Most of my experiences has happened in my fathers home, located in Heidal, Godfirevalley (what the name of the valley becomes if translated directly into english), Norway.
I've written about my very first encounter earlier, " Some Kind of A Door Was Opened That Night" where I explained that my grandmother had a few rules when it came to ghosts and all things scary.
In my previous submitted story I used the first rule, to always try and find a logical explanation for what was going on.
In the experience I'm about to tell, I had to put her second rule to the test. To talk to them.
Two days had passed since I saw him. The ghost of our house. I had just about managed to be calm about it, accept what I had seen, come to terms with it. In my thirteen year old mind it helped a little that I wasn't the only one to have met him. I thought I'd probably never 'meet' him again, but I was wrong.
My room was always heated up as I was a very freezing child. My oven was always turned on, summer and winter. My room also smelled that of perfumes and hairspray, and the atmosphere in there was always good, warm, relaxing.
I had gone to bed for the night, and was in the state of mind where you're just about to start dreaming, yet you're still aware of your surroundings. That is when he came to visit.
I started feeling colder, despite laying under my thick covers and with the oven on. You know what is on the screen of the television when it's stuck between two channels? The static? Imagine that static image, as a feeling.
That feeling was what came next after the cold. In my entire room. The smells of perfume and hairspray vanished and my room didn't feel the way it should anymore.
I remember just laying in the bed with no understanding of how or why or what. This had never happened before.
Then my eyes were drawn to my bedroom door. It was closed, and I couldn't see anything. It was more a feeling that my eyes just latched onto. Every cell in my body told me there was somebody there, I just couldn't see them.
It felt as if I didn't control were I looked, because my eyes would slowly follow this feeling, slowly moving from my door, around the edge of the foot of my bed, then up along its side.
It wasn't until I felt the side of my bed go down a little, and saw the cover bend underneath something, as if somebody was sitting down, that I came to think of him. That shadow from two days ago.
Again I saw nothing but how the covers gave in, but then I felt something more. A cold sensation slowly down my arm, light as a feather, stroking me. Again and again.
I was frozen. Just like last time. I wanted to remove my arm but couldn't. Then it got up, and my eyes was again fixed on something now moving back towards the door. After the thing was gone, the static feeling disappeared, my room became nice and warm again, the perfumes returned, and that calming, good atmosphere returned. But I couldn't sleep.
This happened three more nights, one after the other. On the fourth I knew for sure it would happen again, so I was afraid to go to bed.
I sat at the edge of my bed, rocking back and forth. For some reason rocking back and forth is very soothing. I thought about the previous nights and what had happened. How it was exactly the same every night.
It had to be real. Just like with the livingroom. I started to sum up the happenings, everything from that first time I saw him. How he just stood there for what felt like forever, and just looked at me. How when I was about to look away and he made sure I didn't.
And now how he had come into my bedroom every night and stroked my arm, only to get up and leave again. So I wondered, still rocking back and forth, if perhaps he wasn't bad, evil.
I had lived there for years and he had never scared me, never 'shown' himself to me in one way or another, but he had made sure to mess alittle with the grown-ups. Then he just turned up the first time and made me aware.
And now he was stroking my arm. Maybe... I thought, maybe he's not trying to scare me. He hasn't hurt anyone. Maybe he's kind. Maybe... Just maybe... He's just telling me good night. Grandmothers second rule was to speak to them, and I thought I'd give it a go.
So I went back to bed and now I made sure to lay as far in on the bed as I could, to leave room at the edge of it for the ghost, in case he came to sit again.
And sure enough, he did. The cold, the static, the vanishing of all perfumes and the atmosphere I was used to, and ofcourse that feeling which my eyes kept following, until yet again I felt those strokes on my arm.
This time I managed to whisper " I'll be going to sleep now...so...good night...". Imagine a frightened, big-eyed thirteen year old girl whispering this. I wasn't exactly brave in my voice.
As usual the ghost got up and left the room, and my room became its usual again. The next night I waited, and waited, and waited, but he didn't show. That is when I stopped being afraid of him. He might be a dead man walking in my home, a ghost, but as far as I was conserned, he had never hurt anybody and I don't think he was actually trying to scare us. So I concluded that he was a kind man who perhaps simply wanted a friend.
He didn't do this again for months, but when my room did get cold again and the static returned, I actually smiled a little. He's always been there, always been a part of my life, and now I can't imagine that home without him lurking about, keeping me company when I'm alone.
Since then I'm convinced he's shown me his name too, but that is a story I'll submit soon.
Thank you for reading,