When I was in junior high school, I was in my bedroom one night either doing homework or reading. For once I had the radio turned off, and it was quiet in my part of the house. I heard a scratching noise from under the floor, over under a window that looked out to our neighbor’s house. I moved in that direction and the noise stopped. I remained quiet for a while, and again I heard the scratching sound. I thought it was creepy but was unsure what to do.
I heard the noise several more times over the course of the next few days, and finally, I told my mother and father. My mom thought I was making it up. “You’ve been reading too many of those scary books,” she said. I had to admit that I did like ghost stories.
Still, I didn’t think this was a ghost. I heard the noise several more times over the course of several weeks, and again, I complained to my folks.
Pop took time to come to my room, which he normally never did. I don’t remember if he just happened to come in at the right time or if he waited. But he heard it, too, that day. He looked and me and shrugged and went in search of my mother.
The house in which I grew up was a sort of a ranch/bungalow with a crawl space underneath. At regular intervals in the brick foundation were small glass windows or grates, which I think were supposed to open to ventilate the crawl space. There was also a larger access door at one point. Pop propped the access door open that evening and stood watch. He saw a possum come strolling out from under the house. After that, he went around the perimeter of the house and plugged all the holes in the foundation that he could find. Or maybe he hired someone to do it. Bless his heart, Pop was not much of a handyman.
My mother never apologized for not believing me.