Killer's Ghost
Hi, I'm new herebut I've decided to share my own experiences because I've enjoyedmany of the stories here. In fact, a few even evoked the realfeelings I had as a child when the events I'm about to relateactually happened.
I'd like to preface this account by stating that as long as I canremember I've been drawn to the occult, probably stirred by mygrandmother's first person accounts of her own strangeexperiences as a child in rural Poland and other allegedly truestories I'd heard from family and friends.
My brothers and I loved to scare each other silly -- they grew upto become very solid citizens and I grew up to write horrormovies. (Please don't ask which -- you may have seen them oncable or even on a movie screen if you live in a big city -- Ionly mention it as an interesting aside.)
That said, the following story is 100% unconditionally true. Ihave had several paranormal experiences during my life, and noskeptic or "amazing" Randi will ever convince meotherwise. I've seen things... I've heard things... I've evensmelled things. I've been there.
And so...
I grew up in a very urban working class part of Philadelphiacalled Port Richmond. Mostly brick rowhouses, with narrowEuropean-style streets. A fairly old part of the city.
When I was very young I experienced waking nightmares -- bizarregreen and bluish neon colored hag faces floating near my bed,with mocking smiles on their faces. Once I even saw one staringdown at me through a basement window -- I was definitely awakewith lights on that time -- visiting my mother as she launderedin the basement. She saw nothing -- and the position of thewindow made a prank next to impossible.
As time went by there were weird loud bangings on the wall -- myfather attributed them to normal physical settling of thebuilding or heater knockings, which seemed logical enough.
I often sensed disturbing presences in the house, andoccasionally things like keys would disappear inexplicably,maddeningly, for hours, then turn up again atop dressers or inother highly visible places where I'd already searched. Thesethings happened often when I was home alone (and virtuallytrapped because I didn't want to leave without my keys!)
In retrospect, I don't believe my brothers or parents experiencedany of this, other than the banging noises.
By the age of fourteen I was a committed night person, always thelast to bed. One June night, with no school the next day, Istayed up late and was downstairs around midnight watching TheTonight Show.
During a commercial break I hurried into the kitchen and filled alarge glass with juice, which I deposited on top of my mother'sopened ironing board (with five boys and no maid, she often leftit up and ready) before dashing upstairs for a pee.
Returning, I was halfway down the stairs when I saw the juiceglass tumble over quite sharply, as if knocked by an invisiblehand. I paused for half-a-heartbeat, then rationalized that thefabric cover of the ironing board had probably absorbed moistureor coolness or something and had expanded -- somehow upending theheavy glass.
I hurried down to clean up the spill.
That done, I noticed my pet dog Killer (no joke -- he was partpit bull, which was not quite the notorious breed in the late 60sthat it is today -- but he had all the traits) showing interesttoward the kitchen.
Figuring he too needed a pee, I walked into the kitchen andopened the back door for him. Expecting him to hurry out like henormally would, I was surprised to hear him growling instead.
When I turned to look, he was hunched in the doorway from theliving room, his hackles raised in his fiercest display, histeeth bared like a wolf's. But what rattled me the most were hiseyes. They were yellow and shiny with fear -- and were rivettedon the spot right next to me. He was growling at empty air! Andgrowling as if he were challenging Satan himself!
Like a flash I ran past him but he passed me on the staircasegoing up. At the top of the stairs we both paused, caught ourbreath, looked at each other and then downstairs.
Now the spilled juice glass seemed a bit more significant.
After gathering my courage I ran downstairs and locked up. ThankGod we had lights that I could shut off from upstairs, or I wouldundoubtedly have gotten in trouble for leaving them on all night.
I was in bed early for me that night, and Killer slept at my feet.
I've had several ghostly experiences in my life since then, invarious places, including impossible-to-explain cigar smoke in atiny apartment where an old man had spent his final years and theunmistakable crying of a cat in a house where a dead cat oncelived, but the unseen visitor I shared with Killer that night waswithout a doubt the scariest. (I've grown braver since then, aswell.)
Years later my youngest brother, the last of five to remain athome, killed himself in the same house, and my parents movedshortly afterward.
I often wonder if anything strange is happening there now. I alsowonder about the history of the house... and if the oppressivepresences I'd felt as a child may have contributed to mybrother's premature demise. His death came without warning, andhe was truly the cream of our family, on a major scholarship to Uof P.
Believe it or not, the above story is true and unembellished. Youcan make of it what you may.
In closing, however, I have to agree wholeheartedly with themessage poster who stated that he finds those skeptics whobelieve in organized religion to be the biggest hypocrites of all.Especially if they believe that the Bible is God's literal word-- because it is clumsy, contradictory, and far less morallyenlightening than the ancient books of India or China --societies where more of the common citizens get along better,with far less physical resources to appease them -- could it bebecause of their spiritual base? If America is truly a Christian(or Judeo-Christian) country, why is it so damned violent? By thefruits of their labor?