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The original was posted on /r/paranormalencounters by /u/Unlikely_Film_955 on 2024-10-28 23:55:00+00:00.

Today I feel like sharing all about my Aunt Renae’s house, or at least the one she lived in for quite a while a few years back (she has since moved to Texas with her husband, but owned this house in Colorado for about 10 years). She bought this house with her partner at the time, a man named Sandy. The house had a finished basement, so it didn’t fit the scary basement stereotypes; it was carpeted, the walls were painted a clean white, and it was well lit. She used it as a combination home gym and home office, from which she practiced criminal defense as an attorney. Off to one side, there was also a small area with a cement floor where the washer and dryer sat beneath a shelf holding the usual detergent, stain remover spray, and dryer sheets. This section had its own overhead lighting, and by all means should not have been creepy or unsettling. Shouldn’t have been, but it definitely was.

I remember catching the odd feeling of being watched down there now and again, the hairs raising on my arms as my whole body would suddenly get covered on goosebumps, but it was always easily brushed off because the environment was so… mundane.

I would occasionally house-sit for my aunt when she went out of town, sometimes for a few days or sometimes for a full week (she had chickens, so she needed someone to tend to them no matter how briefly she was away). During one such occasion, I took some clothes down to the laundry room in the basement. As I was loading the washer my hair stood up on end, my back tingling as if someone was creeping up close behind me. I paused and looked over my shoulder multiple times as I transferred clothes from hamper to washing machine. Nothing was ever visible there, so I finished as quickly as I could, reassuring myself that I was just freaking myself out. I booked it back up the stairs and convinced myself I was just being silly.

Soon, though, the signal that the wash cycle was finished sounded, and I had to go back down to transfer the clothes into the dryer. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but I knew it had to be done, so we went down with intentionally nonchalant body language, refusing to show any possible entities that they had me shook. This was way worse than the first trip, though. The washer was a top loader, and I am very short (approximately 4’11"), so getting clothes out of the washer requires me to basically hang over the edge of the basin, reaching my full upper body down to the bottom while my feet often come mostly, or sometimes entirely, off the ground. The tingling sensation at my back was even stronger than the first time, a sense of dread rising up from my stomach and lodging in my throat, but I told myself I was just feeling more vulnerable this time because of the way I was hanging over the side of the washing machine. I also hated that I couldn’t move as quickly as when I was originally loading the machine, and the negative feelings got more intense the longer I was down there. I once again climbed the stairs out of the basement as quickly as possible, making sure to close the door behind me when I got to the top. Retrieving the dry clothes later was done as quickly as possible, and was nowhere near as bad as the previous trip down.

When my aunt got home a day or two later, I mentioned the unsettling feeling to her, laughing it off as if I was silly for scaring myself in an empty house. “Oh yeah, that’s Bob,” she said, “We feel him around here all the time, and he is MEAN. He moves around in our room sometimes, but mostly sticks to the basement. I think he just really likes making us feel afraid. Sandy says if he dies before me, he’s going to take Bob with him so I don’t ever have to live here alone with him.” Sandy was about 20 years older than my aunt, so such conversations were not entirely out of place.

Unfortunately, Sandy did end up passing away a few years later. They were riding tandem on his motorcycle when he slid on a patch of sand or gravel on the road. My aunt walked away from the accident with a sprained ankle and some scrapes and bruises, but Sandy died from his injuries in the hospital a week or so later.

A few days after coming home from the hospital, after Sandy transitioned from this plane, my aunt was in her living room when she heard noises in the bedroom directly above her. She said it sounded like a fight was taking place in her bedroom, loud thumps and rattles as if body weight was being thrown around and objects knocked over (Sandy was a third degree black belt in Kenpo Karate). When my aunt went into her room after the noises died down, she said it also looked like a fight had taken place; pictures and papers that had been on top of the dresser were now on the floor, and the bedding was rumpled in spite of having been neatly made that morning. None of us ever felt Bob’s negativity in the house again after that day.

Speaking of Sandy, I saw him myself, about a year and a half after he had died. By this point, my aunt had started a new relationship, and had recently moved her new boyfriend into the home, along with his two young sons. I would often babysit them while my aunt worked downstairs so she could focus on the needs of her legal clients without interruption from the boys. There were also days where I would be the only adult in the house because she was in court for meetings, hearings, and trials. On one such day, the boys were upstairs in their rooms taking a nap, and I was sitting on the living room couch reading a book. The front door was directly ahead of me from where I was seated. My aunt had one of Sandy’s favorite flannels hanging on a coat hook just inside the door, as she had taken to wearing it frequently herself. At one point, I glanced up over the top of my book, and saw Sandy in full color and looking just as solid as if he was there in the flesh. He was wearing the flannel that had been hanging there, and was leaned forward pulling on a shoe as if it was any other day and he was preparing to go somewhere. I blinked, expecting him to disappear when I did, but he was still there after my eyes flicked back open. We briefly made eye contact, and exchanged small nods in acknowledgement of each other’s presence. Then he was gone; there was no slow fade, he never walked away or changed positions, he just suddenly wasn’t there anymore. I told my aunt about it that evening while we ate dinner together. She looked briefly sad, but then said, “I’ve never seen him like that, but I know he checks in on me sometimes. I’ve felt his presence in the house before, felt the bed dip down before and warmth against my back like he was cuddling me a few times after he died. He shows up less now that Matt and the boys have moved in, but I know he’s happy I moved on and am building a new life. He told me that’s what he would want in conversations before the accident, just to know that I was happy and loved by someone if he couldn’t be here with me anymore.”

Matt and my aunt later married, and now live on the beach in Texas, something my aunt had always wanted. She and Sandy both loved the beach, and she feels his presence whenever blue herons come near or fly overhead, and when she’s missing him their song will frequently start to play on the radio.