I entered, closed the door behind me at once, turned the key I found in the lock within, and stood with the candle held aloft, surveying the scene of my vigil, the great red room of Lorraine Castle, in which the young duke had died. Or, rather, in which he had begun his dying, for he had opened the door and fallen headlong down the steps I had just ascended.-- The Red Room, H.G. Wells
Here's a true story from the haunted house in which I grew up in North Carolina... Back in the 60s, Friday night was fight night so my family and I would walk over to my uncle's house [about a tenth of a mile away] to listen to championship boxing on the radio. I believe Sugar Ray Robinson was boxing that night. The fight ended earlier than usual and we headed on back home. There was my mom and dad, my three brothers, one of my sisters and me. There were 12 steps leading up to the front door of our old house and I recall Don being the first in line as we walked up the steps. Dad was last. Just as Don reached for the doorknob, the knob turned and our front door opened very slowly until it was completely open. Don turned to look at dad. Dad told him to go on in, it ain't nothin so he did. The air inside the house felt frosty cold as we quietly shuffled in and Don pulled the chain to turn on the light. There was nothing there, just as dad said there wouldn't be, but it sure made us feel uneasy.
Dozens of peculiar events like this happened as I grew up in that old house, but I wouldn't trade them for anything.