In my early days of marriage, we lived in an old log cabin just off of the highway, that was built in the late 1800's. We often slept on the hide-away-bed sofa, because the fireplace was in the living room, and the rest of the house got cold in the winter, and particularly on this rainy night. I was sitting up in bed one night, reading the journals of Lewis and Clark, as was often my choice of reading in those days. It was nearing mid-night, which was early for me. My wife was fast asleep in bed next to me, as she usually was by that time, when I heard footsteps, and what sounded like voices coming from the room above our heads. There was and old spiral stair case in the corner of the living room that led upstairs, and the foot steps and voices were coming closer and closer to the opening. I reached down and grabbed my Mossberg 12 gauge pump shotgun that I kept at my bedside, eased out of bed, and toward the opening- ready to shoot someone in the kneecaps. As I got closer, I began to make out the voices. One of the voices seemed to be coming from what sounded like a young girl or child, who was sniveling and sobbing and carrying on. The other voice sounded like it was coming from an older man, or even an old man. At times he seemed as if he were trying to sooth the baby girl, and at other times, he seemed as if he were trying to scare her, or make her cry. It also seemed like there may have been talking involved, but I could not make out any words or phrasing. I'm not sure how much time passed- probably not more than a minute, but I just stood there frozen and listening. The girl's voice, was almost infantile, and she seemed to calm down a little when the man soothed his voice, almost like he was singing her to sleep. Then she would cry sharply, and louder when his voice became angry, like he was physically shaking her, or doing something else to make her cry. I shouted up into the opening with the most booming voice I could muster- "I'm not sure if you need any help, but I've called the cops and they're on their way!" It was a bluff. I didn't even know where the phone was, and I wasn't about to page it so I could go tracking it down- hell, I'm not sure I could have moved, even if I had tried. The voices up stairs seemed not to be affected my voice, as they just continued their sobbing and soothing. By this time, my wife had shot straight up in bed and was staring at me with a perplexed look on her face. I nudged the barrel of my gun up toward the opening and whispered to her as quietly as I could, "I think there's a baby up there." She read my lips, and in disbelief asked me in a whisper, "What?" I repeated, "there's a baby up there." She began to listen to the voices coming down through the opening, and then immediately dropped her head and started praying in a low whisper. Over the next minute or so, the voices began to subside, and eventually faded altogether. I stood motionless for, I'd say, another 3 or 4 minutes, just listening for any sign of activity. Nothing. Eventually I found the phone, and called the sheriff's dept., and tried as best I could to explain what had happened without sounding like I was crazy. The dispatch even asked me if I had been using any narcotics that could have altered my perception of things. They eventually agreed to send out a squad car to investigate. It was probably 30 minutes or longer before any police car had arrived, and by that time I had already thoroughly searched the upstairs. There was a door leading out to a balcony in one of the upstairs bedrooms, and initially, I figured I had forgotten to lock it, and so was expecting to find it unlocked, or busted. I was perhaps even more disturbed to find it locked securely with the sliding bolt in place, as there were no other openings to the upstairs aside from fixed windows. When the police arrived, I imagine they had already been given a run-down of the situation. One officer came to our front door, while another stayed back behind the open door of their patrol car with his hand placed ready over his holstered weapon. I told them I was sorry to have them out on such a night, and that I've never been one to call the cops before, but that I didn't really know what else I should do. I then calmly explained to them what had happened- all the while their eyeballs became larger and larger until they looked like wet silver dollars. "So what do you want us to do?" the one standing behind the squad car door asked when I was finished. I said, "I don't know, maybe you can search around the property to make sure there isn't someone out there messing around." The officer at the door got kind of shaky in the voice and asked, "Well, What all is back there?", alluding to the backside of my property. "Just some old abandoned out-buildings and deep woods," I said, but then added, "I hope". The one standing at the car, whom I gathered to be the superior officer said to the other, "Chris, go check it out." "To hell with that, Donnie, I ain't goin back there." replied the officer at our door. Then the superior officer, Donnie, got a fed up look on his face, and slammed the car door shut. He walked twenty feet from the car, shined his flashlight down one side of my house, then walked twenty feet to the other side of the car, and shined his light down the other side of my house. "Well, I'm not seeing anything, so just give us a call if anything else comes up." He motioned for his partner to get back in the car, and they pulled away into the night. In the weeks that followed, I had one day spotted a nearby neighbor from down the road a little way. I approached him, and asked if he knew any history of the old cabin, in which he said "Sure". Turns out, the house used to belong to his family, and it was his great grandfather that had built it originally. His family had sold it in the 1960's to an architect designer, who performed a large remodel on the cabin. After giving him a brief description of the events that happened that night, he asked me if I'd heard the stories about the architect killing himself in one of the upstairs bedrooms. He seemed surprised that the architect's wife, who sold me the property, hadn't shared that information with me. I then asked him if he knew why the architect killed himself, and my neighbor's reply to that was "Well, I would've probably killed myself too, if I had done the sort of things he had done to that little girl." I didn't get much in the way of details, but learned none the less, that this guy had done some pretty terrible things to his daughter, which ended in her brutal death. I started slapping paint on the cabin later in that week, put a for-sale sign up in the yard, and had it sold by the end of the next month. I still to this day, do not know what I believe about what had happened in that old cabin.
Some folks on here like stu and futurecunts, Ishop, think they got everything figured out but nothing could be further from the truth.