My great-uncle has been a widower for about ten years now, and he often gets lonely and needs company. My sister and I would go see him when we were younger, and sometimes we'd spend the night. My great-uncle lives in a three-story antebellum home in the heart of "bayou country", south Louisiana. It's pretty creepy. The house is surrounded by fields and trees of Spanish moss. It's pretty much in the middle of nowhere; the nearest proper town is about twenty minutes north. The house had been remodeled several times over the years, passed down from person to person in my family. Everyone always joked about how the house was haunted, and it never really scared me, but it terrified my sister. A few incidents happened on a regular basis when we went visit. Always, always, every time we walked into the house the air seemed to grow a little heavier. It wasn't a menacing feeling, just a feeling that there was something moving around us that we couldn't see. My sister never liked being inside for too long, because she always felt like there was something "picking on her". For instance, when my sister would put something down (a toy, for example), she's come back later and scream at me for moving it. I never moved anything. Things were taken from her, her hair was sometimes pulled, and she was just generally always scared.
Upstairs, there was more tension, of a negative feeling. The third floor of the house was where, apparently, a Victorian bride (a distant relative of ours) had committed suicide by throwing herself out of the window (the drop from the third floor to the ground is about twenty-five to thirty feet). We always blew it off as just our family's way of romancing the idea the something was in the house. But whenever we were on the third floor, things always happened. Always.
About four years ago, for Halloween, some of our cousins decided to bring flashlights up to the third floor and we were either going to "prove or disprove" that there was a ghost. There was about seven of us, and I was the oldest, and we were sitting in a circle in the room that belonged to the "suicide girl". My boy cousins were obnoxious, and trying to call her out with taunts and stuff. My sister was grabbing my arm about to pass out. I didn't think anything would happen, but when one of my cousins said "they just made her up, she isn't real" to comfort my sister, a hatbox (which had been resting on a shelf across the room) LITERALLY shot off of the shelf, and landed right by our circle. The lid had come off and the box, which had been filled with pictures, sent them flying all around the room. We sure as hell all went running down the stairs.
I went back a few days later, after my uncle fussed at us for "making a mess" up there, to pick up the pictures. They were all old, black and white, and some had the same girl. I wondered if that was "her". You know?
It's been about two years since I last visited the house. I've been meaning to go back, since my great-uncle isn't well. He never really paid attention to anything that went on, even though his daughters insist that he needs to get a priest in there. I'd like to go back soon.
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