The Bad Man In The Basement

I suppose I should give the readers some insight into this. I will be constructing a series of the paranormal events that have taken place throughout my life. This is the first of them. These stories take place in various areas in Denmark and the United States. The stories that take place in Denmark, such as this one, will be about my experiences from since I was two to ten. Now, the story will begin. Keep in mind that this is a hand-me-down tale, and the only thing that I remember from this is the appearance of the entity and his mannerisms.

When I was younger, I had a wonderful imagination. I could take circles and turn them into balloons. I could take a string of yarn and turn it into a rabbit. But my imagination would not be the cause for the experience that I am about to share with you. Before I was born, my great grandparents had passed away, along with numerous other relatives, and when I was younger, I had no idea who these people had been in life. I can only give you a time period of 1998 to maybe 1999, so I was around two or three. We lived in a house that was a bit out of the way of everything else, but still close enough to town to be considered a part of Copenhagen.

I wasn't afraid of much during this time period, and the only thing that sent me running was The Bad Man. He appeared to me as a gruff, fisherman type. He wore a yellow rain slicker and a pair of back rubber boots. He had tan, leathery skin and had a plethora of scars on his hands and back. His hair was thick and black and he had a quite extraordinary beard. He wore a hat that matched his rain slicker and always had a cigar that he would smoke. Whenever I smelt the smoke, I would instantly begin to cry out or chant frantically, "Bad Man! Bad Man!" All while trembling, staring at a space in the basement where he inhabited, and pointing.

My mother was perplexed by all of this and one day, while my mother was talking with her cousin in one of the rooms of the bisected basement, I came bursting out of the other room screaming my little chant of 'Bad Man'. My mother and cousin looked at each other, my mother scooped me up, and they ran up the stairs. At some point, I remembered what scared me about the Bad Man and told my mother that he had laughed at me and attempted to put the cigar out on my flesh. He didn't get the chance, but I knew that he would have done so if he could.

Another point in time, my mother got a boyfriend three years after my father had been killed by a police officer whom was under the impression that he had a weapon on him. Her boyfriend, whom is now my stepfather, said that watching me peek back and forth to look at something only to scream and take off running was particularly unsettling. At some point, we moved from the house when I was five, and I haven't seen the Bad Man since.

To this day, it is still unclear to me on whether or not he was a deceased relative, a spirit, or a demonic entity.