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pen_gruntI ended up spending the night with my cousin and, for part of the time, my sister. As conversation between us eventually does, the talk turned to memories of days past. My sister brought up, independently, a memory that I had half thought I had embellished/made up over the years. However, now it makes sense that I was a freaked-out morbid child.
When I was growing up, I always thought our house was haunted. Not in a terribly scary/supernatural type of way, but in a general "I see shadows of people moving around all the time" kind of way. When you're in a house built in 1854, things creak, boards squeak, people go bump in the night, and shadows appear and disappear all the time. My feelings of being haunted were also perpetuated by my desire to believe in the supernatural. I WANTED there to be ghosts. Heck, I STILL want there to be ghosts, though I can't really bring myself to "believe" in them as such. I love ghost stories--and apparently, they love me back.
The memory: Our house had been owned by several families prior to ours. It's on a 10 acre plot in the middle of a farmland neighborhood. A few families back (or maybe just one, I'm not sure on the details), we had people die in our house. Not just pass quietly into the good night, but die with some turmoil before death. You see, an old couple had raised their family in the house, and were slowly going crazy (as my mom put it). Towards the end of their years--convinced that the other was going to kill them--they both locked themselves in their rooms. We presume they would sneak out to get food and such--both were terrified of each other. The husband wouldn't eat food the wife cooked for fear she would poison him--and vice versa. Eventually they languished in their rooms and succumbed to seemingly natural causes.
Now I remember hearing about this as a child, and I was always thinking that I had made up some of the details to scare myself. My sister, however, also remembers this tale--exactly the same way and from a different source. Hers was pieced together from our neighbor (who knew the couple) and my parents (from whom she coaxed further information).
All the time I was growing up, I was living in a room where a crazy person had (effectively) committed themselves to die. I always thought they were haunting the house--sneaking out to get that food--always watching to be sure the other didn't try to kill them...always paranoid, always afraid.
No wonder I thought there were witches in the closet, I was afraid of the attic crawl spaces (floor level cubbies) and terrified of the dark, damp basement.
I love ghost stories, particularly my own.
When I was growing up, I always thought our house was haunted. Not in a terribly scary/supernatural type of way, but in a general "I see shadows of people moving around all the time" kind of way. When you're in a house built in 1854, things creak, boards squeak, people go bump in the night, and shadows appear and disappear all the time. My feelings of being haunted were also perpetuated by my desire to believe in the supernatural. I WANTED there to be ghosts. Heck, I STILL want there to be ghosts, though I can't really bring myself to "believe" in them as such. I love ghost stories--and apparently, they love me back.
The memory: Our house had been owned by several families prior to ours. It's on a 10 acre plot in the middle of a farmland neighborhood. A few families back (or maybe just one, I'm not sure on the details), we had people die in our house. Not just pass quietly into the good night, but die with some turmoil before death. You see, an old couple had raised their family in the house, and were slowly going crazy (as my mom put it). Towards the end of their years--convinced that the other was going to kill them--they both locked themselves in their rooms. We presume they would sneak out to get food and such--both were terrified of each other. The husband wouldn't eat food the wife cooked for fear she would poison him--and vice versa. Eventually they languished in their rooms and succumbed to seemingly natural causes.
Now I remember hearing about this as a child, and I was always thinking that I had made up some of the details to scare myself. My sister, however, also remembers this tale--exactly the same way and from a different source. Hers was pieced together from our neighbor (who knew the couple) and my parents (from whom she coaxed further information).
All the time I was growing up, I was living in a room where a crazy person had (effectively) committed themselves to die. I always thought they were haunting the house--sneaking out to get that food--always watching to be sure the other didn't try to kill them...always paranoid, always afraid.
No wonder I thought there were witches in the closet, I was afraid of the attic crawl spaces (floor level cubbies) and terrified of the dark, damp basement.
I love ghost stories, particularly my own.
