The House That Raised Me Pt. 6

I was recently pitching the stories of my old house to the show Paranormal Witness to see if maybe they’ll put me on their show talking about how crazy the house was, and then film actors acting like my family in those situations to help eat up time, when I remembered something I haven’t shared here.

Back when my step mom decided she was going to better herself by getting religion, she drug us kids around to several different religions and churches with her to help us all out. We finally settled on the Mormon church and had a good time there. I talked before about the Missionaries and the flies in the bedroom incident.

Eventually my step sisters all stopped going and it was just my step mom and I who went to church. That was short lived, as my step mom fell back into her life of debauchery. The Missionaries then picked me up every Sunday for church and then took me back home after.

It wasn’t too long after that when I started getting sick on Sundays. I’d have a bad temperature and would have all the symptoms of a bad flu, and I’d miss church. It was terrible. Because I only got that sick on Sundays. The day before and after I would be perfectly fine.

It scared me so much that at one point I had the Missionaries sit with me on the front porch, because I didn’t want to have the conversation in the house for fear of what might happen, and I told them what was going on. I told them how I was only getting sick on Sunday, and that I wasn’t faking it. I was so scared I cried to them and told them I thought the house needed to be exorcised. They told me they couldn’t do anything for me.

Shortly after that conversation they stopped coming to get me for church and I stopped going. At 12 I had no other way of going. The house kept religion away from us, and it.

Well, my bedroom, which I spoke of before also, was more than just the banging windows and doors. There were nights when I felt as if someone or something was staring at me through one of my two windows. I’d pray and feel as if it had gone away. I then started having the dreams.

My dad had already been having bad dreams, usually when he slept on the couch, which he did towards the end of our living there. He would dream that he was in a third world country and he was surrounded by starving kids who were all reaching up at him and grabbing him, begging for food and help. Then he’d be back on the couch, laying there surrounded by those kids who were all still grabbing at him, and he’d have worms crawling in and out of his eyes, ears, mouth and nose. He would wake up out of breath, heart pounding and in a cold sweat.

My dreams weren’t that nasty, but they sucked. One in particular was of my third grade classroom. It was at night, or during a storm, I’m not sure but it was dark out and the classroom lights were on. I was standing in the door to the room, looking in. My teacher was at his desk and appeared to be working on something, or just writing on a paper and he was looking down at it. He never looked up at me. We were the only two in the room. Suddenly a great pressure built up in the room, and I actually felt it. The classroom door slammed closed behind me and the pressure kept building in the room until it was as if there was a tornado in the room. All of the students desks lifted up and began spinning around the room, banging into one another. My teacher and his desk stayed put, and he continued working on the paper, not looking up.

I woke up and still felt that pressure all around me. I left the bedroom and slept on the couch in the living room. For the next two months I wouldn’t go in my room unless it was to get dressed. And each time I went in my room I felt that pressure. The air was extremely thick and I always felt watched when I went in. Finally after those two months, the only reason I started staying in my room again was because that feeling had gone away.

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