A Dark, Stormy Night

“It was a dark, stormy night.”

That’s how my grandfather started all his ghost stories. It didn’t matter if it was the headless nun climbing one stair, two stairs, three stairs more, her wimpled head in hand reflecting of the steel butcher knife, sharp enough to carve up us terrified little children; or even when the goat-hooved devil went out swindling souls from unsuspecting back-alley gamblers, the scene just wasn't set unless it was a dark, stormy night.

This is how it was, too, when the old, unsuspecting mother was paid an unwelcome visit by a mournful banshee; The glowing phantom levitated outside her kitchen window and wailed painfully whilst brushing its long, translucent hair; then, like a knife to the mother’s heart the banshee threw the comb of death at the poor woman. The old mother could only fall to the ground with a sorrowful wail of her own, knowing full well the dreadful meaning of her ghostly apparition’s grave gesture – somewhere in the dark streets beyond, her only son lay dead that very night.

It was even a dark, stormy night when the young priest locked himself in the home of one possessed by none less than the spirit of Balor himself, that most vile and brutal of Celtic demons. The exorcism lasted throughout the night and none but the bravest few held the courage to remain apprehensively close at hand. There were noises so terrifying that even those few strong enough could stop themselves from fleeing. When the young priest finally emerged from his hellish duel, the onlookers were horrified to find he had aged some decades; his hair, a youthful black just the day before, now as death-white as his complexion, and his sunken eyes revealed a pyrrhic victor.

The reason I mention these stories now is because I was recently reminded of a long-forgotten memory. I was young, no more than four or five, and it was a dark, stormy night then, too. We lived in an old terrace house and I remember waking in a vague room, crying out in the dark; the autumn wind rattling the old wood-framed windows most likely causing a nightmare. The next time I awoke I found myself in my parent’s bed, startled awake by a sudden burst of movement followed by the panicked harshness of my dad's voice breaking through the murky confusion of sleep; his voice was strong, but overly so, like he was overcompensating to hide something- fear?

“Who's there?” he demanded through a small gap in the door, leaning half-ready to wedge it shut with his shoulder.

I rubbed the thick sleep from my eyes as I tried to take in what was happening. My mum put her arm around me comfortingly, but tight enough that even a small child could sense something was very wrong. Then it happened.

Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

Angry, deliberate footsteps slowly climbing the stairs - One stair, two stairs, three stairs more, until the footfalls finally stopped on the middle landing where a third spare room was. This was used as a toy room, though rarely would I feel comfortable being in there alone to play, preferring to take my toys to some other part of the house; its hard to explain but even at such a young age (or perhaps because I was so young) the room seemed to hold an unnatural sense of dread, like you were being watched.

My dad peeked carefully through the gap, toward the ‘toy room’ then instantly pulled back, frantically throwing himself against the door with an almost desperate cry of, “Sweet Jesus.”

Whatever he had just seen reflected in the terror on his face and seeing my dad frightened left me utterly vulnerable. My mum’s grip tightened around me and I could feel her heart pounding- or was it mine?

Again- Thud! Thud! Thud!

This time the footfalls creaked to a stop outside the bedroom door- our bedroom door.

My dad’s breath was heavy, strained; my mum’s shallow. “It's happening again,” she hissed at his back.

Quiet, for what seemed an eternity.

Then suddenly, ever so gently, the door handle moved. The slow creak of its rusted twist strangled every breath in the room. Then...

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Something slammed violently against the other end of the door, opening it at least a foot wide. My dad pushed back with a defiant yell, but only after I glimpsed someone- or rather, some thing- move across the landing toward my bedroom. I clung to my mum tightly now; too young to understand what was happening but old enough to be terrified.

Suddenly, a chilling barely human-like wail rose from my bedroom, causing my stomach to twist in cold fear like I’ve never experienced since. Blood rushed from my head and everything became foggy for a time. My next memory is of being hurried down the stairs in my mum’s arms with my dad close behind. From above, the heavy, angry footsteps came thumping down after us, only stopping once we passed the spare room at the corner of the stairwell. Only then did I dare to glimpse back over my dad’s shoulder into the spare room and saw a young boy blindfolded and hanging from a rope by his feet. Too much to bear, I buried my head in my mum’s shoulder and as I did so a second chilling, painful scream pierced through the house.

After that I vaguely remember someone's house, a panicked conversation, then nothing; the memory fades.

I don't know what we heard or saw in our house that night but whatever it was we never returned. Years later, I asked my parents about this incident and they laughed it off as a false memory or a half-remembered nightmare, but only after they exchanged a subtle, but uncomfortable glance at one another.