The Big Poop is a scary funny story about a little boy who suspects his house is haunted and is afraid to use the bathroom on his own.
Have you ever lived in a house that was haunted? Have you ever been so terrified that you lay under the covers listening every creak and groan of that old house, unable to sleep no mater how hard you tried?
When I was a child, I was convinced that our house had ghosts living in it. My brother and I slept in the attic. On any given night, once the lights were off and we were tucked into our beds, the ghost would make itself known.
One night, as I lay awake, I suddenly heard a deep male voice whispering my name. That’s when I froze. All I saw was a black, hooded figure standing in my closet. I didn’t scream, I didn’t move. Then it just disappeared into thin air. The next morning, I told my mother what I had seen, but like all mothers she told me it must have been my imagination.
For the next few nights, I would hear footsteps coming sown the hallway. They would always stop right by my bedroom door and I would wait to hear them walk away, but they never did. Then, I looked up and noticed that the crucifix that hung on the wall was turned upside down. I started to cry, because I now knew I was dealing with something demonic.
After I told my brother about these frighteneing events, he said he had experienced something similar. We discussed the situation and decided that the house must be haunted.
One evening, my Mom and Dad were throwing a party and my older brother was spending the night with friends. I was left alone upstairs. Everything was going fine until I dropped one of my toys and it slid under my bed. The problems started once I got under that bed to retrieve the toy.
All of a sudden, something landed on top of the bed and began jumping up and down. I screamed like I was about to be murdered, over and over. I also tried to get out from under the bed, but I couldn’t. Whatever was jumping on my bed that night was doing it with so much force that the mattress was pinning me to the floor.
My Dad came upstairs and found my feet sticking out from under the bed while I was screaming bloody murder. He pulled me out, picked me up, sat me on the bed and started to tell me off. I tried my best to explain what had happened, but it didn’t make much sense.
I never trusted that room again. The whole time I lived in that house, I refused to be left alone. I would never go up to my room by myself. Instead, I would wait until my older brother had been up there for a few minutes before me, so the ghost would get him first.
I lay awake at night with my head under the covers, analyzing every creak, grunt and moan that echoed through the old house. Sometimes I would just pass out from exhaustion.
As time went on, that fear soon spread to the entire house.
It was a bright and sunny day in the middle of Summer when my Mom brought me with her as she paid a visit to the neighbor’s house. I remember playing out back when I suddenly needed to go to the toilet.
I ran up to my Mom and asked to use the bathroom.
“Sorry, Honey,” said the neighbor lady. “The septic tank is broken. nobody can use the bathroom.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I desperately needed to poop.
My Mom suggested that I run back to the house and use our own toilet.
Not even thinking twice, I dashed down the road, clutching my butt, trying to keep the poop in.
When I got to our house, I came to the porch and stopped dead in my tracks.
I couldn’t go into the house. I was alone. The ghost was in there. If I went inside, it would surely get me. There was no way on God’s green earth that I was going to set foot inside that house on my own.
So what could I do?
What would you do?
I did the only thing that I could do…
Right there on the porch, I pulled down my shorts, squatted on my haunches and let it all out.
A big, steaming poop.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I pulled up my pants again and ran back to the neighbor’s house to play.
A few hours later, when my mother brought me home, there was a little surprise waiting for her on the front porch.
“Who the hell pooped on the porch?” my mother yelled.
“I don’t know,” I lied. “Maybe it was the dog?”
“That isn’t dog poop,” she said angrily.
I looked up at her, batting my eyelids, trying to appear as innocent as I could and said, “Maybe it was the mailman…”