Skidding on the floor. Nic Cage style.

It will be four years since we moved in to our current home, at the end of August.

At that time, the kids were starting school that week, as we were moving things from one place to the other. Before us, my brother-in-law and his brood lived here. And before them, it was their parent's rented residence.

Needless to say, it's jokingly become a "family tradition" that someone in the immediate family lives in this house.

While my husband's parents were here, I always felt a bit 'uneased' downstairs, in the basement. And it was set up pretty much then, how we have it now. Our bedroom is down there in the addition (kids are upstairs in the two actual bedrooms), our family area, and the kid's play area (which was then the sewing area for my mother-in-law).

From the moment the house became "ours", I felt something was off. But not just in the basement any longer. It extended in to the attic and even the main portion of the house. Primarily my son's room (that was the "junk room" when my in-law's had the place).

For the life of me, I couldn't place my finger on why I had these feelings of dread, only to have my son almost immediately after moving in, tell me that he saw the "Bearded Man" that looked like he was from "a long time ago".

Every so often, either myself or my son would hear what sounded like footsteps in the attic. Both day and night. And even to this day, I feel "watched" if I'm up there, with or without someone being with me.

Less than a week after shipping our boxes to our new home, I was seriously hurt. All the times over the years I had gone up and down those steps that led to the basement, never once did I take a tumble. That is, until THAT day.

My kids were on their way home from their first full week at their new school. At this point, I still had my youngest daughter home with me, being she was too young for Pre-K.

Of course, for security reasons, and to keep the wee one from slipping out the door, I kept the basement door locked tight. But I would go down to unlock it so the kids could come in from the school bus.

With Skyler watching TV (back then upstairs in the living room), I proceeded to start my decent down to the basement.

No more than three steps down, I felt like I had been shoved. I clearly felt what seemed to be like a hand on my back. Down I went the rest of the way on those stairs.

I literally rolled down. Not in a "tumbling" manner, or on my butt. If I had slipped, I would have fell on to my tail and backwards. Not go forwards, face-first and in a rolling motion (like tumbling in gym).

But I didn't stop there.

No sooner that I hit (and I mean HARD) the landing to the steps, I literally flew off. Only to skid across my carpeted basement floor. As if someone kicked me off of the bottom portion of the staircase.

If you have ever seen 'Ghost Rider', with Nicolas Cage (which is one of my favorite movies of his!), you will know what I'm talking about with the "skidding" on the floor. When 'Johnny Blaze' (Nic's character) is thrown from his now-alive motorcycle, on to the pavement of the Police Station's towing area, he skids across the cement a good number of feet before stopping and his hands start catching fire to begin transforming in to 'Ghost Rider' for the first time.

To put it basically, I was 'Johnny Blaze' for a brief moment in time. Only I had shag carpet, on top of cement flooring under my belly.

After being drug by some unforeseeable force of gravitational pull towards the basement door, I stopped short of getting my face slammed in to it. Only to pull myself up, via the doorknob and unlock both locks right as the kids were pulling up on the school bus.

For three or four days after the incident, I was so very sore. I had a few bruises, a scratch, I had muscle aches EVERYWHERE. I felt like I got ran over, then back-up on, only to be hit again. And when I told my husband about it, he (the skeptic he is, but not as bad now, as back then) said that I must have tripped over myself. Or that I slipped on a step.

But, even if I did either of those things, as my husband felt that I must have, I should NEVER have had any of the above happen.

And never again have I endured another experience in this home on those stairs as I had done that day. And it is a day, as well as an experience I will NEVER forget.

Steps In The Attic

As always, with every great story, there is a beginning. So, I shall start from the point of childhood, at eight years old.

My Maternal Grandmother had passed away early in the year of 1984 (I was born in late 1976). She was a woman that took no crap from anyone. She, at the end of her life suffered with a heart condition, blindness due to Glaucoma, and Diabetes. She passed days after I last saw her outside her ICU window.

In her better years, Grandma loved to wear those thick-heeled, four-inch pumps. Everywhere. When she passed, she had a pair on for her funeral. This was to be the second "big" loss in my life of those that I dearly loved, and were close to.

Not long after her burial at sea, and us trying to lead a life without my Grandma living with us (or being alive period), I noticed odd occurrences. Primarily at night. Rustling, sounds like mice or other small animals roaming in the attic above me.

Mind you, NONE of us in all the years we (mainly my Dad and I, along with my mother who passed in 1989) went up in to the attic. I never once can recall that door EVER being opened.

One night, as I lay in bed to rest up for yet another school day, approximately three, maybe four weeks after Grandma died, I heard something familiar to my ears. Yes! Familiar. It sounded like her SHOES. Those thick-heeled pumps could never be mistaken. They had a sound that was unique to the sense of hearing of all their own.

It was a hard thumping 'click'. And that click was going slowly at first, only to pick up pace with my ever-faster beating heart. Finally, it became a fast-pace walk back and forth. It was almost like the person walking and pacing had a worried sound to them.

This walking noise came at a time where I wasn't asleep, but I wasn't awake, either. I was in bedtime-limbo. I was drifting off when that first thick-heeled click came about. Of course, I then lay wide awake from the fear and the constant back and forth movement of the feet, as well as the wood underneath them creaking with each hurried step.

For an hour, I hid in silence as I listened. Finally, I fell asleep. But never for years and years (even after my own mother's death), did I tell a single person, not even my father, what I had witnessed that fateful night.

From that point on, the strange happenings in my house got more frequently active. And I lived with it on my own. Then again, that is a tail for another time.