I was the overnight counselor at a shelter for domestic violence victims. That should be scary enough to start with. I was allowed to sleep if things were quiet (never were when I *really* needed to sleep). If I was asleep and one of the clients needed something, they would knock on the counselor's office door.
But occasionally there would be a knock at the door. I would get up -- there would be no one there. In itself, not all that unusual; sometimes people would knock and then just decide it really wasn't worth bothering me about. But there was something particular about this knock. There was something different about the rhythm, and it wasn't really loud. Whenever this particular knock came, I would do a check through the house to make sure everything was okay. Every time, the pilot light would be out in the kitchen stove. No one would be up and about in the house. I would relight the stove and go back to bed. This happened about 6 or 7 times.
I had heard stories about another night counselor who had seen someone on the stairs, and she had done research. There was a candidate for ghosthood, but I don't remember the specifics. It didn't worry me too much, because it seemed a benign presence who perhaps just didn't want "her" house blown up.
Of course, there is an alternate explanation. And I would have to think of it because I am such a thorough-going, rational person. It *could* be that a high wind could 1) blow out a pilot light on the stove and 2) rattle the door to the counselor's office.
But I prefer to think otherwise.
On February 15, 2001, I was going to bed at 8:30pm. because I have to wake up real early. I was in bed, turned out my lights, and began to fall asleep when I looked at my closet and saw a white figure standing, moaning in my closet.
It wasn't any of my clothes because none of my clothes are white in my closet. It was moaning and had no legs. I was freaked and just got up and walked downstairs.
When I went to sleep later, the figure wasn't in the closet, was in the corner closest to my bed...
