A Terrifying Childhood Memory: The Ghost in My Doorway

A true story of childhood terror. Footsteps in the hall, shadows in the dark, and a figure at the foot of my bed—this haunting experience has never left me.

(Approximation of my Great Great Aunt Beatrice today) Photo by Lan Gao on Unsplash

The following account is from my childhood and took place sometime between 1987 and 1995.

I haven’t shared this story with many people. I’m a skeptic, or at least I try to be. I’ve spent years convincing myself that none of it really happened. But the truth is, for most of my childhood, I dreaded bedtime. Sleep was something I feared, because that’s when it would happen—the noises, the strange, terrifying visions that filled my room. And then, one night, a figure appeared at the foot of my bed.

The memories from that time are fragmented—scenes from school, playing outside. But what I remember most is fear. My family—my mom, dad, and baby sister—lived in a single-wide mobile home from the late 1970s, set on five acres of dense, wooded land. You’d think a young boy would be scared of the woods at night, but I would have gladly stayed out there if it meant avoiding my bedroom. I wasn’t allowed to watch scary movies or read spooky books, but I didn’t need them. My mind took care of that all on its own.

“Overactive imagination,” my dad would say. Every night.

I’d lie in bed, staring at the wall, hoping to fall asleep while my parents were still awake, the muffled sound of their TV comforting me. But I never did. When the house fell silent, that’s when the fear crept in. I kept the light on—a dim glow, barely enough to see—but even that betrayed me. The folds and wrinkles in my He-Man posters on the wall would twist into grotesque faces. Shadows played tricks, and my stomach would knot.

Then came the footsteps.

They were soft, like someone moving quietly on the carpet. Not loud enough to startle, but familiar enough to make my heart race. Creaks in the floor that only ever creaked in those spots. The sound of fabric brushing gently against the carpet as they came closer and closer, down the hallway, stopping just outside my door. I’d freeze, holding my breath, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle tensed.

And then I’d shout for my dad.

He’d come in, tired, reminding me yet again that it was all in my head. That it wasn’t real.

But let's talk about things that aren't "real."

It wasn’t just at night. I hated being alone in that trailer at all. After school, if my mom and sister weren’t home, I wouldn’t go inside. Instead, I’d wait outside, playing with the dog, no matter how dark it got, until someone came back. The dread of being alone in that house was almost unbearable, but somehow, I was the only one who felt it.

My mom used to tell me stories about her Aunt Beatrice, who she said was psychic. She told fortunes with a crystal ball, and according to my mom, she passed her gift down to her. I was supposed to have it too, she’d say. Clairvoyance. She called it a gift, but to me, it felt like a curse.

Some nights, my mom would hold tarot readings for her friends by candlelight. I’d be in my room, entertaining their kids with my Nintendo, but I always knew what was happening in the next room. One time, a mother left in tears, and her kid mumbled something about her pulling the Death card. I was only nine, but I tried to explain: Death in tarot didn’t mean someone was going to die. It meant an ending, a change.

It was around this time that my Uncle Keith died in a motorcycle accident. I remember we had just moved into the trailer. That first morning, I overheard my mom telling my dad that Uncle Keith had visited her during the night. His spirit, she said, had floated above her, alongside another figure. She described their long, eerie arms and the translucent green glow they gave off. No one told her she was imagining things. No one told her it wasn’t real.

But that’s exactly what my dad told me when I experienced it. It’s not real, Son.

Still, he kept his door cracked open at night, just for me. As a parent now, I never close my door either. For weeks, maybe months, the same routine played out: footsteps down the hall, stopping at my door. I’d imagine an old man standing there, watching me from the shadows. Some nights, the image in my mind would scare me so much I’d open my eyes—just to make sure he wasn’t real.

One night, he was.

I opened my eyes, and there, standing in the doorway, was the old man I’d imagined so many times. I held my breath, blinking, willing the image to fade. But he didn’t fade. He just stood there, staring. I screamed for my dad, and in the moment it took him to rush in, the figure vanished.

After that, my mom put a TV in my room. Comedy shows helped. I’d stay up watching A Night at the Improv or Showtime at the Apollo until I was too tired to be afraid. Laughter was my escape from the fear. A few months later, just before eighth grade, we moved. That first night in the new house, I slept better than I had in years.

But the fear stayed with me. The dread of something lurking in the dark. The sense that something was always just behind me, waiting.

To this day, I can’t sleep with the door closed, or the lights off if I’m alone. When my kids were little, and they’d wake up scared, I’d reassure them: Ghosts aren’t real. But deep down, I wasn’t so sure. I’d curl up beside them, just in case.

So, do I believe in ghosts? Do I believe in tarot readings and clairvoyance, like my mom taught me? Those are questions for another time. But I know what I saw. That night, in that trailer, I opened my eyes—and something that wasn’t supposed to be there was standing in my doorway.

I’ll be 45 soon, and I’ve never forgotten that feeling. The sense that something is still there, waiting.

Waiting for me to remember.

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What’s your ghost story?

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