The Spinning Deodorant

I never believed in ghosts, not really. Not until the summer of 2019, when I was living in a rundown farmhouse outside of Catawba, Ohio. The house had been in my family for generations, but it had a reputation. Locals called it ‘the Creighton place’ and avoided it, but I needed cheap rent, and my grandmother had just passed, leaving me the deed. So I moved in, telling myself that the stories were just that—stories.

It started small. Things would go missing: keys, a favorite mug, a pair of socks. I’d find them in odd places—the fridge, the linen closet, once in the attic, which I had never even entered. I chalked it up to my own absent-mindedness, or maybe mice. But then the whispers began. Late at night, I’d hear faint murmurs coming from the walls, like conversations just out of earshot. I’d freeze, straining to make out words, but they always faded. I told myself it was the wind, or old pipes.

One humid July night, I was in the bathroom, getting ready for a shower. I had just finished my business, feeling sweaty and grimy, and I reached for a fresh deodorant stick from the trash can—I kept the empty one there as a reminder to buy more. I also noticed my grandmother’s antique comb on the sink, which I had placed there earlier after finding it in a drawer. As I stood up, something strange happened. The deodorant stick, still in its plastic casing, lifted from the trash can, and the comb rose from the sink. Both hovered in the air, spinning slowly at first, then faster. My heart hammered. I couldn’t move. In a flash, they shot in opposite directions. The deodorant whizzed past my head, smacking against the bathroom door, and the comb flew across the room, landing perfectly in the trash can, as if it had always been there.

I stood frozen, my breath caught. The room was silent. I didn’t even have time to scream. I just stared at the comb in the trash, then at the deodorant on the floor. My brain tried to rationalize—maybe a draft? A water pipe vibration? But nothing could explain that. I grabbed my clothes and fled the bathroom, not even bothering to shower. I didn’t sleep that night.

That incident opened a floodgate. After that, the house became more active. At night, I’d wake up gasping for air, my chest tight, and I’d look down to see three parallel red marks, like claw marks, running diagonally across my chest. They would itch and burn, and they always faded by morning, but they were real. I felt a presence, a weight sitting on my chest, like an incubus. I started avoiding sleep, drinking coffee during the day, and at night I’d sit in the living room with all the lights on, my back to the wall.

I tried to ignore it, but one night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I was lying in bed, wide awake, when the whispering started again. This time, it was louder, and I could make out words: ‘Leave… this is ours…’ I bolted upright, and the room was freezing. My breath fogged. Something was in the corner, a shadow darker than the rest. It moved, and I felt two cold hands wrap around my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I clawed at the hands, but they were intangible. Just as black spots danced in my vision, the hands released me, and the shadow vanished.

I decided to do some research. I went to the local library and dug into the history of the house. What I found chilled me to the bone. The house was built in the 1800s by a widow named Eliza Creighton. She had been accused of witchcraft and murdered there, along with her two children. The story said that her spirit never rested, and that anyone who lived in the house would be tormented until they left. I read about a family in the 1920s who all died mysteriously, and another in the 1960s who fled after only a month.

I wanted to leave, but I had nowhere to go. I sold the house to a developer, but he only paid a fraction of its worth, and I used the money to move to an apartment in Columbus. I never looked back, but sometimes, at night, I still feel a pressure on my chest, and I wake up with those claw marks. I’ve learned to live with it, but I never, ever confront it. I just hope that someday it finds a new target.

Now, when people ask me if I believe in ghosts, I say no. But I know better. That summer taught me that some places are better left alone, and some spirits don’t rest. The spinning deodorant was just the beginning.