My childhood home was built in the 40's and was the oldest house in the neighborhood. It had a bit of an odd layout, since it was built into the side of a hill to start with and had been added on to over the years; it had an attic as well as a basement, two floors with a kitchen and a chimney apiece, and seven doors leading to the outside. We never used the attic except for storage, but we often had to use the basement because our washer and dryer were in there. Funnily enough, the basement was actually slightly elevated from the downstairs floor (we actually had to go up a small flight of stairs to go in). The basement access was through a door just beyond the boiler room, and we generally kept both doors closed, because it was an old house and prone to drafts.
There were often sounds at all hours of the day. The boiler made an awful lot of noise, for one, and old houses creak and groan with weather and age. Sometimes there were odd clanks, or scurrying sounds overhead that were likely due to squirrels in the attic. Sometimes there were sounds that might almost be taken for footsteps, if you didn't know that you were alone and so of course that was absurd. Also, as things do when you live with other people, items would go missing and turn up in the oddest places, places that seemed to make no sense. The thermostat would be fiddled with, and no one would own up to it. Doors would open and close- from those drafts again, no doubt.
For some reason I never felt comfortable alone downstairs, even during the day. I always had this prickling feeling, like I was being watched. At night I couldn't sleep (due to a bit of insomnia, as well as sleep apnea) and I would hear noises in the hall, noises that spurred me to leap up and turn on the light and shut my door. And my least favorite place of all was the basement. Sometimes our cat would get in, and I would be shaking in my boots at the thought of having to go crawling around in the back of the basement to fetch her (it was quite a large area, with insulation sticking out of the cinder blocks and wooden floorboards near the back). When I had to go in and do laundry, the feeling of eyes boring into me would mount so high that once or twice I ran out of the room and didn't stop until I was upstairs and out of breath.
One night, I was out late with my brother, his girlfriend, and a friend. My brother's girlfriend pulled up into the driveway (it was an old gravel drive, curved and inclined in a way that pissed off many of our houseguests) and parked the car. We were chatting away, in no rush to go inside. I found myself looking out the window (driver's side backseat) and my eyes were drawn to the steps which led down to the outside basement access. Seven doors to the outside, as you recall...
What happened next I am still not sure how to explain.
At first, I thought it was my mother, coming out to scold us for being out so late. It certainly looked like a woman with long, dark hair, from what little I could see in the dark. The car was off, so there was no light even from the headlights, and my house was surrounded by so many old oak trees that no street lights could penetrate far into the yard. Then I thought my eyes must be playing tricks on me, until the chatter between the others in the car halted and turned to frantic questions of, "Oh my god, do you see that?"
The figure moved past the car and down the driveway.
We got out of the car and ran into the house. My mother, who was very much still in the house and at her computer, looked up in surprise and asked us what was the matter, likely because we were all white-faced and shaking. We explained as best we could.
Because when that figure got to the bottom of the driveway and into the ambiance of the street lamp, and the four of us watched wide-eyed, it disappeared.
