Granny Tales

I grew up in an extremely small rural town in Pennsylvania, on a farm. The population of our town was less than one thousand people. The closest city, Scranton, Pennsylvania, was about an hour away. The nights were pitch black dark because there were no street lights or light pollution like in the city, except for the light of a million stars.

My great grandfather passed away when I was about eight years old, leaving my granny heartbroken. We lived in a field away from my great-grandmother, who was about 75 at the time. Unfortunately, Granny had already started getting early Alzheimer's and sometimes didn't act like herself. The family, besides me, decided that it would be best if I moved in with her so that she didn't have to be alone in the evenings and at night.

Granny lived in an old farmhouse that she had helped build by hand with my granddaddy in the 1930s. The house was constructed of wood with a tin roof. We did have electricity at this time but no air conditioner or telephone. The front door was wood, and the top half of the door was a glass window pane with a small decorative curtain across the very top, the kind you might see on a kitchen window. Needless to say, anyone could see inside the house as clearly as we could see them.

The door lock was the original one made by my granddaddy. It wasn't really a lock at all; it was a piece of wood nailed to the frame that you turned horizontally when you closed the door, meant to keep someone from pushing the door open. I slept in the room with my granny; our bedroom was at the very front of the house, right next to the front door, and my bed was pushed directly up to the window that looked out over the front porch and yard. I always felt safe because my family and aunts and uncles lived on the adjacent farms all around us.

In 1990, that all changed. I was 10 years old by then, and Granny was getting more forgetful, sometimes wandering around the house at night. In the nearby city, something awful had occurred. A man had broken into the apartments of several college students in Scranton, Pennsylvania, murdered them, and done horrible things to their bodies. There were no suspects, and the police called him the Scranton Ripper. Rumors spread through the community like wildfire; some said the killer was dressing up like a cable man or electric man to get people to let him in their doors. Fear and anxiety grew daily as the police had no leads.

My dad decided it was time to teach me how to use our family weapon, just in case. Dad took me out into the woods, and I practiced. That night, I fell asleep with the weapon beside the head of my bed, with clear instructions to not open the door for anyone we didn't know. As a 10-year-old, I felt like this was a pretty big responsibility, and my anxiety kept me from sleeping much those next few nights. They reassured me that I would never have to use the weapon, but better to be safe than sorry.

Until the next night, which was the most terrifying night of my life. Up until this point, I was laying in bed, looking at the digital clock on Granny's dresser, 3:05 am in bright red digits. Granny had gotten up to wander around the kitchen. She did this often, and I just let her do what she thought she needed to do. I heard a tap on the front door window pane. I listened intently, and then silence. Suddenly, the porch light flipped on, illuminating through my little window. What was Granny doing?

I scurried out of bed to the front door just in time to reach for Granny's hand as she was trying to turn the piece of wood keeping the door locked. At the same time, I looked out the window, my eyes meeting the eyes of a strange man standing there. The porch light was behind him, and I couldn't see his face very well, but his hair was long and unkempt. I did not know him. He jiggled the handle and pushed hard on the door with all his weight. I was terrified, and I excitedly screamed at Granny, asking what she was doing. She told me Granddaddy was at the door; she sometimes thought Granddaddy was still alive. There was no convincing her it wasn't him.

With the man pushing furiously against the door, I had to drag Granny with both hands into the bedroom so I could reach the weapon without giving her a chance to open the door. I grabbed the weapon and ran into the living room, aiming directly at the front door, my finger on the trigger. The stranger was gone. I had no telephone to call for help; we were trapped.

I sat in the recliner by the front door, staring out into the darkness beyond the porch light, with the weapon in hand for the rest of the night, unable to swallow, shaking so hard I could barely aim the weapon. I waited for the man to return, to try one of the flimsy windows or the back door. Every moving shadow, distant dog bark, bump in the night, or snap of a twig had my heart racing and blood rushing through my ears. The wind would blow and make the screen door creak open and fall shut with a bang. It was torture. My arms ached from holding the weapon, my nightgown was soaked with sweat, and I was on the verge of bursting into soul-wrenching sobs, but I had a job to do, guarding us from the Ripper.

Oblivious, Granny tottered around the kitchen, getting ready to make breakfast because Granddaddy would be wanting his coffee soon. I didn't argue or care what she did, as long as she stayed away from that front door. I never saw another glimpse of the stranger, but I felt like he was out there, watching us. After staying wide awake all night, terrified, holding vigil, I made sure Granny was back to sleep, slipped out the back door, and ran straight across the hayfield's home to Mom and Dad for help once the sun came up in the morning.

The police eventually caught the Scranton Ripper, and it was not the same man I saw at our front door that night. My family hired an elderly lady to stay with Granny, and I moved home permanently. To this day, I don't know who was at the door on that pitch-black night, but I still panic looking out of windows at night, into the darkness.

I would like to start by saying I am not a strong believer in the paranormal. That being said, the reason I'm here is that I have no explanation for the story I'm about to tell you. To set the stage, I was a senior in high school during the 2020-2021 school year, which means my last year of grade school was complicated. Even though we were allowed in school, there were still a lot of rules and protocols added due to the virus. Long story short, someone in one of my classes got the virus, and I sat close enough to them that I got sent home to quarantine for the next two weeks. I know, what fun!

Well, on top of that, my parents didn't want me spreading the virus to the rest of the family, so I spent days in my room, ate dinner on the other side of the kitchen, and most importantly, moved all my toiletries out of the bathroom my sister and I shared. Luckily, our house happened to have a small bathroom with a shower on the first floor. Unluckily, this meant that when I went through my nightly routine of brushing my teeth and washing my face, I was left all alone downstairs in the dark.

Like I said, I'm somewhat skeptical of the paranormal, but I'm still totally creeped out when I'm left alone in a dark house. So as I rushed through my routine every night, I spent the whole time on edge, worrying that some terrible monster was waiting in a dark corner for me to turn out the last light until it pounced, and I would never be seen again. But in the back of my mind, I was certain that it was impossible. In fact, despite my fear, I was absolutely certain I was the only one downstairs for those brief moments when I was the last one awake. Until one night, when I may have been proven wrong.

The last thing you need to know is that the bathroom downstairs was one of those that had two doors on either side. One led to the kitchen, and the other led to my dad's office. My dad's office also had two doors, one that was always closed and led to the bathroom, and one that was always open and faced the base of the staircase. So, one night, exactly like any other that week, I was scrubbing my teeth as fast as I could while keeping an eye on the mirror to make sure there was nothing trying to sneak up behind me. I had spit my toothpaste out and was rinsing the toothbrush off when my ears perked up over the rushing water coming from the faucet. I thought I heard my dad call my name from the top of the stairs.

The sink was so loud, and his voice was so quiet that I wasn't entirely certain what I had heard. So, I turned the water off and shook my toothbrush dry while I strained my ears against the uncanny vacuum of silence that filled my house. I figured that if I had heard my dad, he'd call my name again to get my attention. So, when I didn't hear so much as a breath for the next few seconds, I figured I was just hearing things. I turned the faucet on again and began washing my face, and when I turned it back off, I heard my dad call my name again. This time, it was so clear and unmistakable. Not only did I know it was my dad who was calling me, but I was also able to tell that he was on the landing of the staircase, slightly closer now.

"Yeah?" I called back, feeling a little sorry that he probably thought I was ignoring him when I really had heard him call my name after all. I waited for a response, tilting my head slightly toward the open doorway leading to the kitchen. However, the response I received was not the one I was expecting. Instead, from the closed door that separated the bathroom from the office, came three distinct single-knuckle knocks. Tap, tap, tap.

My heart skipped a beat. I froze, my hands still wet from washing my face. That wasn't my dad. I knew it deep down in my gut. My dad never knocked like that. It was deliberate, calculated. Fear coursed through my veins as I tried to make sense of what was happening. I quickly dried my face and grabbed my toothbrush, my mind racing. Who was in the office? Was it an intruder? My dad would never leave the office door closed, especially if he was calling me from the top of the stairs. My instincts told me to get out of there, to run upstairs and find my parents. But something held me back. Curiosity mixed with fear, and against my better judgment, I slowly approached the closed door. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears as I reached out to turn the doorknob.

With a deep breath, I pushed the door open. The office was empty. No one was there. The room was bathed in darkness, the only light coming from the hallway outside. I stepped inside, my eyes scanning the room for any signs of an intruder. But there was nothing. Just my dad's desk, covered in papers, and a few scattered pens. I couldn't shake off the feeling of unease. It was as if someone had been there, watching me, playing tricks on my mind. I closed the door behind me, making sure it was securely shut. I didn't want to take any chances.

As I made my way back to the bathroom, I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. The fear that had gripped me moments ago began to subside. Maybe it was just my imagination playing tricks on me. Maybe I was just overreacting. But deep down, I knew that something wasn't right. The knocks, the feeling of being watched, it all felt too real to dismiss as a figment of my imagination. I couldn't shake off the feeling that there was something or someone in our house, lurking in the shadows.

From that night on, I never felt safe in our house. Every creak, every whisper of the wind sent shivers down my spine. I slept with my bedroom door locked and a flashlight by my side. I couldn't trust the darkness anymore. Years have passed since that night, and I've moved out of my parents' house. But the memory of that experience still haunts me. It's a constant reminder that sometimes, the things we can't explain are the ones that stay with us the longest. I've tried to rationalize what happened that night, to find a logical explanation. But deep down, I know that there are some things that defy explanation. Some things that are beyond our understanding. And so, I carry that experience with me, a reminder to always trust my instincts, to never dismiss the unknown. Because sometimes, the darkness holds secrets that we may never fully comprehend.