It was two years ago when my friends and I were supposed to go out for a night of drunken revelry. It was a kind of “Girls Night” and we got all dressed up and went on our way to the liquor store around 12 at night. It was about halfway there when one of the girls became overwhelmed with hunger as we walked by a bar and grill.
My best friend, Melanie, and I (both underage at the time) were at odds with the rest of the group (who were of the legal drinking age). Though the rest of the party could easily drink and eat, we were left to the wayside. We were on a mission (to get drunk) and nothing was going to stop us.
My boyfriend lived across town and I knew he had recently stopped by the liquor store himself earlier that day. We adventured over to his apartment complex, where parties were reaching their peek, and, after some coercion, succeeded in our mission to obtain alcohol. This night was not about partying. This night was about drinking and having fun together. By 1 a.m., we had our booze in hand as we found our way back to our apartment for a drinking-night-in.
It was along our journey to our apartment that we got into a ghost story mood. We were swapping stories and beliefs as we passed the already drunk party-goers on the street. They were rowdy and excited about their night but we felt almost magnetic engorging on the terrifying details of the supernatural.
We reached our apartment and fixed ourselves drinks. We sprawled out on on living room couches in the next room, across from one another, and I sat closest to the kitchen (closer to the alcohol, of course). We continued on and on about our ghost encounters and debated whether or not a paranormal realm did exists.
I was a stern believer. My encounters with the unexplained occurrences I grew up facing led me to believe there had to be something else, something out there, something that connected the world of the living and the realm of the dead. I had seen kitchen cabinet doors and drawers open without a person’s touch, figures that resembled people appear from thin air and disappear just as suddent, and an all-too-unwelcoming feeling of intrusion when entering an empty bedroom that belonged to a deceased former owner of my childhood home.
Melanie was more on the fence than I. Sure, she had seen normally stationary things move on their own when talking about a passed relative. And sure she had been uneasy about that, but there was nothing definite, nothing that stood as pure evidence in her mind.
Midway into our first and heavily poured drink, the group of girls came back from the bar and grill. They scattered about on the remaining couch spaces, joined in our conversation and had their own stories to swap. We went on for about an hour comparing stories and feelings about the supernatural. We went on and on and ranted and raved about our unexplained encounters with anything remotely paranormal. It wasn’t until we ran out of things to say when a quiet lull surrounded the room. This lull was a feeling and a sound that I had heard before but didn’t ultimately recognize until later.
The lull was a silence that overwhelmed the room. It made the room still and a level of quiet that I can only describe as the immediate sound of turning off a television when you’re home alone. It’s a sudden, intense silence that is commonly overlooked. But that silence was filled tonight with a big, heavy sigh.
It was the sigh of a man. A tall man. The sigh came from the above the entrance way and drifted across the room. Instantly, tears fell down my face. I looked at Melanie and she was crying, too. We had no idea how this flood of emotion came through to us but we looked into each other’s and confirmed we had both heard the same thing. There was a man and his deep sigh sounded annoyed as if he was tired of the conversation, wanted us to change the topic, and he wanted us to move on.
We didn’t know what to do. The other girls heard the sigh as well and we all knew from which direction it came from: the kitchen. I wiped my tears and stood to confront whatever the source was, but I couldn’t make myself enter through the kitchen door way. It was as if there was something blocking me. There was something keeping me from the kitchen and I had an uneasy feeling. Something was up.
I finally pushed through the doorway and slowly walked through into the kitchen. The room felt heavy. There was a weight on my shoulders and I couldn’t stay in the room for very long. The other girls come into the kitchen and cited the same feeling. It was as if someone was pushing down on all of their shoulders. I knew there were a few things left to do: chug my drink, grab the booze, and get the hell out of that apartment.
To this day, I don’t like telling my ghost stories because that lull creeps into the room. It’s like the stories open an invitation to whatever supernatural being is around and only they get to say when the party’s over.