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It's Not Your Imagination. It's a Ghost: a personal encounter.

I do believe in ghosts. I don’t believe a soul can be trapped on earth, but rather we leave echoes, echoes of moments that last long after we’ve gone. At least that’s what I thought I’d believed. I understand the skeptics; I, too, am a debunker at heart, not easily scared, but had I not believed in ghosts, it only took the summer I turned 19 to make me question that my theory of echoes is perhaps not a theory after all.

That summer, two of my dearest friends decided to get married that summer. Conveniently, they married each other. We’d been friends since high school. I was the maid of honor, and I was thrilled. The wedding was hosted in a tiny town in Northern Minnesota, one I’d never heard of, and, with limited knowledge of the area, I also discovered limited options for a hotel. Family members and members of the wedding party booked the Canterville House, a stately three-story brick historic hotel off of the main highway, so I followed suit.

A placard in the hotel lobby retold its history. The mansion, constructed in the late 1800s, had experienced its share of both popularity and mishaps back in its hey-day. Turns out the hotel was a stop for the railroad and often provided shelter for those passing through, some staying longer than others, particularly in winter months.

Unassuming white trim, creaky stairs, I jangled old metal keys to Room One, none of this fancy electronic keyless modern lock stuff. Room One was right off the main staircase, separated from the rest of the party on the upper levels.

The first night, I felt on edge. I could not tell you why, but the hairs on my arms were shouting, “Don’t sleep in this room alone.” It felt like I was an intruder—not necessarily on someone else’s space, but the space itself, like no one ought to be there. The room was intended to remain empty. I convinced another bridesmaid to stay and chat long into the evening, and after she left, I slept with the lights on.

Morning arrived, and alas there was no incident. I slept just fine. Perhaps I just spooked myself. But, as we prepared for the wedding, I noticed that the bride seemed tired. I pulled her aside to check in. She had not slept well. When I asked if it could be pre-wedding nerves, she shook her head. She had awoken at 3am to find the figure of a man sitting at the foot of her bed. Eager to dismiss it, she said that she was most likely dreaming. I knew her too well; she was far from convinced.

The wedding was beautiful. My mother and sister drove up to attend, and as I went over to greet them at the reception, I overheard them talking to a few other guests who had stayed at the Canterville House the night before.

“They must have been moving furniture or something” one of them complained. Apparently, the guests staying on the fourth floor had been pacing and stomping until 4am. The parents of the bride confirmed this, stating that they had slept very little and were considering sending in a complaint.

I didn’t say anything at the time, but I knew that there was no one staying on the fourth floor. There was no fourth floor. It was an attic space, and it was condemned at that. 
I stayed one more night in the Canterville House, and my sister joined me. In hindsight, we should have hopped in my little Honda and made the 2-hour midnight trek back to civilization.

The feeling I’d experienced the night before has increased. We both felt it, and sat in the silent darkness, waiting, for hours.
 My sister stayed vigilant while I eventually, I fell asleep. I don’t know how many hours passed.  Yet as I dozed, I became aware of a distinct presence. Something was looming over my left shoulder. It was so close, I could practically feel It. On instinct, I shot out of bed, still mostly asleep. I needed to get as far away from “It” has I could.

I backed up into the wall on the other side of the room. My sister was awake, having just returned to the bathroom, and helped calm me. We agreed to leave at first light in the morning.

As soon as the sun peaked through the blinds, we grabbed our bags, dropped the key off at the front desk before it had even officially opened, and left the Canterville House behind.

We drove home under a cloudy sky. The further we got, the sillier our fears felt. It was just an old, spooky building. We were tired from the wedding, and I must have had a bad dream. Hearing the stories from the bride and the wedding guests must have planted ideas in my head.

After we arrived home, I decided to take a shower. I discovered three scratches, evenly spaced, stretched across the left side of my back. My bridesmaids’ dress was cut low. If I’d been scratched at any point before returning to the hotel, we would have seen them.

The Canterville House has since closed down. Staff and customers kept falling ill, and the building itself became increasingly more difficult to maintain. It closed its doors a few years after my time there. Whatever resided there, or resides still, felt angry and forgotten, and angry at being forgotten.

Months after the event, my sister confessed that she had not told me everything about our stay at the Canterville House. That evening as I slept, she sensed something staring back at her in the darkness of our room. As she had returned from the bathroom that morning, she was surprised to discover a figure crouched along the side of the bed. She assumed it was me. It was only after I had shot out of bed that she realized that something else—someone else— had been watching me sleep. He had waited until I was alone, reaching towards me, creeping over my left shoulder.

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Keywords/phrases: paranormal, ghosts, dark shadows, are ghosts real, ghosts exist, ghosts in minnesota, creepy ghosts