I remember, at 15, the first winter my family had spent in our new, overly-large home in Michigan. Being accustomed to the semi-city life of Southern California, this was a complete culture shock in itself. The house was a little too big, a little too creaky, a little too vast in the emptiness of farmland acreage. It was not too long after having moved into this house that my mom and I would hear noises, almost like steps, emitting from the middle floor if we were alone in the basement and no one else was in the house. Walking around this large, massive house, I would feel a pressure from within my chest and an odd sensation creep over my shoulders whenever I was on this middle floor, only to be released from it upon entering the upper floor. I resolved that maybe I was just being a little paranoid in such a creepy house.
I am used to having dreams that come true and predict the future, but up until this point I had never seen a ghost--just strange feelings from time to time that I wasn't alone.
One morning, tired and disheveled, I went downstairs into the kitchen of the middle floor to eat breakfast. Grumpily, I passed a boy with black hair sitting on the floor of the living room, his eyes glued to the tv (which was loudly on), all in white clothes. Not looking or paying attention, I muttered good morning to what I believed was my little brother. When I did not receive a reply, I angrily looked up.
To see nobody there. The television suddenly off.
In fact, My brother had been in the basement playing video games, I soon found out. As I cried out in fear and ran downstairs to hide.