Our Ghostly Guests Weblog

I was just about to drift off to sleep last night when Cheryl asked me if I left the television on. I told her I hadn’t. So she asked who she was hearing talking. 

“You hear someone talking?” 

“Yes.” 

“What are they saying?”

“I’m not sure. It’s really faint.It sounds like a man and a woman or a man and a child talking. The man has a really raspy voice. You don’t hear it?” 

“No. Where’s it coming from.”

“Over there. You really can’t hear it?” Now I knew why she couldn’t understand why I wasn’t hearing what she was. She was pointing the wall on my side of the bed. 

My hearing has never been what it’s supposed to be since I was a child. Couple that with a misspent youth listening to music way too loud, for way too long…, I strained but I couldn’t hear anything. “Let’s see if we can figure out where it’s coming from,” I suggested. 

Cheryl got out of bed before I did. She started walking around the bedroom, and stopped at the far side of the dresser. “It sounds like it’s coming from over here,” she said as she stood there listening. 

“I’m going to see if we can record this,” I said, walking by her. I knew that I had a digital recorder, three of them actually … now, if I can only remember where I put them. I looked around the family room and remembered I had them on the dining table. I picked one up and started walking back to the bedroom when I noticed I already had recordings on it. Don’t ask me why, but it seemed important that I had one without anything already recorded on it. I went back and got a “fresh” one. 

I found Cheryl in the office next to our bedroom and turned the light on. “Don’t turn that on! Everyone can see me!” I turned the light back off. 

“Can you hear them in here?”

“No, but I was trying to figure out if the voices were coming from in here.” She sounded frustrated. 

We walked back into our bedroom. I turned on a light. “I’ll you what. Here’s how this works,” I said showing her the recorder. “This is the record button. When you hear the voices, press this. When the voices stop, just turn it off.” I handed her the recorder and walked away, book in hand, into the bathroom. 

When I came back out, she was standing next to the bedroom door. She handed me the recorder. It was turned off. “Did you record anything?”

“Well, it was really faint, and I could hear you in the bathroom better than I could hear the voices.” 

I wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but I noticed that she had been recording for a minute and thirteen seconds. I took the recorder and down the hall. If she caught an EVP I wanted to screen it before she heard it. I didn’t want to scare her. 

As I listened there was a click, and another sound. “That’s Anthony in the bathroom, clearing his throat,” I heard Cheryl whisper. More silence, then what sounded like a voice. A loud male voice. 

I walked back into the bedroom where Cheryl was still standing. It looked like she was hearing whatever she heard earlier. “Are you still hearing the voices?” I asked.

“Not now.”

“Well, I think you caught something. Were you talking at all while you were recording?”

“Only when I said that one of the sounds I heard was you clearing your throat.”

“Well, listen to this,” I said, turning the recorder on. We both listened. “It’s coming up in about 15 seconds.” The “voice” came through.

“What was that?” Cheryl asked, wide eyed. 

“That wasn’t you?” 

She shook her head.

“You’re sure?”

“The only thing I said was about you clearing your throat. What’s did it say?”

I replayed the recording a second. I stopped it as soon as the voice stopped. We looked at each other. I hit the rewind button, and played it again. Then a fourth time.

We looked at each other and said simultaneously, “It’s not her.” 

That’s what we were hearing on the recording. “It’s not her.” 

“Wow,” Cheryl said, hugging herself against the sudden chill she felt. She walked over to the bed and climbed in, covering herself with the blankets. “That gave me chills up and down my back, and down my legs.”

“I know, me too. It sounded like a male voice to me. A raspy male voice. Did it sound like that to you?”

Cheryl only nodded. We listened again. “It’s not her.” 

“Who do you think that the voice is referring to?” Cheryl asked, wide eyed. 

“You.”