Mac had gone over to a relative’s home for dinner one afternoon and, as the daylight grew dimmer, the rain began. As he had traveled on horseback, he was loath to start home after dark in a storm.
His host apologized saying they had no spare room he could use, which surprised Mac as he’d seen an extra bedroom down the hallway.
“Oh, we have a room, but it’s haunted,” the man explained. “You wouldn’t want to stay there.”
Now Mac was amused. Haunted? He didn’t believe in such things.
“I think I’d rather stay there than ride home in the rain,” he replied.
The man and his wife talked it over and agreed to let him stay in the room, but only if he understood they would not be responsible for anything that happened.
They showed him a cozy little room, which looked much more inviting than the dark, rainy weather outside, and he got ready for bed. They had told him what they’d witnessed every night they’d lived in the house, but he was sure they were exaggerating. Ghosts indeed!
After saying good-night, he undressed, slid into bed and looked forward to a good night’s sleep. He wasn’t worried about any “haints”.
Sometime later in the night, perhaps around midnight, Mac woke to the sound of someone walking across the bedroom floor, heavy steps as of a large man. His eyes strained in the darkness, but he could see nothing.
The steps continued to the bedroom door, the door opened, and he heard the steps cross the living room toward the front door. The front door then opened and he heard the steps cross to where the water bucket sat under the pump spout on the porch.
The water dipper banged against the side of the bucket, someone drank from the dipper and then let it fall back into the bucket. A moment later, the steps began to retrace their path back into the house.
When the door to the bedroom reopened, Mac didn’t know what to think, but decided that if he just kept still he’d be alright. At least that’s what he thought until the steps came over to the bed.
Suddenly, he felt a great weight on top of him, a weight he felt would crush the life from his body. He struggled and tried to cry out, but he couldn’t get his breath. There was nothing to see, nothing he could grasp, only the weight crushing his chest.
And as suddenly as it began, it stopped. Gasping for breath, Mac staggered to the bedroom door and went out into the living room, clutching a blanket around him. The next morning, his host found him curled up on the hearth-rug in front of the fireplace.
He told them his story and they nodded, knowing smiles on their faces.
“It happens every night,” his host told him. “Rain or shine, winter or summer, the man leaves the bedroom, goes to the porch for a drink of water and comes back to bed. We’ve tried nailing the bedroom door shut, barring it, everything we can think of, and he still opens the door and gets a drink.”
“Why do you stay here?” Mac asked.
“He doesn’t do any harm, as long as nobody tries to sleep in the room. We don’t need the room, except for storing things, so we just let him be.”
Mac went his way after breakfast a changed man. He would never laugh about ghosts and haunted rooms again.
This is a true family story from my father’s side of the family. Did it really happen? I’ve talked to several people who swear it did, and not just to Mac. Nobody knew who the “haint” was, or what his story might have been, but he went and had a drink of water every night.
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