stayed consistent the few times something like this happens: I’m always having eye contact with them. The one question I got wrong, he wasn’t looking me in the eye. People always tell me that when I’m looking at them, it feels like I’m looking through them; they feel vulnerable when making eye contact with me. I can’t do it with everyone; there has to be a certain . . . energy? Vibe? Almost like we sync up.
Recently it came to my attention that I may be an empath. There are different sorts of empaths and I have a lot of traits for many of the types of empaths. I’m sure that may have something to do with it. Of course, there are many people—including scientists—that don’t think empaths are even real. That’s up to you to decide. But it would make a lot of sense. Reading people’s emotions can’t be too different from reading thoughts.
So, don’t look at me in the eye. And if you do, don’t lie to me because I’ll see right through it. I may not confront you about it, but you’d still lose my trust indefinitely. This is not a threat; it is a mere fact.
#3—Imagine Telling Your Therapist this Shit
Back to spooky house weirdness, with one of the worst memories of my life. I still get goosebumps and tear up whenever I think about it.
It was the night before my birthday and I was settling in for bed, minding my own business, as one does. I was excited for the next day, you know. I was either turning 14 or 15 . . . I don’t quite remember. I was falling asleep when it happened. Right on the verge of falling asleep. A low voice whispered in my ear. It sounded male, and very, very close. Like I could almost feel its breath.
That’s all it said.
I opened my eyes, and I legitimately expected someone to be standing over my bed. There was nothing there, though.
My heart was racing, my mind was scattered into making sense of it. Who’s dead? Why?
My first thought went to my great uncle because he had cancer. But that didn’t feel right. Then, for whatever reason, my thoughts went to my lovebird, JJ.
I started to calm down and thought, ‘No. I’m crazy. I was probably just dreaming or something.’ I forced myself to go to sleep.
The next morning, it was my birthday. After my morning routine, I went to my bird’s cage to get him out to hang out with me. But when I got there, he was laying at the bottom of the cage. Dead.
I cried most of the day, scared about the late night prediction and the voice, and heartbroken that I’d just lost my bird.
I may be a skeptic, and I’m not entirely sure I believe this actually happened, but this last experience especially has haunted me for the past 10 years.
One day I was walking to the kitchen while texting away on my phone. On my way there, I passed the living room, where the TV was on. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw what I thought was my dad on the couch. It could only be him. He was the only one tall enough for that body size my brain was registering. I didn’t look up but I did think the figure looked odd because it seemed to be wearing all black. My dad is dark-skinned and because of that he doesn’t like wearing dark clothes. They never look quite right on him anyway. Also, it was sitting on the couch instead of the recliner. That was the weirdest part.
But whatever. I made it to the kitchen . . . where my actual dad was chilling, drinking coffee. I didn’t drop my phone like those people in bad horror movies, but I completely forgot what I was doing. I looked over at the couch, expecting to see someone there, fully prepared to ask my dad who that was because, for a moment, I thought maybe my dad had a friend over. But the couch was empty. I stood there in the kitchen for a long while. My dad asked me if I was okay. I just nodded and tried to go back to what I was doing.
That wasn’t the only time I saw the shadow and, even though it was out of the corner of my eye, it’s probably the clearest I’d ever seen it. Probably because it was the middle of the day.
I haven’t told these stories to many souls. It was around the time my depression’s psychosis was about to sort of present itself. It was one of those things that made me feel crazy, and as my mental health plummeted, I shoved them in the back of my mind with the things I believed my mind had made up.
I guess that’s my disclaimer: I’m not entirely reliable.
Some things, however, keep me thinking, guessing, wondering . . . What if?
What if the banging noise was real? While I was writing about ghosts and demons, did I invite something into my house? Did that entity die from a gunshot? Was it the one doing the shooting? Both?
What if the mind-reading is something others can do too? What if those people whose mind I can’t read have the same gift? Do we cancel out?
What if the voice was real? What if it was warning me like it warned someone else when it was alive? What if the owner of this voice was the thing that killed my bird?
What if . . . it was all in my head?
Maybe that’s the scariest question. Because if it’s all in my head, that means I don’t know how to separate psychosis from reality. But since I never told many people about this, nothing really came of it. I’m not even sure anyone believes me. Not that it matters. I believe me. Or at least, I believe something happened. Whether it was in my head or in the real world—maybe even somewhere in between—something left a mark in me and I will never forget it.
It’s experiences like these that keep my mind open, my nights sleepless, and my certainty nonexistent.
If you’re as interested as I am to keep this conversation going, go on and tell me about your strangest experiences. I don’t care how much of an “unreliable” narrator you are. We’re all unreliable and biased in our own way. That’s not what I care about; what I care about is your story.
So, what’s your story?
Stay masked, stay safe, and happy Halloween!
May the spoop find you when you least expect it.