I was truly never a "spiritually inclined" child, but to be honest, I can't really say otherwise being I have very few memories from my childhood. About eight years ago, my father moved to a remote area in Wyoming (what area in Wyoming is not remote?) and I have lived there ever since. After about three of those eight years had passed by, he acquired a new job at a private estate at the foot of a large, uncut forest.
The owners of this private estate are absent for 10 months out of the year, leaving six log cabins and three mansions behind them to live in an even larger estate in Texas. I tell you one thing, nothing is creepier than those mansions at midnight. They are adorned with every native American or Inuit statue that you can possibly think of, not to mention the over abundance of small rooms, cupboards, and even cabinets that open into mirrors.
My family is known for its...ah...variety. My uncle supposedly saw an Indian spirit up on a mountain not far from there. He had a history of that... And a history of mental illness in his side of the family, so, no-one ever believed him, despite what they said. That is, until I was 12.
My father let us play in the mansions when the "masters" were to be gone for a long time, and he trusted me with being careful of all the expensive paintings and some dull weapons (that definitely would be of no use at all in any situation). I was a kid, and kids do tend to make imaginary friends. Not that night. But my young friend and I were infamous for upturning every small opening in an unknown area. And that we did that night when the adults were staying in a house not more than 100 yards away. When you are 12ish, tired, and completely warm and snug in your bed and are used to the lights turning off, you don't notice the things like: footsteps, and lights turning on and off.
The pinball machine was in action and my friend Sarah was sipping on her pop when we both get the classic "hair standing up on the back of our necks." Then the lights flash off. Creaks resonate through the house, and we feel completely unsafe. Like at any moment, the statues on the walls would peel off and turn their heads to look at us. We abandoned our pops and ran for the closest corner we could find. A small room with an enclosed door was in our sight, and we ran for it. But inside, the lights were on and a reflection shone lightly off of the tan colored window shades - yes, the varnished shades shone the reflection of a man in light brown colored clothing. We ran for it.
The day after, while all the lights were on in the middle of the day, Sarah and I finally made it to the basement and were promptly finding cupboards to open. Seconds later, I hear a scream. Running over to assist Sarah, I see the same sight - an obsidian knife decorated with a red feather plume hitting the ground. We slammed the door shut and ran, but when we returned, it was gone.
I tried to avoid that house for a couple years after. I never told my parents but rather kept the experience to myself. Then one or two years ago, oddly enough, the daughter or son of the owners had actually had an exorcism performed that year due to their own suspicions of a "visit from the dead." The strange thing is, the house was only about nine years old. But hey, we have had our share of deaths in that area, by hunting accident or bears, etc. Just goes to show you anything can happen. Maybe my uncle wasn't as crazy as we thought.
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