The ghost in the spare bedroom

How is it possible that in the years since I first met Annie I have never related the story of the ghost in the house I stayed in while living in rural Virginia? I was sure I had, more than once, but I see I only once glanced upon this remarkable story in this blog.

I know how to preface this story because I've told it to so many people over the years. First, I am not exaggerating or making up any bit of this. What I relate to you, I actually experienced. Based on my testimonial evidence alone, I lived in a house haunted by a ghost. Second, despite the overwhelming personal experience of a ghost, I did not and still do not believe in ghosts.

The two things seem mutually exclusive. But, I don't really think so. Just as a good magician can make us believe that he has done something impossible, we know better. We experienced the trick, and it seems magical (most recently the amazing card magician, Shin Lim), but our rational minds tell us it was a trick. There were no tricks involved with my ghost. No one was manipulating things behind the scenes as in a Scooby Doo episode. But, while I know I experienced what I am about to tell you, rationally, I still do not believe ghosts exist. It just doesn't make sense to me that when our brains are dead, whatever makes up our consciousness can take a walk away from the corpse. I can imagine it, as I've seen enough movies featuring it, but I can't believe it. Not even after what I'm about to tell you.

I moved to Virginia in early February, 2008, having found during an earlier trip a place to live in a small town on the James River in an old house complete with a wood-burning furnace and not too much insulation. Now, this house, once a wreck that was lovingly restored, seemed like it should have a ghost. Like many houses in the town, it was quite old. Rarely did I go down to the basement to feed the furnace that I didn't expect to see a ghost. Never did.

But, after a very cold winter, I decided that I should move to another home with at least a little more heat. I found one, owned by an older fella who worked at the local pizzeria. I moved into it in September, 2009. It was another old house, over 80 years old, built by my landlord's father. It had propane heat emanating from the fireplace and not so much insulation. Still, it was a little warmer, and that was warm enough to me.

It was not long before the first odd thing occurred. I had come into my house one day and sat down on the couch, as usual. I was working on my computer when I happened to look up or perhaps the movement drew my attention. From where I sat, I could see across the living room, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. I had a plastic garbage can maybe two feet or so high with a toggle type lid on top. You could lift the lid up or push it down to the right or the left, as it was fixed on a metal rod running across the middle of it. When one end went down, the other went up.

As I looked up, I could see the lid moving, going up on one side and then the other. Not a little, but a lot. It was as if someone had just thrown something into it. Naturally, thinking I was alone in my house, I was immediately alarmed. Someone had to be there. I took my laptop off my lap, stood up and quietly walked into my bedroom, reached under my pillow and pulled out my knife. I probably should explain that. This was rural Virginia and pretty much everyone in town except a few like me owned guns. You weren't allowed to discharge them in town, but most everyone had them. And that would include anyone who might decide to rob my house. I grew up on Long Island where few people owned guns, at least legally. I had never used one before moving to Virginia at all and had no desire to have one. So, just in case, I kept a knife under my pillow. It seemed highly unlikely I'd ever need it, and more unlikely I'd hit anyone with it if I threw it, but you never know.

This was a time I thought I might need it. If someone was creeping around my house with me in it, it couldn't be good. Perhaps I was bringing a knife to a gun fight, but still. . . Very quietly, I started walking down the hallway towards the other entrance of the kitchen. Except . . . the floors creaked under me. And that's when I realized that there was no person in my house. If someone was walking, I would hear them, even if he or she was a hobbit. A cold tingle crept down my spine as an alternative, straight out of the movies, occurred to me. Then I thought, "Nah," and walked into the kitchen. I opened the garbage and looked in. Maybe it was a mouse and it had jumped in. I had mice. No mouse that I could see was in it. I emptied the contents. No big insect either. I started thinking about ghosts again. It's hard not to in a situation like that, and though I didn't get a chill again, it felt weird.

That night, I lay down on my bed and started to read in preparation to sleep. I was a little skittish. I started to go to sleep but you can imagine I did not have a strong desire to turn the lights off. I did anyway. It felt eerie. But, finally, I closed my eyes and said to myself, "Stop, you don't believe in ghosts." And I fell asleep instantly.

Unfortunately, this was pre-throat and nose surgery and I did not sleep more than a few minutes a night straight through. Awake, asleep, awake, asleep. But, I managed, for the most part, to keep a lid on the ghostly thoughts. In the morning, I felt fine. I was tired, but I always felt that way.

And that seemed like that. Just an odd occurrence. Except for one thing. Every once in a while I would hear noises from the hallway, the one leading from the living room to the back of the house. There was a door in that hallway that led to a bedroom in which there was a closet. And all the junk I was storing since I didn't need to use that room to sleep in. I'd hear the noise and go look, making sure there wasn't an animal in it because sometimes the sound was unmistakably that of someone or thing rumbling around in there. The thoughts about the moving garbage lid did come back to me, and it was not the most comfortable week, whatever my beliefs.

Then, that weekend, I went to Gettysburg, PA. Gettysburg is a great destination which I've written about here before. We stayed in the Tillie Pierce House, an inn right in the heart of Gettysburg, with its own Civil War stories. Gettysburg has become a ghost tourism town. Although Tillie didn't actually die there - she grew up, lived through the War, moved away and died much later - the house was "supposedly" haunted and advertised itself so. I met my New York friend, Mike, there. When we arrived, the innkeeper did her job and filled our heads with ghost stories.

Just before I went to bed, I showed Mike a picture in my bedroom of two creepy looking little girls. He was sorry he looked. He went off to his own bedroom, which, allegedly, was the scene of most ghost sightings there. The guest books they kept in the rooms were full of stories. As usual, I  read before going off to sleep. I did still have my experience in Buchanan in my mind and was still a little unsettled about it. I realized sleeping in a "ghost house" was not a good idea. But . . . eventually, I got tired and decided to go to sleep. I turned the light off and lay there on my back. I started to feel more sleepy. Then, as real as any sensation I have felt in my life, I felt my left arm start to tingle. Something wasn't right. I was laying on my back and tried to open my eyes, but couldn't. Then, my left arm began moving, raising towards the ceiling. I became very alarmed but I couldn't call out or move at all or see a thing with my eyes shut. And then . . . "David, you are sleeping. Just let go. It's okay." And again, I fell asleep instantly. Really, it was a good thing I didn't believe in ghosts or I might have had a heart attack. Very scary.

I must have been exhausted because I didn't wake up until after a good sleep for me around 3:30 a.m. I noticed my arm was attached to my shoulder and all seemed well. I got up to use the bathroom. The floor creaked worse than in my home. I went back to bed and read until it was time for breakfast.

As I sat at the communal breakfast table around 8 a.m. other guests started coming in. Two couples. They started telling me what they had experienced that night. Ghostly stuff. Especially at 3:30 that morning when they could distinctly hear someone or thing, walking around the house. That sounded familiar. Then Mike came into the room, looking like . . . he had seen a ghost. Actually, he hadn't, but he told us that he just sat up all night with his back to the wall with the lights on waiting for one and feeling completely terrified. Poor guy. He too heard the 3:30 phantom. I told all of them that it was likely me as I had caused the floors to creak a lot. I think they preferred their stories. I also told them all what I experienced with my arm. It didn't exactly convince them there were no ghosts.

Back at home, I realized I had to deal with this ghost thing. I lived in a drafty old house and that had to be the explanation, although, honestly, it doesn't seem convincing even now. A few days after I got home I was in the local pizzeria, where my landlord, Cotton (really Ashton, but everyone called him Cotton since he was little because his hair was so light) worked for his girlfriend, Sandy, who was the owner. People were very friendly in Buchanan and it was not unusual to have conversations with other customers. On that day, a middle-aged woman was there having some pizza. I was relating to someone else, I forget who, what I had experienced with the garbage can lid. "Oh," said the middle-aged woman, "you must live in Cotton's house."
"Uh, yeah. How'd you know?"
"Well, you met Annie. Everyone knows that house is haunted."
"What?"
"Yup. Annie Eerie was Cotton's aunt and she hung herself in her bedroom when he was little."

Gulp. I asked her which bedroom. Yup -- that one, where all the noise was coming from.

"I wouldn't mention it to Cotton, though. He don't like to talk about it." Cotton and I were friends, but I never spoke to him about it really. We did have a conversation once around the edges of it. I didn't tell him what I experienced. But, he said his aunt's name was something different than I had heard. What her real name was escapes me now, but it wasn't anything like Annie Eerie. Maybe that's just what people called the ghost. Does Annie Eerie sound like a real name to you?

From that day on, until the year I moved out (I'll get to that), about 4 years in that house, I experienced all kinds of ghostly phenomena. Not only was there a lot of noise coming from that room, which would stop instantly when I opened the door, but other much weirder things began happening. It got to the point where it was a little scary to walk past the door to that room in the night. But, when nature called, the quickest way to the only bathroom was through that hallway. I could have walked around through the dining room and kitchen, but I refused to be intimidated. Finally, it got to the point where in order not to be spooked myself, I'd sneak past the door and let out a loud cackling laugh, like in a horror movie. I figured I'd scare her before she'd scare me. I'll tell you though, there wasn't a time I was using the sink when I wasn't sure that when I looked up into the mirror I'd see a spirit standing behind me. Never happened though. Never actually saw anything phantom-like.

That's because there are no such things as ghosts, right? Well, it got to the point that when the noises started I'd just yell out, "Annie, shut up!" And the rumpus would stop, just like that. There's no such thing, there's no such thing as ghosts. One night though I was sure I heard the sound of a rope going suddenly taut as someone was hung. That was a rough night. I'll never forget it. But, on the whole, it started to feel normal, I didn't bother to try to figure it out or investigate the truth about what had happened there.

Then, one night I was in that spare bedroom - I know, I know how crazy it sounds that I was in there, like when someone in a horror movie is about to go down the steps to the basement and you want to scream at them "Nooooo, you idiot" - but that's where my stuff was stored - and I was facing towards the window with the door about 4 or 5 feet behind me. I was rummaging through a box, most likely looking for a book, and poof - the lights went out. The light switch was right by the door, as in most rooms. A typical toggle switch. Up and down. I was startled and you can imagine what raced through my mind. I turned around and flipped the switch on within seconds of it going out. There was nothing wrong with the switch if that's what you are thinking. The mechanism was stiff and you needed a small effort to move it, just like with every other one. It couldn't have suddenly flipped off or on for no reason, or because of a gust of wind, and it never happened before or after. After switching it back on, I turned back to the box, and as I put my hand inside, I said, with some irritation in my voice, "If you have something to say, just say it."

And she did - "Liberals want to kill babies."

What? Actually, it wasn't Annie and I wasn't scared at all because I instantly recognized whose voice it was. My favorite liberal I refer to as Eddie in these pages had given me an Ann Coulter doll. The doll talked when you touched it, saying mean things about liberals. When I put my hand in the box, I must have pushed against her.  Gave me a laugh after the light switch scare though.

Even if I attribute a lot of what went on to an old and drafty house, I have never been able to explain the light switch incident to myself. I don't know what happened. I know what seems like happened. But, it doesn't pay to think about it too much.

Over time, you get used to most anything. Annie and I got to know each other quite well. At least, I had no concerns about her. Before guests would come I would politely ask her not to scare anyone and she listened. There were no bumps in the night while anyone was visiting.

Then one day, while I was sitting on the couch, I felt something unusual. There was a rumbling that seemed like it was coming from right under the couch. At first, I thought it was an animal that had gotten in - I did live in the country and it was a possibility. Had to be a small one, of course, as the couch was low to the ground. With some trepidation, while the rumbling got louder, I looked under the skirt. Nothing there.

I got up and suddenly the blinds started to flap up and down, just as in a movie and then a heavy pounding on the door. I ran to it and threw it open. No one was standing there.

This was out of the ordinary even for my house. I turned around and screamed, "Annie, knock it off!" Seconds later, it all stopped. And then my phone rang. I picked it up. "Uncle David, are you all right?" It was my nephew. How did he know what was going on in my house? Well, it turns out that there was a cause of the phenomena, but it wasn't Annie. There had been an earthquake in northern Virginia and it could be felt hundreds of miles away, where I lived, even in New York. I couldn't believe how fast it was reported on the news. It seemed like seconds but perhaps it took some minutes for the tremors to reach where I lived.

And then I realized - uh oh. I walked over to Annie's door and meekly said, "Annie, I'm really, really sorry." Sound crazy? I still didn't believe, but we both lived there, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings, did I? We had, in a strange way, become friends. At the very least, assuming for the moment her existence, we were used to and amused one another.

There was another thing which repeatedly occurred that would happen that beggars explanation. Doors would open as I walked towards them. Not just one door, but sometimes the front door, sometimes an interior one. How often did it happen? Maybe ten or twenty times? Could have been more. I can't say I remember now. But, it was enough so I got used to it. I had become accustomed enough to her that I don't even remember feeling spooked the first time it happened. I'd routinely say, "thank you," as I passed through.

Which brings me to the strange end to Annie, at least in my life. It was the last year I lived there, in 2012. I was going to the gym. As I walked towards the door, it slowly opened for me. I continued walking but instead of saying "thank you," I said, "Would you like to go to the gym with me?" and held the door open a short while to give her time to make up her mind. Of course, I didn't see or hear anything at all. And I closed the door myself (Annie opened, but did not close doors). I drove to the gym and walked in after parking. There was a young woman, the owners' daughter, working behind the front desk. "Kelly," I said, "would you like to meet Annie?"
"Okay," she said, looking a bit puzzled.
"Annie," I said, gesturing next to me, "this is Kelly. Kelly, this is Annie. Annie is my ghost." I may have had a little pride in my voice. Kelly smiled weakly. I don't know what she thought. "Now go sit down over there on the couch and don't move or scare anyone." I went and worked out. When I was leaving I walked past the couch and said, "Okay, come on."

I don't know exactly what happened, but from then on until I moved out, I never heard any rumblings or had doors opening or the like. Did Annie come to the gym with me and stay there? I'd like to think so because it had to be more interesting than living in an old house with only me. Sometimes I would imagine it was her if I saw a dumbbell rolling across the gym floor. And I imagined she liked the classes best.

Or did she dissipate when she tried to go outside, if that's what ghosts do? Maybe when I invited her out, she was able to . . . pass on to another stage? I get all this from the movies and have no answers.

It is now about seven years since I last experienced Annie. I have never had another eerie experience, pun intended, even when I again stayed at the Tillie Pierce House. I still don't believe in ghosts. But, I love to tell people about one I like to think was my friend.