This is the first time that I've posted anything online about this event in my life. I've told some close friends about it--my mother as well--but only the people involved with the owners of the house trusted me in what happened. This is the only event in my life that I have no explanation for.
A bit about me:
I was born in England in 1992, and lived a good life there regardless of my parents divorce when I was three years old. My mom met my stepdad when I was around four years old, and she was married within a year. I'm lucky to have two people to call dad! When I was five, we moved to Rhode Island due to my stepdad's advancing job. It was unfortunate that I had to leave my real father and family behind; I loved them very much. I say "loved" because I've grown up and lived in America since then, and the distance has caused me to become quite apart from my family back home. At the age of nine, my stepfather's job had us move to Orange County, California, where I've lived ever since. When we first came to Orange County, my parents purchased a house in a city called Rancho Santa Margarita (I believe this city held a record for the longest name for a good while) and we started our life again in California. I grew up on a street called Obispo, in R.S.M. CA until I was 15 and we moved. Consequently, I ended up going to a different high school than all of my friends.
Getting to the story:
This story begins with growing up on Obispo street. It was a perfectly normal upper-middle class area constructed in the 90's. There were lots of kids my ages living on that street during the time that I lived there, and I had great fun with them--even if sometimes I felt that I didn't quite fit in. My parents being British made me a bit different to the rest. I lived there from ages 9-15 approximately. There was this girl that I knew (I won't say any names) that I used to play with further down that street. We used to have little "wars" using berry shooters (pvc pipe with a balloon taped around one side that allowed us to launch various projectiles, namely berries) and would generally be quite mean to each other--in a childish sense. I remember one time when I planted a "fart bomb" in their garage that I had purchased from the ice cream man which I got into quite a bit of trouble for after her father realized it was me. That girl and I ended up going to different middle schools.
During this time living on Obispo, I never caught any wind of any oddities happening. It wasn't until years after I had moved that I began to hear about weird things happening there. At around the age of 16, after I had since moved away from that street, I met the girl I had once played with. We both seemed so grown up. It turned out that we had mutual friends, and would hang out from time-to-time. When I started college, my parents moved back to Rhode Island--once again due to my dad's job. I was left alone to my own devices, which was a bad thing for me. I wasn't able to keep up with my studies, and flunked out of school. I just wasn't ready, and far too immature at the time. I moved in with a college friend of mine, in fact my best friend of today. We had great fun, and each had a dog. Mine was called Damien. He was just a puppy of a few months when this all happened.
I remember during my mid-teens I used to hang out with the girl from the old street Obispo and her friends from my group. They (and she) would tell me about weird events that had happened at her (my old friend's) house on Obispo. One of the friends would tell me that her reflection didn't seem like her when she was over at that house. They also told me about a dark figure that crawled from the downstairs guest room to the guest bathroom (right next to each other, but separate rooms). Apparently one of their guy friends had spent the night there in the guest room downstairs and left in the early morning. He supposedly told them the next day that he has seen this thing crawling. The girl (my old friend) would tell me of odd happenings and trouble sleeping. She always seemed serious when mentioning these things to me, but I never took any of it to heart. Her and our other friends were into odd things, and I know that they liked ghosts and vampires and such. I never took them seriously since I knew that they took easily to the fantasy world of things. I have always loved watching ghost shows and the likes, but as a natural skeptic I never really believed in anything paranormal. I was also raised without any faith. I paid no serious attention to anything her and her friends had mentioned, although their stories were interesting.
Around the age of 19-20 she invited me to her house. We were alone, just the two of us--nothing romantic--and my puppy Damien. Her parents had gone somewhere together and her younger brother was off galivanting god knows where for the weekend. Once the movie was over, she went off to sleep in her parents room upstairs, and I went to the upstairs bonus room at the other side of the house. These two rooms were far apart from each other, facing through a long hallway that allowed access to every other upstairs room in the house. The bonus room where I was laying down was above the garage; the parents room was facing the backyard. There was two French doors that opened inwards to the bonus room that I was staying, with a cold leather couch offset but facing those doors. There was a large flat-screen T.V. Sitting on a large stand that housed books/dvds and such to the right of those French doors. Behind the couch was the rest of the room; there was a large window back there showing the street leading to Obispo. I popped on the tele while snuggling Damien on that couch facing the T.V. And flicked through the channels. I don't rightly remember what I was watching as time went on. I was tired, but I wasn't yet ready to go to sleep and kept watching the tele.
Suddenly something banged against those double doors I was facing. It was INCREDIBLY loud, as if the police were about to burst in. The doors shook inwards as each repeated hit smashed against them, like an angry fist. After every few bangs, there was a rough scratching sound--as if a large German Shephard was on it's hind legs desperately trying to rip it's way in. I was terrified--initially. Then a confidence came over me; I thought my friend was trying to scare me. What was happening could definitely be recreated by a human. I rose off up of the couch--leaving Damien behind in the blanket (he was terrified) --and crept towards the banging, scratching double doors. By now it had been going on for about fifteen seconds. I was going to catch her in the act. As I approached the handles with both my hands, the banging and intermittent scratching continued. I quickly snatched the handles and yanked both the doors inward--but there was nothing. And silence. The hallway was empty. The lights were all off. What shreds of light that shone from behind me illuminated the entire hallway, but there was nothing there. The very moment that I had yanked those doors open, whatever it was had stopped. My stomach sunk... I didn't know what to do. I checked the rooms down the hall very carefully in fright, but no one was there. No one would have had the chance to escape me opening those doors and catching them in the act if someone else was in the house. I felt completely empty.
I ran down the rest of the hall to where my friend was sleeping, and woke her up. She was sound asleep in her parents bed. That bedroom was maybe forty feet away down the hall. I jarred her awake and frantically told her what had happened; meanwhile I kept checking behind me towards the entrance to the hallway. She wasn't too surprised, and didn't have too much to say. Everything was quiet as I left her to go back to sleep, and somehow I managed to get back into the bonus room and fall asleep with my dog. In a way I was hoping that something else would happen to confirm what had happened, but nothing ever did. I woke up in the morning, said my goodbyes, and left.
Over the years I would think about what happened occasionally, and I started doubting the events of that night. She moved away and I didn't have any contact with her for a long time. Years later I messaged her, asking if she remembered that night. She responded, recounting the night and how I had woken her up and had told her what had just happened. That chat I had with her confirmed once again everything that had transpired.
I was sober that night in case you were wondering. I think about what had happened every week typically, and I hope that whoever is reading can assure themselves that my story is genuine. There was no explaining what had happened.