Growing Up Haunted

From the time we moved into the little 1920s farmhouse with the bedford stone façade, we knew there was more than plaster, board and stone. The whole property seemed to hum with energy. This was no simple collection of outbuildings, barn, garage, house and root cellar. Anyone who came to visit commented that they felt as though they were being watched. We felt that way too. Then the activity started.

The entrance to the attic door was in my blue oddly shaped bedroom with the funny little alcove at one end. The two bedrooms and bathroom took up most of the space on the upper floor, but the extra space on either side that followed the rafters to the roof's edge was storage space. It ran the length of the house and was filled with the belongings of the former occupants that the owner's of our rented home had chosen to keep there in storage.

I still can't tell you what may have been tucked in the attic space farther than two feet beyond the door. For the entire 17 years that it was our home, it was not someplace either my sister or I could muster the courage to explore. It was hard to explain. It was old and scary for a kid, sure. But long after we were grown, there was always a feeling that it was not a place to be. It was just wrong to think about violating the space.

Sleeping against the wall that stood between the attic and me wasn't very comforting either. You could hear footsteps in the middle of the night and some mornings the attic door would be standing open. When we were downstairs and the bedrooms vacant during the day, you could hear the boards creak as someone or something walked around in my room and the whole of the upstairs. On more than one occasion, the hutch that sat on my desk came crashing to the floor, pushed over by unseen hands. It was screwed into the back of the desk with brackets to prevent such accidents, but it didn't stop whatever was seeking our attention.

As the years passed, things continued to escalate. I moved out of the upstairs altogether and began sleeping in the old dining room. I was a night owl and was often up into the wee hours of the morning. It was typically about 3 a.m. that banging began on the outside of the house. It was as if someone was beating the house machine gun style with the flat end of a paddle. We looked for the culprits thinking it was kids from down the road, but no one was ever found and there was no damage to the house. Rapping from the basement then started drifting up through the floors. Had to be the old pipes, right? Yet two separate plumbers confirmed this was not the case.

The footsteps became more pronounced and eventually started walking down the stairs during the day. The door to the stairs would be found open when no physical person was there. On one occasion we watched it swing open on its own. Mom took to sliding a butter knife between the door jamb and the wall effectively locking the door with the long slender blade, but eventually we started finding the door open with the butter knife still in place.

At the very height of the activity, we began to see apparitions in the house and the barn. Furniture would be kindly rearranged for us. Something would sit on the edge of my bed at night and watch, but when I uncovered my head and opened my eyes, the mattress would spring back and no one was visible. After happening for a third time, I began spending a lot of nights on the couch.

Perhaps most disturbing was that in later conversations, we discovered we had the same nightmare of a young woman being murdered in the house. What's as interesting is the catalyst for that conversation. My much younger cousin was visiting with my aunt. She had been put to bed in my sister's bedroom and my aunt and mom were sitting around the kitchen table, when she came running downstairs screaming "He's going to kill her." When pressed, it was the nightmare that we all experienced. It was an argument of some kind and a pursuit that ended in a stabbing.

Digging one day along a fence row where a grape vine grew, my mother uncovered a knife wrapped in pantyhose. Was this the instrument of her death? Was it her spirit trying to cry out? We could never find public record of anyone missing, but that was of little comfort.

The existence of paranormal activity certainly isn't proof that there is life after death, but you can understand the draw. It offers a possible answer to the biggest question there is – do we continue in some cognisant form after death? I believe the answer is yes, but conclusive evidence isn't possible. Still, I know beyond doubt that something was there with us in that house as we were growing up.

I drive by occasionally to see the old place and it is no longer home. The house released us long ago. But it has not been quiet. Some time after my parents moved out, a young man and woman were travelling at a high rate of speed with two other passengers along the gravel road that fronted the house. They lost control of the car and were killed in the impact with the old Catalpa tree that stood at the edge of the driveway. I wonder if their spirits have joined the others?

I've always had an overwhelming urge to knock on the front door and ask the current tenants if they've ever noticed anything strange.