Terror in the Attic

Here's a little Halloween story for you. And it actually happened. When I was just starting college, I didn't much like the idea of living in a dorm, so I searched high and low for a place I could afford. I finally came across an ad for a room for let in a house near campus. When I went to the house, it turned out to be an old white Victorian that had definitely seen better days. The brick steps were cracking, and the paint was peeling, and the heavily draped windows were covered with layers of dust.

I was greeted at the creaking screen door by a small, timid man who bore a striking resemblance to Richard Nixon. He showed me the "room", which turned out to be a large windowed attic with a dozen or more small storage closets lining the walls. After I had paid the rent and deposit, he showed me the one closet I could use, as he was himself using the rest for storage.

That night, I moved in my meager belongings, and finally dropped exhausted into the small bed that came with the room. I felt a bit of a chill. Perhaps it was because the house was near the river, with a constant moaning breeze, but it still seemed very cold for September.

Eventually, though, I drifted off to sleep. Then I had a dream. At least, I think it was a dream. In the dream I was lying awake in the bed, when the light in the little bathroom came on by itself. I looked over, and it went on and off several times. So, I got out of bed, and walked over toward the bathroom door. Just as I got there, the door to the closet just next to the bathroom slowly creaked open, and to my shock, a shriveled little old lady in a wheelchair sat inside. She stared at me with wild hate in her eyes. I awoke with a start, and spent the rest of the night awake, glancing at the closet door from time to time.

The next morning, the sun was bright in the sky, and the light shining through the windows calmed my nerves. I realized it was probably just the stress of moving into a new place that had caused the dream, so I got out of bed and went straight to the closet, determined to prove myself both sane and utterly fearless. So, it was perhaps understandable that I should jump back with a yell when I opened the closet door, only to find an old worn out wheelchair sitting just inside.

When I immediately (if somewhat carefully) asked my landlord about the wheelchair, he seemed puzzled, but explained that it had belonged to his mother, who had died in the house many years before. I thanked him for his candor. And then I moved out.