When I was 9 years old, my mother relocated to Boston and rented a house on 3333 Columbia Road. It was one of those big Victorian houses that had been remodeled to house two families, one downstairs and one upstairs. We lived downstairs and no one rented above us.
I shared a room with my two little sisters, even though there were more bedrooms for each of us. I didn't mind because the bedroom was quite large and we didn't get into each others way. My bed was next to the closet were we kept our toys and over coats.
It wasn't until our third month that we, my sisters and I, began to realize that we were not alone. Our first "ghost " sighting was in the early evening while we were watching television.
Suddenly, a tall, handsome man ran silently through the living room and headed toward our bedroom. It happened in just a few seconds, but it was long enough for me to remember what he was wearing.
He had on a black top hat and a short, black cape. He was wearing one of those tuxedoes with long tails. He sported a cane and wore white gloves. He kept looking at his gold timepiece and seemed to be in a great hurry.
My sisters and I froze for a minute until I asked, "Did you guys see that man?" Shaken, they both agreed, but we knew nothing about ghosts and assumed it was a living person. My mother wasn't home, and since I was the eldest, I had to go into my bedroom and find this gentleman.
The bedroom was empty and being children, we quickly dismissed the incident and had completely forgotten it until he reappeared later and did the same thing at the same hour, 8:00 p.m.
Deep down inside, I knew exactly were he was going and where he had come from -- my closet. Naturally, I told my mother who became angry and refused to believe us. I now know that she denied seeing anything because she was the only adult in the house and to accept such a tale would be nerve-wrecking. This was during the time the Boston Strangler was on the prowl.
We saw more "visitors" walking through our house and my sisters were particularly disturbed by an old female ghost with a ghastly face that always sat on their bed late at night and woke them up. I was a sound sleeper was spared these particular nightmarish visits.
The old woman, my sisters dubbed her "the witch," meant them harm. She would sit on their chests until they couldn't breathe, which forced them to wake up and to look into her grinning, hellish face.
The worst for me was when I was lying in bed and I felt a presence. I opened my eyes and looked down at the foot of my bed and saw a big, black shape standing there. I knew it was a male, and I knew he had come out of the closet.
Frozen with terror, he stood by my bed for a few more seconds before returning to the closet. To this day, I awake with dread that something will be standing at the foot of my bed.
Once, I was slapped while sleeping, so hard, that I awoke in pain. It took all my strength not to get out of bed and look into the bathroom mirror. I knew I would see a red hand print on my left cheek, and since mother was already nervous about the serial killer I had to keep silent.
There were times when the closet door would make a whirring sound and blast open late at night. Pitiful attempts at blocking the door with toys did nothing. Needless to say, none of my sisters would open or approach that closet door at night. I tried to move my bed away from the closet, but my mother would move it back when she came to tuck us in at night and would scold me for telling stories.
We stayed less than a year, and I was glad when we moved out, but I always wonder if we moved because my mother saw something too.
Jayz note: Thanks for the story