The House With A Million Eyes 3

The house had a constant feeling of being sinister and threatening, yet nothing had turned into such a feeling of plight until I moved downstairs into my brother's old bedroom. Until then, I had not fully experienced that insurmountable fear and dread. Upstairs in my old bedroom the most of what I had been subjected to was to witness odd shadows repeatedly walking up and down the stairs at night, hearing whispers and having my name being called, and random objects moving in my bedroom before my very eyes.

But downstairs was where my brother used to stay up all night, and also woke up to the sound of growling within his own room as I explained in previous accounts of this. In that room I was constantly plagued with nightmares of people screaming at me. I'd wake up very late at night and look over my shoulder to view the time on my bright red alarm clock. Yet I'd witness solid black shadows blocking the view of it. I'd also see multiple shadows standing over me as I lay in my bed, literally surrounding me. Although I was growing older into a teenager, I still slept with the blankets covering my head every night so as not to see them.

Night time was the worst. There was pounding on the walls and furniture of my room as if a million spinning fists roved about. I never experienced the growling like my brother had, yet on several occasions I'd hear low, heavy breathing within the corners of my room. If I also had left any water glasses on the furniture, I'd hear them slide across the wood and being repeatedly picked up and slammed back down. Terror held me gripped to my bed, yet steadily over time these things became such common occurrences that eventually I was able to sleep through them.

The daytime was better, but not by much. On the stairs I felt an incredible pressure or weight as something bore down on me, breathing on my neck. I never slowly went up or down them, I always ran so I could avoid the spirit on the stairs.

Then one day I heard my mother running down the stairs, in the same fashion that I did. She approached me where I was in the kitchen and told me how she felt as if something had been trying to push her at the top. She then asked me if I had ever felt that overwhelming feeling of sheer hatred in that part of the house, like something bearing down on us.

Finally! You have no idea how oddly happy this made me feel, because finally I wasn't the only one who noticed the strangeness about our house. I never confided this in her, but whenever I went up or down the stairs I'd get an image in my head of someone hanging themselves off of them. To this day I can still remember that image, like a flurry of dark shadows but one in particular dropping... And then the snap.

I'd feel hands gripped around my neck like someone choking me. My mother also began to confide in me that she felt this as well, and for once we were finally experiencing the same things.

One day while I was downstairs completing my chores while my mom blow-dried her hair upstairs, she suddenly stopped and came crashing down the stairs at the speed of lightning. Her eyes were wide as disks and within a few seconds she already had her car keys in her hand. She yelled for me to get in the car, we were going for a drive.

It wasn't until we were an hour away when she finally opened up. She told me that while she was in her bathroom doing her hair, she had felt as if something was right beside her and all the hairs on her neck and arms stood on end. She finally admitted that she believed me about the house. She proceeded to tell me about how my stepdad's name had been called out at night, and how something had grabbed his arm while he laid in bed.

She explained her theories to me that these were tests of our faith. She believed if we continued to ignore it and live our lives normally, then the problem would wash itself away. Yet if that were really true, then my mom would have been failing her own test. We had stopped going to church, she'd begun doubting what she believed in, and she had also began drinking whereas before she never drank. She began slipping into a deep pit of depression... And soon so would I.

Before we knew it, we both changed. The true nightmare hadn't begun yet. But before I make any dark allusions as to how things worsened for us, I must say that because of these experiences I believe I am better for it, not because we went through it, but from what I learned of it. Next of what I have to tell is very personal, and I only share these because someone else might be going through the same thing.