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I was 10, living in the Caribbean in a great big Colonial house that was at least 200 years old.
Around the middle of the night, as I was sleeping face down, I felt something warm that pulled me to the bed.
I woke up suddenly, feeling a presence very close to me.
Very scared (Let's say, scared shitless) I ran to my parents room.
As I was running, I felt the presence following me.
I entered my parent?s room; I closed the door behind me. As I was pulling up the door knob, I felt something trying to pull it open...
As that moment, my father woke up; I was breathing heavily and shaking.
My father took the door handle and felt that it was very hot.
As he was holding the door handle, I explained him what had happened to me.
After a few minutes, the door handle became cool again, nothing was pulling it down.
We opened the door and with a machete in hands, we started down the corridor to my room.
It was like a bomb had blown up in my room, everything was on the floor, clothes all over.
The bed looked like it had been bent in 2...
My parents asked me what the hell I had done.
It was kind of hard to believe a crazy ghost story, but after looking at the bed frame, they realized a 10 years old boy could not have bent a heavy metal frame.
It was now 3AM, my parents and I tagging along went to my brother and sister room to make sure everything was Ok.
We woke them up and went down the living room.
Nobody slept the rest of the night, although the temperature never goes below 70F in the island, we spent the rest of the night freezing.
During the night, we could also hear a little girl whistling, the closest neighbor was too far to be the source of the whistling; furthermore; we had heard that whistling before but had not thought anything of it.
The next day, my father took us all to a hotel, hired a company to move out of all our stuff out of the house and returned the key to the owner.
We never talked about it for over 20 years.
I have been in a lot of fishy situation, but have never felt the fear that came from that encounter again.
The house; I later learned; used to belong to a rich family who liked to torture slaves that they brought to the island of Martinique.
I also learned many years later that the then owner had to renounce a few rental leases on that house from people, who like us, were scared shitless.
Today, no one lives there. No one will get close to that house at night. And no one will dare destroy it.
The worst of this story is that it is 100% true. Up to now, I still shiver when I think about it.
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