One of our favorite seasons is here – it’s spooky season! There’s nothing better than telling a great scary story by the campfire. And, there’s no place better for a wonderful campfire and some downtime with your loved ones than at the Kabino!
But, there are so many great ghost stories out there – how do you find the right one?! We’ve put together some of our favorite ones to tell by the fireside and put them right in this blog. One that is a bit innocent, then a couple that are a little more frightening! We hope you enjoy them and are able to spin some tales by the fire this fall at the Kabino!
The Impish Ghost
My neighbor Diane and I had a playful poltergeist for years, and we called it Billy. I’d come home and find something put in a weird place: milk in a cupboard, toilet paper in the fridge, laundry detergent in the bathtub.
Diane once called to ask if Billy had been around, because she couldn’t find a gallon of milk.
We finally found it outside on her back steps. And sugar … darn sugar! Every morning, my sugar bowl was empty.
When I had enough, I’d point to Diane’s home and yell, “Go see Diane!” Within five minutes, I’d get a call from her, and she’d say “Thanks a lot,” because he’d gone and pulled shenanigans at her place.
This occurred for the entire two years we lived there. No one believed us – not even our husbands. My mother thought someone was stealing from us when we were sleeping or out of the house. My sister believed something was going on but didn’t know what. I still can’t explain any of it.
The Eerie Attic
A few years ago, I moved into a one-bedroom apartment in Melbourne, Australia; it was my first time living on my own. The apartment block had been built in the 1930s. I’d been there for a few months when I came home from work one day and went into the bathroom.
I saw something strange: The wooden board covering a hole in the ceiling that led to a small attic space lay broken in two pieces on the ground. I examined the broken pieces. The board was an inch thick, and it would have taken a Bruce Lee to break it. I thought the landlord had sent someone to work on the attic. I was frozen stiff with fear. I thought someone was up there for sure.
I e-mailed pictures to the landlord asking if anyone had been there (with an undertone of annoyance, since she hadn’t warned me). Her reply read, “Please call me as soon as you are able to.” I called, and she explained that her last two tenants had said the same thing happened. She promised to replace the board, and she did. A month later, I woke up one night around 4 a.m. I had so many goose bumps, it felt like someone was rubbing his or her hands on me.
Everything was silent, but then I heard this sound coming from above my bed. It was a dragging sound, like someone pulling a sack of potatoes. I was frozen stiff with fear. I thought someone was up there for sure. There is no way an animal could make that sound. After five minutes, I managed to work up the courage to turn on the light and walk to the bathroom. I was armed with a baseball bat. When I looked, I saw that the new board covering the hole was broken in two! I felt sick. The dragging sound had stopped. But I heard something else—whispering.
The sound was clear and coming from the attic. It sounded like children’s voices, and I could hear one sentence repeated over and over:
“It’s your turn … It’s your turn …” I switched on every light in the apartment to make things feel normal. It was 5 a.m. and dark outside.
I watched TV to try to unwind. Then a fuse blew. My pet budgie, Dexter, whom I kept in the kitchen, usually never made a sound at night, but he started squawking like he was being strangled. I’d never heard him make those sorts of noises – he was screaming. I grabbed my car keys, ran out, sat in my car, and waited there until the sun came up.
When I saw people walking their dogs, this comforted me enough to go back in. The front door was open, but I thought I hadn’t closed it when I’d run out. I went to the kitchen to check on Dexter, and he wasn’t in his cage – I felt sick again. All my windows were closed, so I looked everywhere inside. When I walked to the bathroom, I heard splashing. Dexter was in the toilet! I
took him out, washed him, and dried him. I was so confused.
At 8 a.m., I called the landlord and gave her a watered-down version of the night. “Oh, wow, you heard the whispering too!” she said. I stayed in that apartment for another 18 months. I heard the whispering on a few occasions, and twice the board covering the hole in the ceiling moved. Although I moved away, the landlord recently called me. She said that her new tenants had begged to speak with me about some of the stuff that’s been going on there. Seems that whatever was with me in that place is still hanging around!
The Boy With No Eyes
One night when I was ten, I was awakened by my bedroom door opening, followed by someone sitting on my bed. I felt my leg grazed and the bed sink under a person’s weight. Thinking it was my mom, I opened my eyes to see an eyeless boy (he had black empty sockets) about my age sitting at the foot of my bed. He extended his hand, and in it was a little box.
I was startled but reached out. He pulled back. I reached again and said, “Give it.” Then I blinked, and when I reopened my eyes, he was gone, but the imprint of someone sitting on my bed was present.
Fast-forward a few years. My girlfriend came over to do homework. After she finished, she took a nap while she waited for her parents. When they arrived, I tried waking her up. She opened her eyes suddenly, looking up at a corner where the wall met the ceiling. She pointed there and went back to sleep. I shook her again. She came to full consciousness, and I explained what she’d done. She said, “Up on the wall, I saw a little boy with no eyes. He was there in a Spider-Man pose, staring at me.” I freaked out and told her my story about the same kid.
Fast-forward another few years, and now we had a two-year-old. We were living in my parents’ house, in my old room. My daughter started waking up at the same time every night, and she’d talk. After a while, I noticed she had almost the same conversation every night. I playfully asked her once whom she was talking to. She said, “It’s a little boy. He’s nice. He’s lost and looking for his mommy. And there is something wrong with his eyes.”
Chills shot down my spine, as I knew that she too was experiencing the same thing I had so many years ago. We moved to another place soon after, and the “visits” ceased at that point. But still, to this day, probably every couple of months I’ll sit straight up out of a deep sleep and catch my breath, afraid that the little boy will be on the bed again.