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| 10.29.2009 - The Tale Of The Towers | 11:52 AM | | Author: RP (randy@pollestad.net) | Score 5/5 (2 Votes) |
| For those among my audience who know me well, my life is pretty much an open book. I suppose that when one of your hobbies involves detailing every aspect of yourself on the internet for everyone to read, there doesn't leave much room for additional speculation or guesswork. While I have, in the past, always been forthcoming about personal problems or events, there exists one story about which I have never uttered a public word. Not even to my wife. The reasoning is simple: despite having occurred close to four years ago, the events that transpired still fill me with an overwhelming sense of dread and powerlessness whenever I think about them. To be truthful, I'm actually shaking a bit as I type this out.
It was late in the year of 2005 and I had recently moved out of a house shared by roommates to once again experience the adventure of living on my own. I rented a nice place in the Costa Verde Towers, which was in a pretty upscale part of San Diego. The buildings were close to brand new and offered little in the way of any kind of historical value. I realized that I wasn't the first occupant of my new place given the relatively short lifespan of the complex but I didn't feel the need to inquire if anything out of the ordinary had ever occurred there. I don't know anyone that ever does that outside of television shows. Sometimes, knowing what I now know, I wonder if I would have even gotten a straight answer.
The initial post-moving adjustments aside, the first few weeks passed without incident. Getting used to all of the sounds and ambient noises of a new location always takes time and new occupants tend to be a bit more forgiving to disruption while they settle in. In fact, around the time that the extraordinary events did start to occur, most were subtle enough to make you second-guess whether something odd had really happened or whether it was simply carelessness on your part. For example, I would distinctly remember putting my keys down some place only to later find them in a completely different room. Items of value would go missing for days at a time, only to re-appear back in their rightful place. I chalked up these types of events to both forgetfulness and an overactive imagination. Could I really be sure that I left my keys here or that I didn't move the iron off the shelf? Sadly, no. Larger items began to show up in odd places after a short while: dinner plates in the bedroom; the television remote in the bathroom. Cupboard doors would be left open and the contents shifted around. These things are all strange to be certain, but nothing that would immediately raise any kind of red flags. Maybe I did those things. My memory isn't quite what it used to be.
When the smells began -- rooms would reek of a foul smoke where no reasonable source was apparent, only to dissipate seconds later -- I suppose I should have grown suspicious but when you are living with the events day-to-day, it's easier to try and find a logical reason for them occurring rather than trying to immediately jump to a supernatural conclusion. Perhaps I had left the window open earlier and a neighbor had lit up a cigarette. It was a large apartment complex after all. Between you and me, honestly, I wasn't sure that I really believed that but rationalizing it that way was easier than admitting there was something I couldn't explain. Saying it out loud to myself helped calm things, even if the reason was stupid. Perhaps my denial wasn't entirely in vain though because as quickly as all of the things that I denied happening happened, they stopped. Weeks and months went by without any further issue. 2006 passed by in a flash and I rung in 2007 without so much as a second thought to the anomalies that used to be everyday occurrences. I wish it would have stayed that way.
It was the tail end of January in 2007 and I hadn't smelled smoke in so many months that I had all but forgot it even happened. My keys didn't go missing and my dishes stayed where they belonged. Perhaps I had simply made a New Year's resolution to be more mindful of things like my possessions and open windows. But then things started happening that I couldn't readily explain. Kitchen appliances would be unplugged, the power cords tied into figure eight knots. Dark stains would appear on otherwise white walls with no probable explanation. Room temperatures would fluctuate wildly, dropping as much as 20 degrees in a few short seconds. Door handles would be ice cold to the touch. All of these would occur intermittently and despite my best efforts to investigate, without any rational explanation as to the cause. While the aforementioned events were certainly spooky in their own right, honestly, it wasn't causing me any harm and having a little excitement waiting for you when you got home was something I wound up looking forward to. It kept life interesting.
Perhaps whatever it was that was causing the trouble was getting irritated at me not taking it seriously. Frankly, I don't think I will ever know but it didn't take long for things to escalate beyond the realm of harmless fun. Like clockwork, I started being awoken every night at exactly 2:54 AM, regardless of how deep I was sleeping. There would be a deafening, guttural roar that would sound off right next to my head and I be jolted awake but frozen with panic and unable to move. At first, I would simply wake up to a quiet house -- which was a relief -- but eventually, I began being greeted by what I called "night instances" for lack of any better word. Often times, I would hear someone (or something) breathing deep behind me. Sometimes I would hear what I thought to be muted whispers coming from an adjacent room. For minutes, I would be unable to make even the slightest movement with my body; laying and listening. Trying to make sense of what I was hearing. Eventually, the terror would pass and my body would slowly return to normal. Any kind of investigation around the house would yield nothing out of the ordinary and provide no explanation for any of the sounds I thought I had heard. Maybe I was still dreaming.
On one particular night -- in February of 2007 if I recall -- after the panic had dissipated, I began what had become my routine early morning investigation of my house only to find that my cell phone which is normally on the bed stand next to me had been tossed carelessly in the middle of the floor. It was on and emitting an eerie glow across the carpet. After picking it up, I noticed that it was in camera mode, which requires some manual intervention and not something I could easily do while sleeping. (And why would I?) After checking the memory card, I noticed a bunch of photos with incorrect dates and times, taken in black and white. They were pictures of me. Sleeping. Now, I'm not one to jump to any irrational conclusions but I am pretty sure that I didn't take pictures of myself while snoozing and then throw the phone across the room. To say that I was more than a little unnerved at this point would be an understatement.
On subsequent nights, during my immobilization, I started to hear what sounded like footsteps accompany the heavy breathing behind me that I had described earlier. Always at 2:54 AM. Now, because the place was carpet they weren't exactly footsteps as most people would know them but I could hear the sounds of something shuffling along the carpet. As soon as I was able to move, I would quickly turn only to find nothing. This activity carried on for some weeks, continuing to alternate between breathing, footsteps, and muted whispers, all of which never amounted to anything after an investigation. I was unsettled and not sleeping well. I started spending more and more time at my girlfriend's place. Anything to get a decent night of uninterrupted sleep. Unfortunately, this behavior only seemed to make things worse during the times when I would spend the evening at home.
2:54 AM. Another night incident and I am paralyzed. I hear the breathing. I hear the shuffled feet on the carpet. Suddenly, I hear the bed creak. Not only did I hear it creak but I could feel the pressure on the mattress. I could feel the blankets and sheets tighten as something was definitely putting weight on the opposite side of the bed. I couldn't move. I could hear the breathing. At times, it's like I could feel the breathing. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing at attention. Suddenly, the breathing stopped. As the seconds crept by, I could feel the blood returning to my arms and body. With some effort, I groaned and started to roll over; to investigate something that I knew was there but expecting emptiness. As I turned, I got anything but. Someone was there.
A small boy, probably no more than eight or nine years old, was sitting Indian-style on the bed, staring at me with his eyes and mouth wide open. He looked like he was going to start crying and wail out in pain but he just stared. Surrounding his eyes and mouth were dark blue circles; his straight black hair was tussled and covered part of his face. His cheeks were sunk in and his mouth kept dropping more and more open like the sorrow was becoming too much. I let out a yell that I thought for sure would wake up the neighbors and quickly turned away to lift myself out of the bed. When I looked back he was no longer there. Nothing was. Time felt like it was standing still. As I waited, staring into the empty darkness, an uncontrollable sadness crept over me. It was all I could do to not break down into tears. Needless to say, I spent the rest of the night with the lights on.
After the events of that night, it was difficult for me to gather up the courage to go home, let alone spend a night there. So I stayed away. I went on trips or stayed at the houses of friends. Eventually, though, the passage of time helps dilute the terror and fear. I knew that I couldn't stay away forever. I think we're at July now. Still 2007. I'm still waking up at 2:54 AM. The breathing and footsteps have stopped but I still hear the whispers coming from wherever they are. I can never make out what they are saying. The knocking would start up a few nights later. At first, it wasn't anything forceful but more along the lines of a gentle tapping. Like if you were to make a fist and just do a one-knuckled knock on the wall. Sometimes I would hear it echo off the glass but mostly on the wall. Just a constant tap for a few minutes and then nothing. For the most part, I'd ignore it and try to go back to sleep. Hell, it was better than the breathing and the footsteps.
After a few nights of the gentle intrusion, the tapping started to get louder. Not by much but enough that it was noticeable. Despite this, I was going to do my best to ignore it and get back to sleep. I was almost in dreamland again when I clearly heard the words "Wake up!" being whispered into my ear followed by the sound of a large crash coming from the living room. It sounded like an NFL linebacker had just run full speed into the wall. I jumped up and ran out to investigate. There was nothing. No gigantic beast running wild; no holes in the wall. Everything looked exactly like it should have. Well, almost. I had a large framed black and white picture hanging in my living room and it was upside down. Not upside in that it had been knocked off the wall and wound up upside down. Upside down in the sense that it had been carefully taken off the wall and re-hung that way.
At this point, I was scared but not really in the mood the play games. I was tired of all this nonsense. Feeling like a helpless prisoner in my own house. I walked over to the wall and took the picture down. I wanted to make a point that these are my things and I'm not going to let some unknown entity screw with my stuff. Sure, look at me, a tough guy at 3:00 AM. As I flip the picture over and start to re-hang it, that is when I notice the scratches in the wall. A whole series of them. It was as if someone had been dragging their fingernails over different spots on the wall behind the picture. I set the picture down the floor and just stood there for a minute shuddering. I know they weren't there when I moved in and certainly not there when I first hung the picture. As I am standing there in shock, staring at the wall, something catches my eye. I watched in horror as four new marks were scratched into the wall right in front of me. I could hear it too. That was enough for me. I had had it. I took off in the direction of the front door but was stopped short after I ran into something soft and cold. Something in the air. I look up and notice a black mass hovering over me. It's looking right at me. I crumple to the floor. I can't move and I can't speak. I try to yell but I got nothing. After a few seconds, it takes off in the direction of the bedroom and fades into the darkness. As soon as I am able, I bolt out the door and breathe a sign of relief. I slept in my car for the rest of the night.
Enough was enough. I knew that I needed to get out of that place for good. I made arrangements to break my lease early and move in with my fiancee but the dilemma surrounding my possessions still remained. Somebody needed to go back in and pack everything up. Things weren't going to move themselves. After staying away for a little more than a week, I gathered up the last bit of nerve that I had and returned home to finalize things. Due to the amount of work, I realized that I would have to stay one more night but I'm tough. I can handle 24 more hours. I spent most of the evening packing and moving what I could around the apartment. Whatever will help speed up the evacuation process tomorrow. As I neared completion, the exhaustion of the day overtook me and I figured that I better try and get some rest. Tomorrow would be a long day. As I laid down for the final time, I questioned out loud to no one in particular: "Can I just have one night of peaceful rest?" I chuckled at the thought of me talking to myself and drifted quickly off to sleep.
2:54 AM came quickly tonight. I felt as though I had only been asleep for a few minutes before the all too familiar voice roused me from sleep. Once again, paralyzed, I had no choice but to stop and listen. Nothing. There was no whispers. No footsteps. No knocking. Quiet. I exhaled a sigh of relief at my small bit of fortune. I closed my eyes and tried to return back to dreamland when I made out the first of the voices.
"I thought you said he left. What is he doing back in my room?" It was the voice of a young child, barely above a whisper. It seemed to be coming from all directions at once.
"I don't know. I can't see," said a second voice. Also a boy.
"Well, we could go in and look," the first boy replied.
"But he'll see us."
"No he won't. He'll only see what we want him to see. IT'S MY GOD DAMNED ROOM AND I WANT IT BACK."
With those last words, I snapped up out of my haze and looked around the room. Nothing. The quiet had returned. I took a cursory look around the apartment but, of course, I found nothing.
"I'M LEAVING IN THE MORNING," I finally yelled out in frustration. "Just let me sleep through the night."
No reply was forthcoming, though I wasn't sure that I wanted one. I settled back into bed, closed my eyes, and thankfully awoke later the next morning without any further disturbance. I showered and spent the remainder of the daylight hours moving all of my stuff. I took a final walk through the apartment and again noted the scratches on the wall. Not my problem anymore, I mused. Just before leaving, I decided to crack open some windows around the place to air it out. It's empty and no longer mine, so I wasn't concerned about vandals or thieves. After cracking the sliding glass door in the living room, I walked into the bedroom and parted the curtains to get access to the window. That's when I saw them. A collection of four or five different hand and fingerprints marring the glass. As though someone had been trying to peer in the window. Small, child-like prints.
Truthfully, I suppose that I would have been disappointed if I had left without finding one last surprise. I almost expected it. I shrugged and continued to open the windows. It wasn't until the window started to move that I realized what the real surprise was. The fingerprints were on the outside of the glass. My apartment was on the third floor and there was no balcony that could reach this window. How they got out on the outside is something I will never know. I smiled and shook my head as I walked out of the bedroom. I closed the front door for the final time and whispered to myself, "let someone else deal with it." A few weeks later, I received a letter from the manager of the apartment complex inquiring about the extent of the damage done to the walls and floors. I never responded. |
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Happy early birthday to Wood, who turns something like 85 this weekend.
Poor guy still gets carded to buy cigarettes though.
Stay strong, brother. Age will catch up to you eventually.
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