Round Two: Things that go bump, slide, scratch in the night

In November 2001, my wife Kim and I decided it would make for a nice little Thanksgiving trip if we went to see the Oglebay Winter Festival of Lights in Wheeling, West Virginia.

We had never been there, but we had heard plenty of rave reviews about the dazzling light display at Oglebay Resort. So we figured we’d see the lights, eat a hearty Thanksgiving dinner at the resort and stay at a bed and breakfast in town. It would make for a relaxing holiday getaway, making sure we left early enough Saturday morning to be home in time for the Ohio State-Michigan game.

It turned out to be anything but relaxing.

We arrived at the bed and breakfast late at night. The house was very big and very old, surrounded by large trees that partially obscured it from view as we pulled into the driveway. Upon entering, the relics and furniture inside looked as old as the house, and the floorboards creaked as we walked. It had the look and feel of one of those old spooky houses you see in the movies.

The woman who greeted us was pleasant and gracious, going over details like breakfast and other amenities — and our room. “You’re the only ones here tonight,” she said, “so you’ll have the place to yourself.”

About the last thing my wife and I wanted to hear in this house straight out of Hollywood horror central casting was that we were about to spend the night alone in it. And that wasn’t the worst part. “We’re going to be full tomorrow night for the holiday weekend,” the woman said, “so I’ve got you in the attic for your stay.”

The attic? Great. Not only were we going to be alone in Nosferatu’s guest lodge for the night, but we were going to be stuck up in the attic.

I’ve seen a lot of people go up into the attic in the horror movies — and not once has anyone come back down alive.

The woman must have seen my face turn ashen in the murky glow of the house’s front parlor, because she quickly said, “Don’t worry, we just finished the attic. It’s a beautiful room now. You’ll love it — it’s isolated up there, so you won’t hear any noise from the rest of the house.”

She said “isolated,” but my brain heard “trapped.” We were about to be trapped in the attic of an old empty house all night. Oh yeah, nothing horrendous ever happens there.

So off we went with our belongings, feeling a whole lot like Jonathan Harker when he first arrived at Dracula’s castle. We went up the stairs to the second floor, then navigated the rickety steps up to the attic. The woman was right: It was isolated.

When we opened the door, we discovered she was right on two counts: It was beautiful. As you’d expect with an attic, it featured some nooks and crannies, which had been creatively repurposed into little sitting areas. A large, comfy bed stocked with plush pillows took up much of the space, and there were other items like shelving units and knick-knacks, a small TV at the end of the bed, and just around the corner from the TV was a door which, judging from the shape of the attic, I assumed led to a fairly large storage area.

We had no reason to open the door and didn’t want to be nosy, so its actual contents remained a mystery. It’s probably where the vampire hides his coffin, I jokingly — and nervously — thought to myself. Far from the creepy attic I had pictured in my mind’s eye, though, this was a warm and inviting room.

We turned the TV on and promptly went to bed; we were tired, and the sooner daybreak came, the better. Kim fell asleep quickly, but being the night owl that I am, I stayed up for a while. Feeling more isolated than ever with Kim now sound asleep, I tried to break the uneasiness by switching the channel to TV Land and watching old reruns of “Family Ties.” Maybe Michael J. Fox could help take my mind off the fact that we were trapped and alone all night.

It worked. The air in the room started to feel lighter, and my eyelids got heavier and heavier. I could feel myself starting to drift off to sleep.

Scratch … scratch … scratch … ssslllliiiide … scratch … scratch … sslliide … scratch.

The sound jolted me from my near-slumber. The glow from the television at the foot of the bed was the only light in the room, casting eerie shadows into the nooks and crannies of the attic that no longer felt warm and inviting. I strained to hear where the sounds were coming from. Had I dreamt them? I looked at the clock on the nightstand next to the bed. Only about a minute had gone by since the last time I’d looked at it. Maybe I hadn’t fallen asleep.

Scratch … scratch … ssslllliiiide … scratch … sslliide.

There it was again! I was wide awake by now, and the sounds were continuing — they were easily audible, and they were clear. They sounded like they were coming from just a few feet away. This was no dream.

Scratch … ssslllliiiide.

I sat straight up, reached for the lamp on the nightstand and turned it on. I glanced around the room … nothing seemed out of place. Thinking it might be tree branches scraping against the roof or side of the house, I gathered the courage to get out of bed, walk across the room and look out the small attic window facing the front yard. Cupping my hands against each side of my face and the glass to cut out the glare, I could see that there was no wind at all. Everything was still outside.

Whatever was making the noise, it wasn’t tree branches.

I crawled back into bed, leaving the light on. A few minutes later …

Scratch.

Then a long sssssslllllllliiiiiiiide. Followed by a thump. And another sssssslllllllliiiiiiiide.

It sounded like someone was pushing or pulling something very heavy, like a big chest or box, across a wood floor. At first I thought maybe squirrels had gotten into the attic, but squirrels couldn’t make noises like this. I’d heard the scratching and pitter-patter of feet from squirrels in attics and walls before, and this wasn’t it. Not even close.

All I could figure was the people who owned this bed and breakfast must have had a lot of big stuff stored away in that large space behind the TV. It made perfect sense, considering they had just finished a huge remodeling project in the attic and would need somewhere to put things they weren’t using at the moment. I pictured old bureaus, vanities, mirrors, bed frames, etc. crammed in there. Question was, how was it able to move itself?

Then a terrifying thought occurred to me: Could someone be in there moving heavy boxes and things around, thinking we were sound asleep on the other side of the wall, waiting to do something dastardly? My blood started to run cold as I examined the ceiling and determined that, yes, someone indeed could be in there if they crouched a little. But then, if they were waiting to do something dastardly, why were they going out of their way to make so much noise?

The scratching and sliding continued, sometimes unabated for 10 to 15 seconds, sometimes 15 or 20 minutes would go by before the noises started up again. I knew I could end the mystery by simply opening that door just around the corner from the TV, but at this point, there was no way that was going to happen.

Instead, I just lay in bed until I fell asleep. With the lights on.

In the morning, I told Kim about my harrowing experience the night before. She hadn’t heard anything, but then, she had fallen asleep right away. I noticed that the noises had stopped in the light of day, which struck me as odd. I was relieved to finally get out of the attic and go to Oglebay for the Thanksgiving buffet, and as the day wore on I gradually forgot about the noises in the attic.

Until that night, when it happened again. It was the exact same MO as the night before, and I handled it the same way: Lights on all night long. One thing was clear: This only happened at night — as if there was an intelligence behind it.

As we were packing up to go home Saturday morning, curiosity got the best of me and, before leaving the room, I walked over to that door that was just around the corner from the TV. Knowing I wouldn’t have to spend another night in the attic, I felt emboldened to finally find out what was in the large storage area.

I stood in front of the door, envisioning a large, dark attic-type space containing the big dressers and chests and boxes I’d heard moving around in there the last few nights. I steeled my nerve, reached for the doorknob, grabbed it, turned it, and pulled the door open.

And there, in front of my face, was a tiny closet about 3 feet wide and maybe a foot and a half deep, packed so tightly with articles of women’s clothing on hangers I’m not sure you could have squeezed a credit card between them.

A chill instantly coursed up and down my spine. Those scratching, scraping, sliding and thumping noises I’d heard the past few nights could not possibly have come from this packed little closet.

I stared at the clothes in front of me, trying to make sense of how it was even remotely possible to hear the movement of heavy furniture coming from such a small space. And for that movement to only happen late at night — especially since, on the first night at least, we were alone.

I still don’t know who — or what — made those heavy noises. Or where, since they obviously couldn’t have come from a tiny little closet, they actually originated.

And really, I don’t want to know. The answers in my head are disturbing enough.

Happy Halloween!