Haunted houses best left to thrill-seekers

I could sense the unspoken tension in the room. There were long-standing rumors that the south wing of the third floor was haunted, but there were three beds up there and someone was going to get stuck with them for the following school year.

As one of the newest members of the sorority, I knew I had a little less say about it than some of the older girls. Besides, how bad could it be? Our chapter had occupied that house for a few decades, and the stories passed down from one generation to the next never included bodily harm.

I nudged the two friends I had hoped to room with and tried to get their approval. It was the only way the three of us could bunk together anyway. Most of the other rooms were only big enough for one or two.

Begrudgingly, they agreed.

As I unloaded my car on move-in day that fall, it was impossible not to notice that the old Victorian had a lot of history.

Off the kitchen was a servant’s quarters with quick access to the gilded dining room that easily sat 30. It had three fireplaces, a grand staircase in the front and another, slightly less showy one in the back.

There were 18 bedrooms and an off-limits section in the basement that apparently housed slaves during the Underground Railroad movement in the 1800s.

The house was practically a breeding ground for supernatural activity, but I couldn’t help but think the stories were a result of active imaginations and exaggerations from one year to the next.

Ghost, schmost.

I was the first of my roommates to arrive, so I temporarily had the place to myself. Not wanting to risk someone else grabbing the biggest closet, I started unpacking my clothes.

Because we hadn’t called to get our cable hooked up yet, the coiled wire was sitting on top of a dresser waiting to be attached to my TV. I hadn’t paid much attention to it, but each time I emerged from the closet to grab more hangars, it seemed closer to the edge.

Suddenly, I became very aware how quiet it was.

I dug out my stereo and settled for the radio because I didn’t feel like searching for my CDs. The music helped settle my nerves a little, but not for long.

After a few more trips in and out of the closet, the movement of the cable was unmistakable. I darted my head around to see if one of my friends had decided to play a prank on me before saying hello. My mind was practically willing someone to giggle and come bursting out from behind the door.

Instead, the radio dial spun to static and I watched as the cable raised a foot off the table and dropped in a controlled arc to the floor.

Then I ran.

And the door slammed behind me.

That was the first of many paranormal activities my roommates and I experienced that year. Most of them were electronics related — our alarm clocks would go off in the middle of the afternoon, CDs would play tracks out of order and the TV would inexplicably flip through the channels when the remote was in plain sight, untouched.

The door slamming became such a regular occurrence that we anchored it to the wall with a rope, and it wasn’t unusual to come home to discover our beds had been moved while we were in class.

The three of us were more than happy to leave that room to the next occupants, but one good thing did come out of it — it takes a lot to spook me this time of year.