Once again, welcome to one of my many stories. This time, as you may have guessed from the title, I'm going to divulge with you the stories that my family has shared with me. Sorry that it is so long, but there was a great deal to tell. There are quite a few, and some of them are really, really vague, but that's because they've been passed down, and for some stories, we do not remember all the specifics. The stories I am about to write come from everyone I know, from my dad to his uncles, to mémé (my great-grandma; everyone calls her mémé... Similar, my pépé is my great grandpa), to my grandma. Happy reading.
The two stories which stick out in my mind the most are sort of related. It's the same ghost, so let's start there. They belong to my dad and my mémé. My mémé was, and still is, very Catholic. My pépé and her had, I THINK, 16 children (I've lost count, I have so many great-aunts and uncles...), including my dad's mom. Everyone on their side of my family is, and was, very close-knit. We're Métis down that line; what do you expect? Anyway, one of my dad's aunts, we'll call her "ma tante J", was about the same age as him. Slightly weird, yes. As a result of their close ages (they were 9 years old or so at the time of the story), they were close friends. My grandma and grandpa had moved to Calgary, AB, and ma tante J lived in this small town in Manitoba (When I say small, I mean there are about 70 residents, and they're all related/my family) with my mémé and pépé. My mémé and pépé were driving with ma tante J and another tante after dark, coming home from somewhere. They were going through an intersection, and were t-boned by a drunk driver. Ma tante J died instantly. My mémé, pépé, and my dad's other aunt all survived. From what I understand, it was very devastating, and they could not hold an open-casket funeral.
The night she died, my dad was in his room, sleeping, and he was woken up suddenly, and couldn't figure out why. He was puzzled, so he looked around his room. In one corner of the room, floating up by the ceiling was the face of his tante. He rubbed his eyes, and thought he was dreaming. He looked at the face again, and just asked, "Ma tante?" The face slowly faded after that, leaving him feeling calm, even though he knew that seeing her the way he had meant that she had passed. He went back to bed. My Mémé called my grandma the next day, crying, and told her about auntie J's passing. About a week after the funeral, my mémé would be woken up in the night by the sound of little feet running up to the side of her bed. When she opened her eyes, she would clearly see a pale, white version of ma tante J, her hands cupped around her eyes, looking at her; though the apparition had no face, so to speak. It was just blank. Auntie J used to do this all the time, especially after having a bad dream, and she would sleep in my mémé and pépés room. After a month, these appearances stopped. My mémé swears that it was ma tante J's spirit, coming to make sure that my mémé and pépé were okay. When my mémé and pépé had recovered of their injuries from the crash, more or less, was when the spirit of ma tante J stopped visiting in the night.
I still go to visit my mémé; my pépé. We stay in my mémé's basement (my dad, stepmom, sisters and I), and I hear plenty of footsteps upstairs, from the room that my grandma used to share with ma tante J, when I KNOW that everyone's in bed. (I'm normally the one of the last to go to bed, as is my dad). Sometimes there are cute little patterings, and other times, more normal, heavy, adult-sized sounding steps. I tried to stay in that room before I was told this story, and I couldn't. I got chills and saw moving shadows and the like. I'm pretty sure ma tante J and my pépé are sharing that room, waiting for my mémé to pass and join them. She's almost 90 now. I've also always been terrified to go into what used to be my pépé's work room; he was a carpenter, and there's a spare room in the basement where he kept all his things. Rumor in the family has it; he hated people going in there. The lights in this room also go on and off on their own, and I've seen shadows blocking the light in the room that comes out under the closed door. I don't feel threatened going in there, just really creeped out. It's just as bad in his tool room in the basement, which is, unfortunately, where my mémé's cellar is. She ALWAYS sends me down there to get the stuff for her cooking, and it always bugs me. I've seen a full body, male, shadow person walk into the tool room on several occasions, usually just moments before the light to my pépé's work room turns on by itself and I start seeing shadows under the door. I usually high-tail it upstairs when that happens. I'm such a terrible semi-medium. Ugh.
A quick, short story from one of my dad's uncles, Lucien. He claims his bathroom is haunted, and so do some others that have visited the house. Everyone in my family, apparently, at some point or another, has seen his bathroom's garbage can, which sits in front of the toilet; shoot to the other side of the bathroom, or even out the bathroom door, if it's open. I'm about the only one who hasn't, and I kind of want to take a quick trip to Manitoba just to have a look-see.
My grandpa (dad's dad) claims that his rocking chair is haunted. It starts with the passing of HIS dad. My great-grandma Dansereau, back in 40's or 50's (I'm foggy on the details) was cleaning the ceiling of their house, because Christmas was coming up, and they were having family come over. My great-grandparents had an old-fashioned stove - the great big iron ones that you had to keep throwing wood into to keep them hot, and you had to cook with the windows open, because the chimneys for the stove did not go through the house, but rather were only about 3 or 4 feet above the top of the stove. (My grandparents have this stove in their basement, and my stepmom's dad has a similar type on his main floor. Neither one works.) As the smoke mostly stayed in the house, women would have to, as far as I've been told, get up on chairs and clean the ceiling of oils and smoke around the holidays every year. So my great-grandma D was cleaning the ceiling, and my great-grandpa D was sitting in his rocking chair (the very one that my grandpa has in his living room), watching her clean. Out of nowhere, he frowned at her, and said, "I hate when you clean the ceiling. It reminds me of Death." My great-grandma turned to ask him what he meant, and he was slumped over in his chair. He had died of cardiac arrest, at about 30-40 years of age, without any symptoms.
Now, the weird thing about that rocking chair is that, when you sit in it, and start rocking it, it will oh-so-slowly rock its way to the window. The house is level; the chair is not warped in the slightest. I have checked this myself. I think that my great-grandpa likes to have a nice view of the front yard. There were also a few times that my grandparents would get up in the middle of the night and hear squeaking, and they'd look in the front room and that chair would be rocking itself, and most times, about 5 feet from wherever they had put it before going to bed.
The last story that I can recall for now happens to my stepmom's mom, Lori. She lives in an apartment complex, ground floor. Lori, and my two youngest sisters (I have three younger sisters) who have stayed at her house, verifies that it's haunted. Lori will light the candles on the table during the day, and blow them out, or have the girls blow them out. Upon waking in the middle of the night to use the bathroom usually around 5 or 6am, the candles will be lit again, when everyone in the house was asleep. On attempts to blow them out, they would not go out. Looking at the candles while they're burning in the wee hours of the morning, the wax appears unmelted, still opaque, like when a candle has cooled. Shocked, Lori or the girls will go back to bed, and when they get up for the day at 8 or 9, the candles will be out again, the wax rock hard, ice cold, and the wicks will look untouched. May I add that this has also happened with new, never-before-lit candles, and in the morning, upon inspection, the wicks will be untouched, and the wax untouched? Yeah, it's freaky, a bit. I don't like going into Lori's bedroom, and I don't like her china cabinet. It gives off some weird vibes. I think Lori had the apartment blessed; nothing has happened in a while, according to her. I still hate that cabinet and Lori's room. Something feels... Wrong. I can't EVER find out anything about the land in my city BEFORE it was part of the city. I suck at this. If anyone wants to help me find out more about the history, please email me. I know Lori wants answers, and I am increasingly curious about both my dad's house and Lori's apartment.
As always, please feel free to comment, ask your questions. I'll be gathering more stories from my family as quickly as I can, and posting them. I also need to gather up all that I said Fred's been up to, add to it, and put it up as a new, clean second story.