Staring At Me
About fifteen years ago I was a 19 year old backpacker. I was staying the night at a rural castle hostel in Ireland with a few Philadelphians I had met. The night progressed uneventfully – stone sober, a cheese sandwich for dinner – until the three of us lay down to sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw row upon row of women staring at me. They weren’t angry. They weren’t menacing. Just there. Dozens of them. Staring at me. No irises in their eyes. Just white. Staring at me.
Every time I would open my eyes, a single face would appear before me. This one angrier than the others. Staring at me. Smiling slightly.
This lasted all night. I was too scared to leave the bed. Too scared to open my eyes. Too scared to close my eyes. Too scared to move. Cold.
The next morning I woke up, and the two fellows who shared the room with me had disturbingly similar experiences to myself. The proprietor of the hotel, upon seeing us bleary eyed the next morning, simply said “Ah. The ghosts. Sorry ’bout that.”
I took the next available bus to Dublin and drank myself to oblivion.
Entry filed under: Scary.