True Story of John: A Haunting?

I lived in the same house for most of my life. My parents brought me home to it the night I was born, they made pencil marks on a wall as I grew taller, I lay in a bed crippled there are 13, dragged myself to the bathroom and learned to walk again in its halls. It became a ward where I thrived and recovered, and over time I almost convinced myself it loved me back. But eventually Mom had to put it up for sale.

The packing was intense. I spent one entire morning dividing things from my filing cabinets. Near noon I hungered, and because our fridge was unplugged and appliances packed, our only hot meals were takeout. I paused for a moment, looking out my door to Mom’s, which was perpendicular to mine, and so I could see hers was open. Listening, I heard papers rustle in her room, and so I called out.

“Hey Mom, want anything from the deli? I’m thinking about lunch”

I heard the sound of papers being set down, but she didn’t answer. When I called again there was still no reply. I got up and walked over to her door, and found while there were folders on her bed, she wasn’t around. I could see every corner, even the door to her private bathroom. Unless she was hiding the bathroom with the door open, no one was there.

Thinking I must have been mistaken, I returned to my room to get a little more work done. Once Mom returned, I’d ask her what she wanted for lunch. But almost as soon as I opened my desk drawers, I heard the distinct sound of someone walking into Mom’s bathroom.

I called one more time, something to the effect of, “Hey, Mom?”

Water began running through the pipes. My sister was downstairs doing laundry, and the laundry room was relatively close to our hall, just a flight down, yet I could swear I heard water running through the pipes into Mom’s room. As I walked toward her bathroom, the sound of water in the pipes stopped, though continued faintly downstairs. I checked through the open bathroom door and saw that it was empty; the window was closed, and the shower stall open and vacant. The sink was dry, making me doubt my hearing. I looked around impotently, for there was no other way in or out of her bathroom than through this door.

A little while later, back in my room, I heard water running through the pipes again, and this time the inclusion of water splashing in her bathroom sink. When I yelled for her, no one responded, and I went straight for her bathroom. The sink was off, but now it was wet. I put my hand to it, just to make sure.

When I asked my sister, she had no idea and seemed unnerved by the story. We’d been alone in the house. Mom arrived home some time later; she’d driven out for some moving-related errands. She had no idea what I’d been hearing, and joked that the house was going to miss me.

I don’t think our house was haunted, or that it had gone sentient and messed with me on my last days of residence. I do wonder about it, though, from time to time.