supernatural experience/ Supernatural writing contest (SWC)

THE HOUSE OF THE INDIAN

In the time of my childhood, When I lived in a city called Bolivar in Venezuela. I used to meet at night with the boys in the neighborhood to play and tell stories. The common thing that all children do at that age, would be about 9 years old.
One night we were telling scary stories, I loved telling horror stories because although until that moment of my life I had not experienced any unusual experience, I could give free rein to my creativity. The stories I told were lies, but, funny lies that in the end made us have a nice time.

That night, a girl from the group called Elianet, told a story, about a house in the same area where we lived, it was about a house that on certain days used to appear the spectrum of an Indian playing the flute and in it in a Once he had seen it, he also told that in that same place there was a room that was always sealed, that nobody could enter there, because in that room there was a rope that crossed the whole room where supposedly a decapitated head used to appear, she assured that the story that told was real, we all listened to it with attention and in silence. In the cold of the night and the hour it was time to go home, it was a cold night, I retired home with the restlessness of the story I had heard in my head.

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Eventually I woke up in the darkness of the night thinking about the story I had heard, from my house I could see through a window "the house of the Indian", I do not know for what reason from that day I would develop a curiosity to know if it was true what happened in that house. I watched her from the darkness of the window of my house, in the distance, in the darkness, thinking if I would have the courage to come to that place knowing what I could find.

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Ciudad Bolívar, is one of the oldest cities in Venezuela, in it there were many historical highlights of the nation, many stories are told about people who died tragically in the colonial era, one thing is certain, that this city is very old and is built on the legacy of indigenous and African slavery. In colonial times, many people died tragically, slaves brought from Africa and Indians died under the Spanish yoke, and that city was a living witness of these events. There are so many stories that are told that it is very difficult to draw a line between reality and legend.

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The days continued and I kept looking at that house in the distance, located on a hill, many times I proposed to make an "expedition" to that house, but I cowered and stopped my plans completely. Until one day, I was invited to a party, near my house, on a hill called "Cerro el zamuro", near the house that I called "the house of the Indian", being close to the house I could not hide my restlessness and curiosity. However I stayed at the party, I had the best time I could.
At some point, I left the party, and approached the house, its colonial-style facade, the white walls covered with mold and rust, the windows deteriorated with glass fogged by dust, really that place had a gloomy atmosphere.
I approached silently in the darkness, I approached one of the windows, in the darkness I could see a rather shabby room, there was a bed covered with torn sheets as if someone had slept in that place. An abandoned hair dryer and on it a television. As I watched the TV that was placed on the comber suddenly lit by itself, seeing that I held my breath, my heart throbbed, strong, I felt a cold that ran from my hair to my feet, I did not believe what I was watching, when suddenly, I heard a voice that told me "What are you doing here", was that I could react, I was a lady, probably from that street, who was calling me attention for having approached me a lot, He asked me to leave there, which I did, when I was leaving the place, I turned again to take a last look through the window of that house and the TV that had been lit in front of me only moments ago, was off, not there was a flash of light in that room, as if nothing had ever happened and everything had been imagined.

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When I returned home from the party I felt disturbed, I did not tell anyone what had happened, not even my parents, that even though I did not say anything they had noticed that something was happening to me.
One night while I was sleeping, I had a dream, where I was trapped inside that house, it was like a kind of labyrinth, I eventually woke up in the middle of the night, get off my bed and in silence in the darkness I went to the window of my house and watched "the Indian's house", it was as if a very strange energy was calling me, something that by my age I did not understand, standing there, in the darkness, covering me with my sheet, I could see that a light in a room of that Home in the distance on the hill was lit, that scared me I do not know why, I just covered myself with my blanket and ran back to my bed where I got under my pillows and covered me from head to toe.
The days passed and I could not get rid of the thoughts I had about that house, until at my young age, I made a determination, or I got rid of the doubt that if something really happened in that house or I would go crazy thinking in the matter.
One day late at night, when my parents had gone to bed, mock the security of my house and escape me secretly, it must be hidden since my parents knew I would never have been allowed to leave at that time of night.
I left home, the night was cold, the streets completely alone, I felt afraid, but it was a risk I had decided to take on, it was now or never.

Walk through desolate streets between night to the hill of the hill of zamuro, to the house of the Indian.

There were faint, yellowish lights, a wall leaped, that allowed me to skirt the house, with which I had access to his patio, I leaned on the lights that bordered the house and a flashlight that was in my hand. As I got closer, I thought it was the worst idea to have gone to that place, because my nerves were failing me, fear was taking over me, I was approaching a corridor illuminated by a weak yellow glow bulb, before reaching the corner of that corridor, I saw it. It was the shadow of the head swaying on the rope, to see that image I was completely petrified, I could not move, until I saw, the glow of the TV that I knew was in that room turn on, that was when my nerves were broken completely, I ran out of that place completely terrified, quickly jump the wall of the patio falling on the other side, just to get up and keep running completely scared.

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I managed to enter the house, because of my nerves my parents got up when they heard someone was pushing the door, it was me trying to enter, when they opened me and they saw me very nervous I could not help but cry, cry like a baby, for long Until I managed to calm down and explain what I did at that time of the night in the street and why I had escaped from my house, my parents naturally got very angry because I ran away from home and they punished me. That night was an almost impossible task, I was too scared to sleep.

After days, traumatized by the image of the shadow I had seen, I managed to squish a bit my nerves, I tried not to think about that house and less to look at it. Until one night, very late, I got up and watched from the window of my house, towards that house, when out of nowhere, I began to hear the sound of a flute, which came from that house, it was a spectral sound, very strange, a sound I would remember from that moment in my life forever, although it has been many years since I heard it I still remember it.

I have no doubt that the story they told me that night was real, strange things happened in that house, even if I did not see the Indian, if he heard his flute, in the cold dark night, as if he wanted to say, it was real. I never returned to that house, and I moved out of town, today with much older age, I remember even that flute, spectral, and history sound of the Indian who appears playing the flute in that house on the hill of Zamuro in Ciudad Bolivar.