Sarah Nigbor

As my daughter used to say, it’s Spooky Season. Jack-o-lanterns adorn porches, inflatable witches sway in the fall breeze and ghosts dance from tree branches. I love this time of year and even more, I love being spooked. Well, sort of. I love hearing stories of creepy things but not when they happen to me.

I’m not entirely sure I believe in ghosts, but I try to have an open mind, and I know some things have happened to me for which there is no explanation. Keep in mind that I’m about the biggest cynic I know. I question everything and always search for a reasonable explanation before jumping on the haunted train.

When I was young, my friends and I loved to go “haunted housing.” I know now that it’s illegal, but I didn’t really think of it back then. We never meant any harm and didn’t damage anything; however, now that I’m older and wiser I know going through falling down and/or abandoned houses was a huge liability and not the smartest thing to do. But it sure was fun!

My grandparents used to own a farm near Nugget Lake. Near it for decades stood a weathered, four-square farmhouse long abandoned to the elements. I think my grandpa said his aunt lived in it at one time, but I’m not sure. My mom always said she could see if from their house. Anyway, it used to be one of our favorite spots to visit. We could tell at one time that it had been a beautiful farmhouse. It was remarkably sturdy after decades of abandon and we searched it from first floor to third floor attic. There was nothing left inside, but I could imagine a family living there at one time. I was sad to see the house abandoned.

One time my friend Chantelle and I drove out to the house in the middle of the night. She had heard about it and wanted to see it and I was always game. We parked next to it and crept inside as the moon lit our path. As we went through the house, I felt a growing sense of foreboding and dread, which had never happened on my previous visits. By the time we got to the attic, I had a terrible stomachache, a dry mouth and shivers running up and down my spine. As we stood silently in the darkened space looking out a glassless window at a moonlit field, I heard a booming male voice shout, “GET OUT. GET OUT NOW.” The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. I hightailed it out of there as fast as I could with Chantelle on my heels. I’m no athlete, but I’ve never run faster in my life. I wasn’t even thinking “ghost” at this point. I was thinking a neighbor had spotted us, thought we were up to no good and had called the police. We burst from the house and ran toward my car, but no one was around.

We jumped in the car, locked the doors and I turned the key. Nothing. The engine wouldn’t turn over. It didn’t make a sound. The starter didn’t even make a clicking noise. I looked at Chantelle and she looked at me and we both froze. I tried it again. Nothing. This was before everyone had cellphones on them all the time. We sat there for a good 20 minutes in the dark, wondering what to do, keeping a watchful eye on the house in front of us. No one ever emerged. Suddenly, on what felt like the 20^th try, the car turned over, same as usual, and we were on our way.

We were halfway to Spring Valley before I started to feel normal. My stomachache faded away, my pounding headache left and my heart stopped trying to jump out of my ribcage. I finally asked Chantelle if she had heard the voice.

“You mean the one that screamed at us to get out?” she said. She had heard it too. I wasn’t crazy.

I have no explanation for what happened that night. Maybe another trespasser was hiding in the house and wanted us to leave his spot. Maybe a neighbor had seen us go in and wanted to teach us a lesson. Maybe it was a ghost. I know it wasn’t our imaginations and no alcohol or drugs were consumed. And what about the car? I never had trouble with it starting again after that and I never had before that.

That was my last foray into “haunted housing.” I’ll scare myself on my couch watching creepy movies.