I don’t have many scary ghost stories. Really, only one. With Halloween almost here, it’s worth telling. It was the one time I fled a house in the middle of the night. 

In my college days at the University of Washington, I lived in a house of crazy people for a few months. When the opportunity came to stay at my grandmother’s home near the University District because she was going to be away, I took it. It was a good chance to be close to campus and go for a run to one of my favorite places in the world, Green Lake. 

There was only one little worry. 

My grandma’s home had a reputation of being haunted. She bought it from a friend who, as I recall, passed away in that home. A ghost was rumored to roam the rooms now and then. There were stories of strange happenings and odd noises. Nothing too sinister. But there was indeed a feeling someone, or something, was there. 

A cousin who once spent the night swore he was sleeping on the couch in the living room when he heard footsteps. He opened his eyes. The steps stopped near him. Then, the cushion of the chair sank, like someone just sat in it. Only no one was there. 

And then, there was the tale of my grandmother, who was tough as they come, once leaving her home in the middle of the night and going to her neighbor's. It was said she was as white as a ghost and spent the night with her friend before returning home. She never said what happened. 

That same neighbor, one night, told a story of looking out her window and into my grandmother’s home and seeing a candle floating in the air. Just floating, like someone was holding it. Only no one was there. 

Still, a good Catholic growing up, I wasn’t a believer in ghostly figures hanging around houses, so I settled in that night. It was calm and quiet as I turned out the lights in the bedroom. Darkness descended, and I was nearly asleep when I heard it.  

Scratch. 

Like fingernails. 

Scratch. 

Now, the room had a door to the backyard, and one to the hallway. I listened closely.  

Scratch. 

I sat up.

It sounded like it was coming from outside. Perhaps a cat, I figured. There were cats around. Sure, that was it. I sighed with relief and plopped my head back down on the pillow 

It was quiet for a time. Still, I felt uneasy. I was wide awake.

Then, I heard it again. 

Scratch.  

Scratch.  

Scratch. 

I sat up again and stared into the darkness. 

The sound wasn’t coming from outside. It was coming from the other side of the door to the hallway, like someone was running fingernails on the door. 

It stopped. Then it came again. 

Scratch. Scratch. 

It was louder. 

I froze. 

That was enough for me, a coward at heart.

I turned on the lights, looked around and got dressed. I summoned courage, grabbed the doorknob and yanked the door open. 

Nothing. 

It did little to comfort me.

I walked/ran to the front door, out to my VW convertible and raced back to the house of crazy people. For once, perhaps the only time, I was glad for their company.  

I never tried to spend the night at my grandmother’s home again. I don’t think anyone did, other than my grandmother. The ghost, we decided, seemed to leave her alone, most of the time. 

A few years later, after my grandmother died, my father was at her home one night, cleaning up, straightening things, a final once-over before it was sold. He went downstairs to make sure all the lights were out and then turned out the lights upstairs before he left. Satisfied, he walked out to his car. As he drove away, he glanced at the house. A chill went up his spine, The basement light was on. 

He didn’t go back to turn it off. 

• • •

Bill Buley is assistant editor of The Press. He can be reached at [email protected]

Editor's note: When this column was filed, it was exactly 666 words long. We cut 10 of them ... just in case.