I do not remember the year; I would guess and say around 1980 when I was 10, but possibly earlier, definitely not later.
There were not enough bedrooms to go around; they grew up sharing beds with siblings, so no one thought it strange that I shared a bed with my mom.
My mom slept with the lights off, which makes this even more odd.
In front of the bed was an old dresser with a mirror; to the right of that was the closet.
My mom didn't use the closet; honestly, she was a hoarder, and everything was kept piled in boxes in the middle of the bedroom floor and at the end of the bed.
We barely had room to walk around.
So I woke to my mom clutching my arm—I mean, she was holding it tight enough to leave a bruise. I look at her, and she's staring in the mirror with just this terrified expression on her face.
Remember: pitch black room.
I look over, and very clearly the mirror has a whitish glow to it, and inside the mirror is this old man holding a cat in his arms; it was just from the waist up.
To this day I cannot tell you what he looked like except old, and he was stroking the cat's head with this look of absolute hate. I can't explain it, but you can tell when someone hates you. I mean, he was just glowering at us.
That lasted maybe 5-10 minutes, and it faded away, and the locked—and it was locked with a hook and eye lock—closet door slammed open.
I don't mean gently; I mean it went wham! against the wall.
The whole closet lit up with a white glow, the clothes parted and slammed against each side of the wall, and a line of black man-like shadows lined up on the clothes rack, hanging by their necks and swinging in an invisible breeze.
This lasted for several minutes, then the door shut and it was over.
My mom and I just looked at each other; she rolled over, and I buried my head under my pillow, and we went to sleep.
It was just very deeply ingrained in us to never talk about what was happening and to never acknowledge it.
