That Haunted House Scared The S*** Out Of Me… Literally!

[Jimmy Buttcheeks]

Ever lived in a house that was haunted?

Ever been so terrified that you lay under the covers hearing every creak and groan of that old haunted house, not being able to sleep no mater how hard you tried?

Ever been so scared of that house that you didn’t feel like going into it when you were alone, so you copped a squat on the front porch and took a dump there, rather than risking being screwed with by ghost while you were trying to poop inside??

Ha! I got you with that one, didn’t I!

But truth be told, that is exactly what I did one time when I was about six or seven. Below is the story that leads to the “Mystery of the Turd on the Front Porch”.

See, I was born and raised in Northern Indiana. We (being my parents and two brothers) lived in an old rented farm house. I don’t know the specifics of the place, but trust me… it had spooks living in it! On any given night, once the house settled down and we were tucked lovingly into our beds (I need to point out, on arrival of my little brother, I and my older brother were moved to the “upstairs” which was really an attic.), the evidence of the ghost would be made perfectly obvious.

I had this little plastic craptastic guitar and when it wasn’t being used to smack my older brother over the head (I’m a huge fan of El Kabong!) it would sit in the corner.

Many a night we would lay under our covers and listen to it being strummed by God knows who or what. It wasn’t playing an actual song mind you. Neither of us was getting out of bed to dance a jig to it… but just a low, lonely strum from the low E to the high E. Over and over it would go and eventually stop, just before the guitar was knocked to the floor.

Sure a lonely guitar playing itself in the middle of the night is quite spooky, but in the safety of the daylight hours my brother and I discussed the situation. We decided that there was in fact a ghost in the attic, if not in the house.

We also came to the conclusion that it must be a fairly nice ghost seeing as how it was playing a nice, soft tune!

It definitely wasn’t a hard rocking, Death Metal riff… and in our little minds that is exactly what we thought an evil type ghost would be playing. So we learned to live with it.

It wasn’t until some time later that the next “spooky” event happened.

My Mom and Dad were throwing a party. You know, having a few friends over for what ever it is that adults do after kids go to bed. At any rate, it was still early in the night and my undiagnosed ADD was on high! Long story short, I was exiled to the haunted attic early in the evening.

With my older brother spending the night with friends, I was left alone upstairs.

I wont b******* you with any of the “there was a cold chill in the room” or “the attic reeked of pure evil” type of creative writing. In fact, the room felt just fine, so fine in fact that I took out my two-foot tall, rolling Godzilla toy and started playing with it.

Not a care in the world… just me and Godzilla, breathing fire and shooting the three spring fired missiles that were in his chest… pretending to destroy something, but what I can not remember.

Godzilla also had another awesome feature. One of his arms would raise up and with a push of a button his right fist would shoot off of his hand and destroy whom ever it was that you were in the throws of imaginary battle with.

We’d launch a chest rocket or two, just to let them know that we meant business, but when the fighting got tough, we went straight to the Fist Rocket!

All was going to plan until Godzilla’s fist went shooting under my bed, and that my readers, is where the Ghost S*** Hit The Fan…

Keep in mind, when this all went down, I was a young kid… probably six, but definitely not older than seven. The point of the age defining here is to let you know that I could easily slide under a bed to retrieve a projectile fist, and I did.

The problems started once I got under that bed.

You see, I scurried right under, got the fist, fed the dust bunnies, and as I turned to crawl back out, I saw Godzilla making his way towards me. Slowly at first but picking up more speed with every inch that traveled under the plastic wheels hidden in his feet. Faster and faster he came, and at first, I wasn’t afraid. Just mesmerized I reckon.

BAM!

Godzilla slams right into my bed frame, inches from my face, and that startled me.

When he backed up a full foot, and did it again, that’s when it scared me!

And when he continued to do it, that’s when I freaked the hell out!!!

I let out a scream, turned around under the bed, and gave a well-placed kick to Godzilla’s mid-section. This sent him flying across the room, and into the far wall.

Now I’m used to this haunted attic that I’ve been living in, but when something jumped on top of my bed, and began jumping up and down, all bets were off!

I screamed like I was about to be murdered, over and over and over.

I also tried to get out from under the bed so that I could run to the safety of my Dad and the party that was only a short flight of stairs away.

But I couldn’t.

What ever was jumping on my bed that night was doing it with so much force that the mattress and box springs were collapsing and pinning me to the floor.

My Dad came up the stairs, to see what the hell could be wrong with his middle son and saw nothing. Only my feet sticking out from under the bed while I was screaming bloody murder. He pulled me out, picked me up, sat me on the bed, and started to holler at me. I think because I was ruining the party down below. I tried my best to explain what had happened, but it was spewing from the mouth of a terrified six year old crying his head off so I’m sure it didn’t make much sense.

I don’t recall where I ended up sleeping that night, but I doubt it was in my room.

Most likely on my parents bed, mixed among the different smells of the party guests coats, hats, and scarf’s…

Some time had passed, but I never trusted that room again, not the whole time I lived there. Which in hindsight was only two more years, but that seems like a double life sentence to a six year old kid.

I wouldn’t go up to my room after school, I’d only go up after my older brother had been up there for a few minutes before me, because as we all know, Big Brothers have a super power that can defeat all and save you from the worst of anything.

Until you turn twelve and realize he’s an complete a******.

Until you turn twenty-two and realize he’s a Dad, a mere Mortal, and one of your best friends.

I can remember being sent up at bedtime, and lying with my head under the covers and analyzing every creak, grunt, and moan that old house gave up. Sometimes passing out from exhaustion, but more often than not, finally drifting off after I heard my Dad getting up at 4:00 am and the soft, sweet, safe sound of his spoon hitting the sides of a porcelain coffee cup as he stirred his sugar into his morning coffee. That sound meant that my Dad was up and awake, and I was safe.

At any rate, I wouldn’t be caught dead in that room alone, and that fear soon spread to the entire house.

It was a bright and sunny summer day when my Mom, my big brother, and myself were playing down the road at the neighbor’s house. It just so happened that neighbor was my Moms little sister, thus making her my Aunt Janie.

I remember playing out back and have a good time with my cousin Shann when I got hit with the worst “poop-pain” of my six year old life!

I ran up to my Mom and my Aunt and asked to use the bathroom.

“Sorry, Honey. Your Uncle John is working on the septic tank, and the bathroom is off limits.”

S***! Literally.

My Mom suggests that I “… run down the road, back to the house, and go there.”

Not even thinking twice, I haul ass down the gravel road, back towards our house.

Our house.

That has ghost.

That only seemed to screw with me.

I get to the front porch and POW, it hits me.

There is no way on Gods green earth that I’m going into that house, alone, to take a crap!

So I do what any other six year old would do.

I pull down my cut-offs, cop a squat right there on the porch, and let it go!

A nice little poop of perfect consistency and shape!

Proud as punch I pull up my pants, run back to my Aunts to play, and leave a surprise on the front porch for who ever gets home first.

Which happened to be my Mom, big brother, and me.

The exchange went something like this;

Mom: “Who the hell s*** on the porch!!!”

Me: “I don’t know! Maybe the dog???”

Mom: “That isn’t dog s***, Jimmy!”

(Drat!!! She’s on to me!!!)

So I look up at her, and in a last ditch effort I reply with this;

“Maybe it was the mail man.”

Editors note: To this very day, the most comforting sound in my life is the sound of a stainless steel spoon hitting the sides of a porcelain coffee cup as someone stirs in their coffee or cream. The only thing better, is when it’s my Dads.

[Mrs. Cherry Garcia]

that was the coolest story EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i really love the Editors note too <3 Hope you are doing well, fine sir! Hope to see you at Viva next year!!

[Filmmonkey]

Very cool story. And I agree, it was the mail man.

I was on a ghost hunt with a paranormal group and had to take a hella leak. Of course, right before i ask where the bathroom is I'm told that the bathroom is one of worst areas for activity. I took the quickest piss of my life the whole time looking over my shoulder. And I don't even believe in ghosts...

[Desirée {PL Team}]

aaaaahahahhahaaha, this is amazing! It was totally the mail man.

[Edson Carlos]

OMFG bro if you keep these gems coming and think you can be consistent, I'd love to feature your blog!