It's been over a year since I last visited this site. And reading back through my old posts, I'v realized I've missed one or two of my childhood experiences... So I'm going to correct that, and start posting again... But let's rewind things a bit. I've been gone so long, I feel like I need to reintroduce myself and where my home (all of my experiences so far have happened within my home).
My name is Nicole. I'm a 27 year old artist living in Upstate New York. My house was built in 1902. It was constructed by the same man who built the house next door. The house next door was the man's personal home. If you dig down a foot around the edges of my yard, you'll come across a layer of fire place ash. Dig below that, and shards of porcelain, so well preserved that you can still see the gold and silver details, will start to come up.
When we first moved in, there was an old carriage (complete with feed trough) barn in our backyard. Unfortunately, the barn had not been maintained, and had become too dangerous to enter. My Father was forced to demolish it.
We have also had to do a lot of work on our home. We had to remove all the horsehair plaster we found in our walls, because it created too many drafts. We've also had to replace most of the windows, as well as all of the original wallpaper. Most of my "being watched" feeling, is around my Dad's office (the former front parlor), the upstairs bathroom along the wall shared by the toilet and shower, in front of the door leading to the basement, and in front of my bedroom door. Sometimes the feeling of being watched gets so bad, I can't turn my back on the area of the house the feeling seems to be the originating from.
It's also important to note, that my town was the site of two military encampments. One during the French and Indian War, and the second during the War of 1812. The land itself was purchased from the local tribe of Native Americans in the 17th century. There are stories, and physical evidence of Native American raids, throughout the town. The nearby city (I could literally walk to it if I wanted to), is known for it's haunted locations. It sits on the original location of a 16th century outpost. There was one winter when the French came down from Canada and attacked the outpost. They killed or captured more then half the population. Then, while trekking to the nearest colony, the population was halved again, as the settlers were forced to walk through the wilderness in their nightclothes. The people who died in this attack are buried in a nearby cemetery. There are even stories of statues in the cemetery moving on their own.
I'm not sure if this has any effect on my house though.
All right now on to the main event!
(The dreams described in this story started right when I was around 8-10 years old)
When I was a kid, I was a bit more "in tune" with the paranormal then most people. I had everything from feelings of impending doom so intense they would deprive me of a good night's rest, usually just a day or two before a major disaster (for example, I had this feeling the night before 9/11, and the night before Hurricane Katrina), I even had at least one out of body experience (let me know if you want to hear that story. I'll post it in the comments). In fact, most of my more intense paranormal experiences happened when I was a kid.
Have you ever heard of the Backrooms? That maze of nondescript rooms and hallways that seems to repeat itself over and over again. A place with no windows, no doors, and no obvious way out?
A Place where you always feel like you're being watched.
Just a Creepypasta Right? Just some strange story you read online. Nothing to worry about. It isn't real...
It's real... And I've been there... Or at least to some version of it... I have to be lying right? After all, I'm just some random person on the internet. You don't know me, and I don't know you. But I'm not lying. I promise you.
Before I being to tell my Backrooms story, I have to give you a basic layout of the house, as it will be important in just a little bit. When you approach our house from the street you'll notice that it's basically on the top of a small hill. You have have to go up two steps just to get onto our property. Then it's another small set of stairs onto our front porch, and another step up into our home. When you enter our front door, you enter into what my family calls our "front hallway." Basically it's a pretty good sized room separated from the rest of the house by a pair of beautiful French doors. To the left is the main staircase to the second floor, and to the right is my Dad's office (what used to be the front parlor.)
For those of you who don't know there is a reason the living room, is well called a living room. Basically funeral parlors didn't become popular until about 1920. So when a person died, their funeral was held at home. And considering how the front parlor in my home is set up, I don't doubt that there was at least one funeral held there...
Anyway, after you pass through the French doors you come into the dining room, living room (separated by a good sized archway), and the short hallway leading to the basement door, the second staircase, and the kitchen (with a butler's pantry, and a small half bathroom attached). This second staircase is different. Where our main staircase is grand, and obviously meant to impress. This one... Isn't... It's dark, fully enclosed and hidden away behind a solid wood door.
If you walk up the main staircase, you will enter into moderately sized hallway. To the immediate right you'll come across the first (and arguably largest) bedroom. Down the hallway, and around a left turn are the other two bedrooms, a large bathroom, the door to the second staircase... And my Mother's sewing closet. My nursery (and childhood bedroom) was directly across from my Mother's sewing closet. I used to sleep with my door open, and was always terrified of my Mother's sewing closet. Its closed off by a set of double doors, but has always been something dark about it. To me, unless the light was on and my Mother was actively working in there, it always seemed like there was something, lurking inside... Something, evil.
I had a number of experiences in that room. Most of them not involving my Mother's sewing closet. There are a few experiences however that stick out in my memory. They are by far the strangest dreams I have ever had... Sigh, alright I said it... My strangest experiences revolve around dreams. Go on, poke some fun... I'll wait...
So, all through out my childhood I would have strange experiences around the time I would be falling asleep, or shortly thereafter.
There are a few times where I can remember "waking up" in my Mother's sewing closet. In front of me was the narrow opening to a closet (this closet actually does exist, and it really is as creepy as I'm about to describe.) It wasn't so much a closet, as it was a gap between walls. All exposed rafters, an old, dirty linoleum floor, and no light source to speak of. In my dream I would always walk into the closet. I would walk, and walk, and walk. Never reaching the end. I would turn either left or right, and climb through a little hole in the wall. What I saw on the other side, still weirds me out. I actually try to not think about these dreams as much as possible.
Anyway, I would enter into what looked like a near perfect replica of my own home. Only it was massive, seemed to go on for ever, and everything was pure white. What was strange though, was no matter where I went in that "other house" I could never find my own room. It was like it didn't even exist. Where the door would be, there would be nothing... In fact, no matter which hallway I took, I almost always ended up back in the main area of the house.
The first few times I had this dream, I felt completely safe. It was just me, this weird as heck house, and a childish need to explore. When the dream was about to end, I would always end up climbing back through the hole, back through the closet, and into my Mother's sewing closet.
But then it changed... The more I dreamed of that place, the more degraded it became. What had once been a pure white, had turned into a dirty, sickly yellow. The place had once been consumed by a soft white light. That glow was long gone. In its place were dingy flickering lamps, that seemed to create more shadows then they did light...
I went from loving the thrill of freedom and exploration, to becoming almost to scared to move. I would still explore, but I felt like I was being watched. Like I was being hunted even... Those dreams would end with me running for the hole, and escaping my Mother's sewing closet as though someone had set my backend on fire...
Thankfully, I haven't had a dream like this in years... For which I am very glad... Every time I think of what I "saw" I can't help but shudder.
I'll share the stories of my other experiences eventually.