Posted on 10/31/2002 2:05:42 AM PST by Swordmaker
I am certain all of us have heard about, or experienced, a "true" ghost story. On this Halloween of 2002 let's find out about the creepiness that may lurk in Freeperdom.
This is the place to post your story.
My parents, Cameron and Virginia, moved to Sacramento, California, in 1939 when my Dad took a civilian job as an aircraft mechanic at McClellan Army Air Base. They first lived on 22nd and I streets in a walkup apartment which they rented from a landlady who rented it to them despite the fact they couldn't come up with the entire $24.00 first month's rent and deposit. Like all young couples, they aspired to greater things... a house, a yard, a dog, and eventually children.
My Dad worked hard on the night and "swing" shifts at the airbase and my Mom scrimped, often sending my dad to work with left-over mashed potato sandwiches for lunch. Dad was promoted several times until he reached the status of a crewchief. By mid 1941 they managed to put together a down-payment and bought, for the princely sum of $3000, the house where my mother (who will turn 87 in 4 days) still lives.
The house was a small, two bedroom, one bath cottage with green shutters on the front windows, a detatched single-car garage, and a chickencoop in what we later called the "wayback" because it was at the far end of the very deep (360 foot) lot. In 1954, my mother and father added another bedroom and bathroom for my father's widowed mother when she moved from Southern Illinois after my grandfather's death. This addition brought the house up to about 1000 square feet but in the mid 1940s where our story is set a few years before my older sister was born, the house was a mere 600 SQ. ft. or so... tiny. The house, by the standards of the era, was well built and included such features as hardwood floors, a small service porch with a service sink that had a built in washboard, and built in kitchen cabinets. The house, as it was configured then, was essentially square and had two equal sized bedrooms located on the Northeast and Northwest corners separated by the bathroom and a short hallway; the livingroom was on the Southeast corner, the kitchen on the Southwest corner and between them was a small (very) diningroom. The 6'x6' completely enclosed service porch extended off the kitchen to the west.
In December of 1941, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and my Dad's job became much more important. He was promoted to foreman and was given the day shift. He was in charge of the crews that overhauled and tuned up all of the aircraft stationed at McClellan Field. In fact, my Dad was mentioned (not too favorably) in the book "30 Seconds Over Tokyo". His crew was assigned the task of assuring the bombers for Jimmy Doolittle's raid on Tokyo were operating at peak performance so that laden with bombs, they could successfully takeoff in the very short distance provided by the flightdeck of the Hornet. One of Doolittle's pilots and the author of the book, still unaware of exactly what he had volunteered to do, got quite angry at my Dad for revving the engines of the "Ruptured Duck" to more than the manufacturer's specs while it was chocked and tied down.
Now that my Mom and Dad owned a home with a large yard, they could start on getting those "better things" they wanted. A dog was high on their list. They adopted a beagle puppy which Mom named "Butchie". Butchie loved Mom... and Mom doted on Butchie. Mom thought that Butchie should sleep in their bedroom on the foot of the bed but Dad thought Butchie should sleep in the service porch and CERTAINLY NOT on the foot of the bed. Several "discussions" were had about Butchie's sleeping arrangements until a compromised was reached: Butchie slept on the service porch.
Mom, however, did not give up and neither did Butchie. My Dad was working the day shift which meant he got up at 4:30AM to get to work by 5:30. Mom would get up with him, fix breakfast, prepare a couple of mashed potato sandwiches, and send him off to work on his Indian motorcycle.
As soon as he was gone, Mom went back to bed for a few more hours sleep. Invariably, Butchie would leave his blanket in the service porch, come trotting down the kitchen, into the hallway and scratch at the bedroom door where the chief conspirator, my Mom, would let him in to sleep on the foot of the bed for the rest of the early morning. The operative theory was "What Cameron doesn't know, won't hurt him." Butchie was very smart... he knew not to come on weekends when Dad stayed home. He only came to bed on weekday mornings.
Three months after Mom got Butchie, he got sick. He became listless, didn't want to fetch his ball or stick, and was a very unhappy puppy. After he stopped eating his dog food and even refused people food, Mom took Butchie to the vet where she got some very bad news. Butchie had worms. The vet said that the infestation was so bad he didn't think he could save Butchie. Mom brought Butchie home and forced the medication on him... to no avail. Two days later, Butchie died on his blanket in the service porch. Mom said it was so bad that the worms were literally eathing their way out of his body. Mom buried Butchie in the "wayback,"the first of many dogs, cats, birds, rats, hamsters, and other pets to be 'planted' in the garden.
One month later, to the day, Mom was laying in bed after my Dad had roard off on his Indian. As she lay there half asleep, she heard the distinctive sound of a dog's claws trotting on the hardwood floor in the kitchen, coming toward the bedroom. It was the exact sound she used to hear when Butchie came every workday morning. The sound came closer and then stopped. She then heard the sound of a dog, scratching at the bedroom door. Mom came fully awake and pulled the covers over her head. She didn't say a word... then or later that day to Dad. She thought she was hearing things. Maybe she was imagining it because she was missing Butchie so much.
The next morning, Dad left for work, Mom went back to bed and as she was falling asleep the sound came again: the clatter of claws on hardwood woke her completely and she was awake when she heard the scratching at the door. The next day, she just lay there... and the sound returned. She was getting very scared about this. The next morning it happened again.
That night Mom confessed to Dad about how Butchie used to come and get into bed after he went to work.
"Why are you telling me this now?" Dad asked. "Its not a problem. The dog is gone."
"Well... he still wants to come to bed when you leave." Mom said.
"What?"
"Well, every morning, after you go to work and I go back to bed, I hear Butchie coming and scratching at the door." Mom explained.
"That's not possible, Virginia. The dog is dead," my dad said, "Honey, you miss him so much you're dreaming about him. You've fallen asleep and are dreaming."
"No, Cameron, I hear him... every morning."
"You're dreaming. I don't hear him when I'm in there."
"It hasn't happened until you go to work." Mom explained.
"You're dreaming it, Hon, don't worry about it."
The next morning was a Saturday and Dad didn't go have to work. Dad woke up at his usual 4:30AM but stayed in bed. Mom woke shortly after.
"Do you want breakfast?"
"No, let's just stay in bed for awhile."
They lay there for over two hours "reading"(?) ;). No sounds.
After awhile Dad said: "See, no dog. You've been dreaming."
"You know Butchie would never come while you're here." Mom replied.
"You're dreaming it, Honey." Dad said... and that settled that.
On Sunday morning, no sounds. But on Monday morning, after Dad went to work, Mom again heard the sounds... and every morning that week. On Saturday, no sounds. On Sunday, no sounds. No dog. Monday it was back.
Mom told Dad. Dad always said "It's a dream." or "You're imaging it." When Mom insisted it was a real sound, Dad might allow that it was the house settling. Mom actually got used to the sounds... and sometimes even fell asleep.
This situation continued for about two months... until a Thursday morning in November... Thanksgiving Day. Even during the War, Thanksgiving was a holiday and Dad did not go to work that morning. Mom and Dad awoke about 5:30 and as they were laying there talking the distinctive sound of a dog trotting down the kitchen and into the hallway was heard by both of them.
As the trotting got closer, Dad stopped whatever he was saying in mid sentence.
"Cameron," Mom whispered, "do you hear that?"
"Yes," an obviously flustered Cameron answered.
"Well, what is it?"
"It's a dog..." whispered Dad, in a squeeky voice.
Just then the scratching at the door started and Dad jumped, startled. "Yeah, it's a dog. It sounds like a dog."
"Go and find out... go look." Mom whispered.
"No!" Dad was sure: "It'll go away."
For the first time, Mom had the courage to speak aloud. She raised her voice... and, as she relates it, not too bravely, said, "Butchie, everything is all right... go back to bed and don't ever do this again! You're a good dog. Everything is fine."
She never heard Butchie again.
I did some research in later years and confirmed some of the more mundane parts of her story. I will post it here later this evening...
So post it! :-)
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