A new unstoppable team😎

Hey all, this is Psych! This is the first of several stories that I’ve revised from my personal blog to post here instead. When I’m done with these, I’ll do my best to draft and post any experiences chronologically, just to establish a little bit of a timeline. Keeping with that, this IS the first of this kind of thing that I can remember happening to me.

This is also the first installment of my “series” on this blog. Hopefully, we gain a little bit of momentum because Champ, Hap and I all thought this was a really cool idea and we’re pretty excited to be working together on something like this. If you read this story and you think you’d be interested in reading more about weird or spooky stuff that happens to us, go ahead and follow this blog, and we’ll try to update as often as possible. 

With that said and out of the way, I think I’ll just jump straight into it.

Until a few years ago, my mother and I lived with her (now) ex-boyfriend and his two children from his previous marriage. I shared a room with his daughter, and my little brother shared a room with his son, which meant that the four of us slept in bunk beds in our respective rooms.

The boys’ was handmade by my mom’s ex (from now on, if he comes up, we’ll call him “J” for Jackass) and his brother-in-law, and it was fantastically sturdy and surprisingly comfortable. The one in my room, however, had been bought used. It was a metal masterpiece, and the bottom bunk was double wide so that it could fold up into a little couch, but it was so old that it was really not that safe. At all. The screws that held it together weren’t ENTIRELY stripped, and the frame itself wasn’t bent TOO out of shape, but it definitely wasn’t a good idea for me to be sleeping on the top bunk anyway.       

In fact, it was unstable to the point where whenever I shifted my weight, no matter how slightly, there would be a frankly ungodly amount of squeaking and shaking, and just generally annoying and unnecessary ruckus. Since we’ve moved out, (and I’m being 100% serious) I’ve lost core strength, because if I wanted to roll over in the middle of the night without waking up the other girl, I had to be  S O  C A R E F U L. Basically this is just a long-winded and expositional way of saying that it wasn’t unusual for this bed to be moving and/or making some kind of noise.

Another important detail about living in this house that is integral to this story, and you may have guessed what it is already: the house was haunted. We called the ghost Sarah, and on multiple occasions, all of us who lived there had experiences where we were shushed, had our hair pulled, were tripped, or any other Hollywood ghost style inflictions. For months, we all tried to write it off and debunk the things that happened, until eventually there was no way we could keep plausibly denying it.

The most intense experience I ever had with Sarah was something I will never forget because it’s what made me actually start believing in ghosts. Everyone else was in the kitchen, and I was about to join them for dinner. I was in my room, on my bunk, shoving my finished homework into my binder, and then shoving the binder into my backpack, and at some point, I realized that the bed was shaking a little more than it should have been, even for how much I was moving. So I did what any sane person would do and I stopped moving for a few seconds to allow it to stop moving, because there was always a vague fear in my mind that the top would crash down onto the bottom and break the whole thing, and trust me, if you slept in that thing with someone underneath you, you would know exactly what I mean.

Now the only problem with my “stop moving so it can stop moving” strategy is that the bed didn’t stop moving, contrary to my tentative understanding of physics. In fact, the exact opposite happened. It started shaking more, and actually slamming into the wall and the bookshelf, which were on either side of it, and I know for a fact that this incident left marks in the paint and dented the wall.

Of course, this scared the hell out of me. I started screaming, because, again, it was what any sane person would do, and at that point in my life I was saner than I’ll ever be again (not trying to be edgy, just stating facts). My mom, being the good parent that she is, properly panicked and burst into the room, leaving another dent in the other wall because of course, she had to throw the damn door open. Only seconds before, however, I had jumped off the bunk, entirely disregarding the idea of climbing down the side, and the second I was off, even before I landed on the floor I heard it come to a dead halt. Sure as anything, when I looked up it wasn’t even swaying, it looked exactly as if I had just walked into an empty room. Totally still.

So when my mom threw open the door, wide-eyed and mind racing and there was nothing outwardly wrong, she was confused. And me, ever the logical one, immediately tried to supplement an explanation, and so I asked about “the earthquake.” Which only made her more confused, because as I’m sure you could imagine, there WAS no earthquake, not even a tiny one. My mom pieced together what must have happened because she (and everyone else) had HEARD the absolute insanity that was going on, and went in a few minutes later with a screwdriver and made an attempt to tighten up the old joints of the bed, which didn’t help much. Unless properly tightened screws scare off ghosts.

 Even though that was the biggest thing I ever experienced while living there, and nothing like that ever happened to me again, I was glad when we moved out and left that bed behind. Of course, the house we live in now is more infested than just one passive-aggressive poltergeist, and I have plenty of stories under my belt from living there.