For those of you wondering, yes, I
am the daughter mentioned in Lisa’s book, On
Haunted Ground. Ghosts, and ghost stories, have been a “normal” part of my
entire life. I’ve prided myself on being far less jumpy, harder to startle, and
just generally cooler than most of my peers. J
When my husband and I bought our first
house several years ago, I knew before signing the papers that we were
purchasing a haunted house. But since I spent my entire childhood in one, I
figured that it would be fun. I was wrong.
Our dream home was…well…a mess. But
we could afford it, so it was still dreamy. At first. Before we could move in,
we had to do some major renovations. Aside from the fact that the home had sat
empty for years, the previous owner was a heavy smoker, and not overly
interested in home maintenance. I thought that some opened windows and a fresh
coat of paint would be all we needed to make the house livable.
But the carpets were stained beyond
repair, so we ripped them up, and found…tile. And wood floors, and more carpet.
It seemed that the previous homeowner believed in simply layering the new
flooring over the old. Now, I’m sure you’ve heard Mom mention that home
renovations seem to stir up the resident ghosts like little else can do.
Even though I could feel the
increasingly agitated spirit of what I now believed to be a grumpy old man, I
started complaining; loudly. As a carpenter’s daughter, I’d been around my fair
share of home projects, and I could tell pure laziness when I saw it. It seemed
like every shortcut the previous owner (which I strongly suspected was my
current ghost) made caused me even more work.
I ended up taking several days off
work to dedicate to our new home. Since my husband was working, I was alone
most of the time. Yet there was an unmistakable, angry presence following me
around. Even after I stopped muttering to myself about the house’s condition, I
could feel him. Always following, always angry. More than once I had to leave,
just to get away from him. The air would get so thick I could hardly breathe,
and I’d have to fight down a wave of panic.
The worst times almost always came
when I was working in a small bathroom, just across from the master bedroom.
I’d get dizzy, short of breath, and terrified. On more than one occasion, I was
convinced there was actually someone in my bathtub, even though I could clearly
see it was empty. Finally, while painting the walls, it hit me: someone died in
here. In the bathtub. Now, I’ve never experienced a heart attack, but if what I
felt that day was even a shadow of the real thing, I hope I never, ever, have
one.
But, I’d lived with ghosts all my
life. I could do this.
With most of the major work done, my
husband and I moved in to our new home. Since he wasn’t nearly as comfortable
with ghosts, I chose not to mention my experiences to him, hoping it would calm
down now that the construction was over.
It didn’t.
Moving our stuff in seemed to enrage
our ghost far more than griping about his style and home repair skills. He
didn’t like where we put the T.V., our new dining room light, or anything about
my things being in his cabinets.
As I started loading closets and
cabinets, I could feel him behind me, seething. But I chose to ignore him,
instead singing upbeat songs or planning my next home purchase. And then I saw
him.
The only way I can describe this is
that I saw him in my head. He wasn’t physically there, but he was real all the
same. He started jumping out at me from around corners, slamming doors on me,
hissing, and even creeping around my bed at night. And the most bizarre thing
was that he looked very much like Gollum, from the Lord of the Rings movies.
Now he had my full attention. I
tried talking to him, explaining that we were making the home better, that we
didn’t mind sharing our space with him, anything I could think of, but it
didn’t calm him at all. Then my husband confessed.
One night before bed, he marched
across the hall and slammed the bathroom door. “I can’t take it.” He grumbled.
“He won’t quit staring at me.” After talking for a while I realized that he had
been picking up on our housemate as well, and that he was thoroughly freaked
out. We didn’t know what to do. We’d already poured all of our money in this
house, so we couldn’t just leave, but we were scared in our own home.
Later that night I was jerked awake.
“I saw him.” My husband hissed. Instantly, I was up. I hadn’t mentioned my
impressions on what this man looked like earlier in the evening. But as I
listened, he described exactly what I’d seen. Except he’d seen a physical
apparition, glowing in the hall. But instead of scaring us into leaving, our
poor ghost just made us mad.
He couldn’t have picked two worse
people to intimidate. I had been around ghosts all my life, and my husband is
the most suborn man on the face of the planet, so we just dug our heels in,
ignoring the flashing lights, slamming doors, missing belongings, and grotesque
face that liked to pop out of nowhere.
And then something major happened. I
found out I was pregnant. About the time my “momma bear” instincts kicked in,
our ghost tried to scare me while I was planning the nursery room. So I did the
sane, logical, thing. I yelled at him. A lot.
I informed him that he was dead, and
that this was my house. If he didn’t
like it, he was more than welcome to leave. Then I told him that the room we
were standing in was my baby’s room
and that he would not bother either
one of us.
I had no idea what I planned to do
to back up those threats, but fortunately, I didn’t need to. I seemed to have
found a language he understood, because he hasn’t bothered me since.
Oh, he’s still here. I’ve seen his
real face now. He’s still a skinny, withered, old man, but he’s just a grump,
not a terrifying monster. I feel him hanging around, watching my
home-improvement projects carefully, waiting for me to take a shortcut, I
imagine. And he actually seems to like my son. I’ve caught my little boy
babbling and making faces at an empty chair more than once, and one time, late
at night, I heard an old man’s voice coming from the nursery, talking about
modern baby toys.
After making sure there was no physical old man in my baby’s room, I
decided that we may have finally come to an acceptable living arrangement. My
husband, however, still insists that we keep the bathroom door closed at
night. J
