We were just sitting around talking about the house I lived in when I was a kid, and my dad was telling us about some things that happened to him. Mostly to my wife, since I’ve heard all these stories before.
Except for this one.
My dad was named after his dad only he had a different middle name. Never mind that, everyone called him Junior. Except for his mom, who affectionately called him Junie.
Dad said that about a month after his mother died, while we were living in that house, he got a phone call. On the other end was his mom who he said sounded very far away. She said “Junie” twice and the line went dead.
I just asked him if there was anything else I might not know about, and he reminded me of an apartment he lived in in Price Hill. It was a small apartment on the top floor of an old building. The ceilings were high and everything was wood.
He lived there with a friend of his named Indian, who I can affectionately call a harmless drunk. The apartment had a separate kitchen, living room, bedroom, and bathroom. It also had a door that went up to the attic of the building. The landlord had nailed it shut and took out the doorknob so nobody could get upstairs. Apparently he was storing family stuff there.
One night he woke up and looked across the room to find the door open and the light upstairs on. He got out of bed and went to the living room to ask Indian if he had opened the door, knowing full well he hadn’t. Indian asked what he was talking about and dad showed him. Indian said he hadn’t done it.
The next day dad called the landlord and told him, who then came over and nailed it shut again.
A while later dad was sleeping when he suddenly awoke and was laying inside the opened door, which was of course open again. Something had dragged him out of his bed and into the doorway.
They moved shortly after that.