When I was younger I lived in a foster home in a city about an hour from my home town. I was about 8 years old and being away from my parents for the first time was very hard. My foster mother tried her best to make me feel at home and we were always doing things around the house that she hoped would help me settle in. One afternoon we were up in the attic of this house going through old photo albums and boxes of junk. The house was only one story and the attic. The only way to get into the attic was a pull down step ladder in the ceiling.
As I was saying, we were up in the attic looking through these old clothes and things. We had left the stairs out so that we could hear if someone rang the doorbell. We were sitting on the floor surrounded by dust and old photo albums and my foster mother was telling me stories about the people in the pictures and what they were doing, when I had the strangest feeling that we were not the only ones in the attic. I was about to mention this to my foster mother when all of a sudden the door and stairs came flying shut with a very loud bang.
Well my foster mother and I sat there kind of stunned for a minute and then she laughed a little and tried to reassure me it was just the wind or something. She got up to put the stairs back down, she pushed for a few minutes and then she came and sat down and said whatever happened must have bumped the latch back in place. I was more than skeptical at this point it was one thing for the door to shut, but the latch to lock was too much even for me to believe.
My foster mother assured me everything was ok and when my foster father got home he would let us out. So we tried to go back to what we were doing and forget about being locked in. She had turned back to the pictures when the window at the end of the room flew open. It was midwinter so the wind was very strong and and blew several shoe boxes with loose pictures onto their sides. The pictures flew all over the floor. My foster mother hurried over and reshut the window mumbling to herself she could have sworn it was locked. Again she dismissed it as just the wind and we set to picking up and reorganizing the pictures.
By this point I was convinced these things were not normal and no way was it the wind. I tried to tell my foster mother this but she simply said there were no such things as ghosts. No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a small vanity mirror on a desk a few feet away shattered with a crash and a horrible screeching sound, not unlike the screech of heavily applied car brakes, echoed through the room. I screamed and my foster mother grabbed my hand and headed back to the stairs. Just as we were reaching the stairs the door flew open and my foster father came clambering up into the attic. My foster mother and I nearly pushed him back down the ladder and climbed down ourselves.
When we hit the floor below my foster mother shut and latched the door and we went into the living room and sat down out of breath. My foster father said he had come in the door adn hear a crash and me scream and had realized where we were. He said he hadn't heard the other sound until he actually entered the attic. We couldn't figure that out because the noise had been so loud surely it would have carried out of the attic.
I was so scared and for the three years I spent there I never went back into the attic. My foster father always had to go up and get the Christmas decorations or the summer play things for outside.
Thanks for reading my story. If anyone has had similar experiences I would really love to hear about them. I am a sucker for a great ghost story.:)
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