The best ghost stories are ones that aren't just stories but tales of experiences that really took place. Mine is one that started with childhood and built its way up to my teen years. I grew up in a house that had been in my family for generations. My mom grew up there, her mom (My Grandmother) grew up there, and they both were married and lived in the house they grew up in. The earliest memory I have is my Grandmother living in the first-floor apartment, and my parents and I lived upstairs in what they called an "in-law" apartment because it only had one entrance and exit--off the living room; instead of two entrances/exits--one at the front and one at the back.


My Grandfather passed away one afternoon in the 1960s when my mom and grandmother left the house to go to the grocery store. They came home to find him dead at the kitchen table of a heart attack. My mom was 9 years old at the time.

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My entire childhood, I always felt whenever I was alone in a room in that house-didn't matter what floor--that I wasn't alone and that I was being watched. I never got the chance to meet either of my grandfathers. My dad's father was a truck driver who was killed in a winter accident on a southern Illinois highway when my dad was a child. One day, my dad brought home this antique LC Smith Typewriter. It was black, with silver keys, and the keys were attached to long levers that you really had to press down for the hammer with each letter to strike the paper in the carriage. I can still smell the ink from the special ribbon that had to be used on this ancient gem. My dad used it regularly to send letters to friends and family, as this was the 1980s and email wasn't a thing quite yet.

In April 1987-both of my grandmothers passed away one week apart from each other. My parents moved to the lower apartment, but I chose to stay upstairs. By myself. Across the hallway, the antique typewriter was on a nightstand that happened to be the last piece of furniture they hadn't taken down yet. One night about 3 am -I was awakened out of a dead sleep by the sounds of someone hitting the keys on the typewriter. The carriage had been centered and it hadn't been used in weeks when this all took place. When I walked into the room and turned on the light--the carriage was ALL THE WAY MOVED TO THE RIGHT as if someone had been typing a message. Unfortunately, there was no paper--so I'll never know what whoever it was hitting those keys wanted to say. I placed a piece of paper in the carriage and recentered it, hoping to recreate the same thing the next night. It never happened again. We sold the house 2 years later in 1989 and moved 200 miles away. To this day I think about that night and wish I would have been able to communicate with whoever it was.

People I tell this story to tend to look at me like I'm crazy. But that was the night that confirmed my belief in the spirit world.

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