Although I have been writing about the paranormal for years, I have never, until now, shared a certain perplexing firsthand experience—one that falls neatly within the parameters of ghostly activity. By many standards, it is easily considered a haunting. Below is my "ghost" story.
My weird apartment
In 1988, I moved out of my parents' middle-class-neighborhood house into an apartment in a dreadful neighborhood in downtown Topeka, Kansas. The house at 421 Tyler was a gigantic, crumbling Victorian mansion with 12 ft. ceilings, hardwood floors, a claw foot bathtub, and original tile and woodwork.
The apartment consisted of almost the entire 2nd floor, plus it had access to the house's enormous, cavernous attic. There was probably 3000 sq. feet in that place—it was $205 a month. I loved it—I felt its wonderfulness outweighed the terrible, crime-ridden and drug infested neighborhood.
However, living there turned quickly into a nightmare. A strange, elderly woman lived downstairs, who inexplicably left a trail of unused maxipads everywhere she went. She blasted her television at full volume beginning at about 6pm through morning.
A couple times, I found embryonic kitten remains on the property. The building directly behind the mansion hosted outdoor, revival-style church meetings, of the speaking-in-tongues and fire and brimstone sort. I saw a young girl attacked by the neighbors' pit bull. Weeks later, this same dog also attempted to attack me; it was waiting in the unlit foyer as I descended the stairs, on my way to meeting a friend for dinner.
I heard the movement of the dog, and somehow knew it was the pit bull. I immediately turned and fled up the stairs, opened my door, and slammed it hard, hitting the dog—that's how close at my heels he was. The weird part is—my door opened as I turned the knob, but I had locked it. I still had my keys in hand from doing so.
My weird apartment
In 1988, I moved out of my parents' middle-class-neighborhood house into an apartment in a dreadful neighborhood in downtown Topeka, Kansas. The house at 421 Tyler was a gigantic, crumbling Victorian mansion with 12 ft. ceilings, hardwood floors, a claw foot bathtub, and original tile and woodwork.
The apartment consisted of almost the entire 2nd floor, plus it had access to the house's enormous, cavernous attic. There was probably 3000 sq. feet in that place—it was $205 a month. I loved it—I felt its wonderfulness outweighed the terrible, crime-ridden and drug infested neighborhood.
However, living there turned quickly into a nightmare. A strange, elderly woman lived downstairs, who inexplicably left a trail of unused maxipads everywhere she went. She blasted her television at full volume beginning at about 6pm through morning.
A couple times, I found embryonic kitten remains on the property. The building directly behind the mansion hosted outdoor, revival-style church meetings, of the speaking-in-tongues and fire and brimstone sort. I saw a young girl attacked by the neighbors' pit bull. Weeks later, this same dog also attempted to attack me; it was waiting in the unlit foyer as I descended the stairs, on my way to meeting a friend for dinner.
I heard the movement of the dog, and somehow knew it was the pit bull. I immediately turned and fled up the stairs, opened my door, and slammed it hard, hitting the dog—that's how close at my heels he was. The weird part is—my door opened as I turned the knob, but I had locked it. I still had my keys in hand from doing so.
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