by R. Michael Straight

Created on: May 16, 2008

The following is true and is not fabricated.

Six years ago I lived in a large farm house in central Ohio. The Oakhurst House, as it was known, was upwards of 120 years old, and, by all rights, should have been listed in the historical registry. However, due to many years of less-than-attentive tenants, the house was falling into disrepair. The floor in the kitchen sagged so much we were forced to install a jack in the basement to keep it from buckling completely. There was an old, cranky fuel-oil furnace that blew more smoke than hot air through the complex of ducts. Though there was no air conditioning (neither central nor window units, surprise) we were surrounded by old, massive oak trees that blessed us with ample shade. With ceiling fans on high, we could effectively cool the house down to a chilly 65 degrees in the midst of a heat wave.

The house was inhabited by just two people: myself and my best friend to this day. We both worked at the golf course the house overlooked. Number five's fairway was our backyard. Not a bad view, really. From the outside, it looked like a rather simple, unexciting, white farmhouse; the same kind that dot most rural landscapes every few miles. And I suppose it was, really. Except, that is, for the hauntings.

Ghosts had made themselves known in and around the house, and this was not a secret. It was often a source of entertainment, ghost stories that didn't happen to a friend of a friend, but to the actual storyteller. Many nights, a dozen or so of us would gather in the back yard, sitting around, having some drinks, and telling ghost stories.

Real ghost stories. Our ghost stories.

This is one of them.

My bedroom was located in the northwest corner of the first floor. There were two doors: one leading into the bathroom, and one leading into the dining room. The door to the dining room was mostly blocked and really never used. So, to gain access to my bedroom, the bathroom was the only way.

Aside from the occasional embarrassing moments, assuming that the room was empty when it was not, it didn't present too many problems. It was actually somewhat nice being able to wake up from my sleeping bag and foam pad bed on the floor and go directly into the bathroom for a shower, especially on those long, cold winter nights.

At this point, I'd lived in the house long enough to know about the ghostly activity. I'd heard things, but hadn't experienced anything truly "scary." The house was normally full of people (our place was the place to be),

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