Shortly after we closed on The Box House last December, I spent the night here alone. Ted and I both work from home, and live in each other's pockets. Most of the time--99.999%, I'd say, or maybe 99.998%--I'm happy about it. We've always had our own offices and can shut out the world when necessary. I like, no
love, having him just down the hall, around the corner, or in the next room. A lot of couples can't handle it, but it's been like this for us from day one, so we're used to it. I consider myself lucky to have my guy around as much as I do.
Still, it's nice to have a night to myself every one in a while. I know he feels the same way.
The last time that I can remember having a night to myself--prior to my camp out at The Box House--was more than three years ago. Three years--is that weird? Maybe I was getting a bit bitchy to be around. Both my mom and Ted suggested I needed a night to myself, and so I drove out to The Box House and rolled out the sleeping bag on the living room floor of the downstairs unit. We weren't living here yet; we were only staying here a few nights a week to work on the place, but spent the majority of the time at my mom's other house.
I loved my Night to Myself. I ate junk food, watched bad television, read trashy novels. And in the middle of the night, I was woken up by someone walking back and forth in the upstairs unit.
Now, a sane person would have quietly crawled across the floor to where she left her cell phone in her jacket pocket and called 911. I mean, the footsteps were that loud and distinct. Not for a moment did I consider that the house was "settling" or that it was "the wind" or "some animal." No. These were definitely footsteps walking from the dining room to the living room upstairs, and back again.
So why didn't I call 911?
I'm not sure. I remember looking up at the ceiling and saying "Shh, keep it down," or something like that. And then I rolled over and went back to sleep.
So, who do I think it was? Well, my first guess was the Previous Owner, R.P., who lived in this house with one of her relatives living in the other unit. R.P. was in her nineties when she died a couple of years ago. Her husband, from what I can gleen, died years ago. I'm not sure if either one was here when they shook their mortal coil. Beyond them, I'm not sure who owned the building or lived here, so have no other guesses.
There was nothing menacing about the footsteps I heard. I actually put them out of my mind for quite a while until last week, when Mom said she heard someone moving around up there. Now, she was wide awake at the time--unlike me, who had been roused from sleep. She knew both Ted and I were working in our basement offices. But she heard the same thing I did: footsteps moving back and forth upstairs.
Are we supposed to inform the new tenants that their unit may be haunted? What's the etiquette on paranormal possibilities?
For now, what I want to know is this: Are we alone in thinking our house is haunted? Is there anyone else out there in the house blogging community who has experienced something similar? I don't just mean levitating dishes or ghostly vapors or classic Hollywood paranormal happenings. Okay, sure, that too. But I'm also interested in the more subtle things, cold spots or things out of the corner of your eye or just a vague feeling that you're not alone. Has something happened in
your old house that you can't easily explain away?
Inquiring minds want to know.
I mentioned the other day that maybe The Box House is haunted, because both my mom and I have heard footsteps walking around upstairs. Well, the night after I posted that, I came upstairs from the basement where I had been working and walked into my bedroom only to be hit with a wall of what smelled like cigarette smoke. The odor was so strong; it was like walking into a smoky nightclub. I couldn't see anything-- there weren't any wispy curls of smoke--but I could smell it.
