Someone would walk up the stairs every night, walk down the long hallway, look into each room, and then go into the room at the end. My mom always kept the door to that room closed and she stored things like Christmas presents there. She never explained to my brother and me why we shared a room and couldn’t have that one.
One night my mom woke up and the woman came into her room and sat on the bed. My mom said she could see her perfectly. Her lips were moving like she was saying something, and my mom started to cry. The woman left and continued to walk down the hall looking into each room. Finally, she went into the room at the end.
We would tell my mother about what we saw and would say, “No, no, no.” She didn’t want to scare us, and we were Catholic, so we weren’t supposed to believe in stuff like that.
Years later, my mother told us that the woman who lived there before us
had died in the house during childbirth, along with her baby. When we were two or three years old, my mom would hear a baby crying down the hall. She would go to check on us, but we would be dead asleep.
All of these encounters are burned into my memory. There were the bells on the hutch that jingled by themselves. We would turn off the TV, and it would turn back on and start flipping through the channels. The dogs would stare at certain things and growl. I would see people walk by out of the corner of my eye.
I was never comfortable in that house, and I was relieved when we moved. My friend still lives across the street, and when I go to visit him I don’t even look at the house, though I still have dreams where I’m standing in the front of the house and a ghostly woman in a house dress is sitting at the window looking out, almost like she’s happy to see me.
Adapted from the book Haunted Houses by Corinne May Botz.
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