I’m so scared writing this right now, my pants are wet from ectoplasm!
When I was a kid something really bad happened to me. No, it didn’t involve my uncle. I experienced something far worse: a ghost haunted me. That’s right, I have 100% conclusive evidence that ghosts do exist. You’re probably asking yourself how I have this evidence. You’re sitting there saying that I’m “probably just dreaming it up,” or maybe it’s the fetal alcohol syndrome that everyone seems to possess (myself included).
Alright, I’m probably making it sound like it’s too conclusive. It’s just anecdotal, but if you’re on a website that posts poetry about eating shit, you probably don’t care too much about scientific inquiry. Here is my 100% pure anecdotal evidence on why ghosts are real.
When I got too old to listen to my parents “wrestle,” they shipped me downstairs to the basement. The basement was originally going to serve as a second living room for us, but they stopped that when they found the “booger wall” I had created. Disgusted and freaked out that their son was collecting a bunch of snot on the wall, they evacuated the basement until I was a teenager.
This shaggy-dog ghost story won’t be complete unless I mention that, for a brief period, my schizophrenic uncle lived with us and thought he saw a ghost in the basement. He claimed that he saw a “little girl” staring at him from the basement door as he slept. In his haste to escape, he fell going up the stairs, screaming for help.
So, when I was moved to the basement, I figured I would encounter some sort of creepy entity down there. Scratching at the door and whispering, “Connnnorrrrr…come out to playyyyaaayyyy….” But that never happened. Unfortunately, my ghost tale involves only a handful of “spooky incidents” that can’t be explained. At least, I wasn’t able to explain them.
Occasionally, when I was showering, I’d hear my name. “Connor!” It was a forceful cry for attention. A masculine voice that was trying to talk to me in the shower. Naturally, I assumed this spirit was a former prisoner (why else would he want to watch me shower?). Come to think of it, this voice would usually cry out my name when I would drop the soap. This contributed to my later decision to stop buying bars of soap and switch to Cumsquatch 11-in-1 All Natural Body Oils for Men (and others).
I would wake up with scratches on my back. Considering I was a nerdy, fat, unattractive teenager, I can assure you these scratches weren’t caused by any “girls” (they were not allowed to enter my domain). To this day, I still don’t know what scratched my back. Perhaps it was me doing some sort of contortionist routine while asleep, or maybe it was my parents coming downstairs to punish me for some perceived slight. Who can say?
The weirdest occurrence was when I would feel something crawl between my legs. “Ho ho ho!” I’d exclaim. “Who’s down there?” Much to my annoyance, it wasn’t Florence Pugh. It was nothing. Just something sitting between my legs. It left a full imprint in my bed, and the weight of it was on my legs. I just went back to sleep, but it would happen so often.
One day, when my dad and I were discussing how creepy the house was (we always felt we were being watched), I told him about how the ghost seemed to enjoy putting its head near my crotch. His face went pale, and he jumped out of his seat. He told me that the same thing had been happening to him and that he hadn’t told anyone because he assumed it was “gay” to be assaulted by a male ghost.
I went to my mom and asked her if anything was weird about the house. She said no, but she doesn’t even believe in our lord and saviour Jesus Christ, so what the fuck does she know? When they ended up selling the house, my mom told me that one of the older neighbours had told her that a man had died in the house. He was an alcoholic after the war and fell down the stairs and broke his neck. What a loser!
Come to think of it, some other weird things happened. The key rack fell one day, and being three lazy, privileged, white “people,” we didn’t want to bend over to pick the rack up. When we came home, the rack…?
IT WAS HUNG BACK UP!
Who? Who could have hung up the rack? Could it have been the panty thief who was plaguing the neighbourhood? The creepy neighbour who had a telescope pointed at our house? That was the big question. It’s irrelevant that we kept our doors unlocked. None of us hung the rack back up. Even the one hook that was bent was now unbent. I figured it was just the ghost doing us a solid after having fondled us during the night.
I remember once when the ghost woke me up, I felt like I had been drugged. In the haze, I could have sworn I saw a man running up the stairs and out the back door. Another spiritual misadventure, I figured, and went back to sleep.
This is my main “ghost story” from when I was a kid. I’m definitely very scared and traumatized from this event. Even to this day, the Canadian government pays me welfare for the trauma I suffered when I was a kid. Thanks a lot, Canadian workers!
The Philistine Review 
Leave a comment