Wrong Number

May 13, 2011

My two stories can be easily attributed to neighborhood drug addicts or my Dad’s past arrests trying to terrorize us. In fact, I suspect nothing supernatural of them, but they were scary as all hell anyway.

One night, around nine or ten PM I imagine, my dad was working the late shift. In the two-story house was just my mother, my friend Darrell, my sister, her friend Mandy, and myself. I was around seven or eight at the time. So the phone rings, and my mom answers. She speaks nervously into the phone; you know how you can tell if something’s wrong because of the way someone sounds. She hangs up and looks flushed. The phone rings again, and she starts arguing with whomever’s on the other end, then hangs up once more. If I recall, it was around this point that the someone began banging on the front door and the front windows. cThe phone keeps ringing, the doorknob keeps twisting, and the windows keep shaking. Then it all stops. Then, we hear our big wooden gate creak open and leaves in our back yard crunch. Luckily we had the sliding glass patio door locked (and the curtain pulled) when the door started shaking, someone obviously trying to get in. My mother, my sister, and her friend at this point were understandably panicked. But then it all ceases. The phone’s stopped ringing, so my mom’s able to call the police department and soon after my my dad and a patrol car or two come rushing over. Whoever had been tampering with the house was gone, naturally. But the most chilling part to me, was what the woman on the phone had said. My mom later told that she sounded like my father’s mother, except a little off, you know? Half asleep and dazed, I guess. But she began, during the first conversation they had (before my mother was frightened), calling my mother (named Martha) “Annabel” or some such name. Then she asked how the kids were, but she got our names wrong too. My mother had told her that she had the wrong number, but then the woman described my sister and me perfectly. This was the point where my mom became frightened and everything started going crazy. Not terribly spectacular, but a scary memory nonetheless. (And to clarify, my father’s mother was alive and well at the time, so no supernatural implications there.)

The second story is, thankfully, shorter. My mother was home alone one day, and when my father, sister and I arrived home, she was in hysterics. She said that she’d been taking a shower, and when she got out, she found the bathroom door to be locked (in that house the bathroom door’s knob had been installed backwards so the lock was on the outside, go figure). I don’t know how long she was in there, but eventually she somehow had pried the door open with the soap dish she’d broken off the wall. She inspected the house to find only, if I remember right, the front door open, and the cushions on the couch all turned backwards so that the tags on each were facing to the outside. Nothing was stolen. The police came, yada yada. The final verdict was, I believe, that someone had broken into the house looking for money or drugs they believed had been stashed there, either because they thought my father was one of the police department’s many corrupt cops, or that the house belonged to one of our neighborhood’s numerous dealers.

– Posted by TheFrankEinstein; Fark


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