Are ghosts real? Before voting on this fun poll, read my personal ghost story below!
If you have ever been in a house that has a mysterious and hauntingly terrifying feel to it, then you will understand how I used to feel when I visited my grandmother’s house.
My grandmother’s house was built in the 1800s in a small town called Toronto, Ohio, which is nestled in the Ohio Valley along the Ohio River. There was a railroad track less than 200 feet from her front door. Trains would often roll by at night, breaking the silent air with an intrusive and booming, yet comfortingly routine engine horn. This horn was a piece of reality that I grasped to with all my energy while I tossed in the bed of my grandmother’s tormented guest room.
My brother and I shared this old, tiny room when we visited. In order to get to that room, we had to climb a set of creaky stairs and go through a small bathroom. The wall paper on the way up the stairs was many years old, and it was stained from years of cigarette smoke. In the hallway downstairs, which was visible as one climbed these stairs, were old, oval, black and white portraits. I am not joking when I say that these were the types of portraits that you see as cliches in haunted movies. I never did find out who the subjects of those portraits were.
The uncomfortable feeling began about three or four steps from the top of these stairs. There, a heavy feeling of doom would enter from my left, and it physically shrouded me with fear every time. Each time I passed, I would hurry by, with creeps running up my spine everytime, and rush into the bathroom. The bathroom, you see, was like a safe island. For whatever reason, the presence did not present itself there. However, haunt resurfaced exponentially in the bedroom where I had to sleep. There, a grotesque vibe pungently radiated throughout the atmosphere like the stench of rotten meat.
It is important to note that there was a second bedroom upstairs that shared a wall with this room. It was in this bedroom that my parents stayed when we visited. I avoided that room like my life truly depended on it, because whatever presence existed in the room where I slept was nothing compared to the violent force that hung perpetually and crossly in that room.
My brother and I talked about the fright of that house many times, but never mentioned it to anyone. My grandmother was the sweetest lady and there were many things to love about her home. I will never forget the beautiful smell of magnolias permeating the backyard in the summers. I will never forget the image of her smiling face standing at the doorway as we left, waving goodbye. I will never forget her intoxicating laugh. There was even something eternally comforting about the smoke-filled air mixing with the brew of morning coffee. But that damn presence, whatever the hell it was, scared the brave right out my brother and I, and I will never forget that either.
My grandmother passed away almost ten years ago now. I cannot believe it has been that long. Her memory, and the memories we have from visiting her, will never be tainted by whatever darkness shadowed on and in between those smoke-stained walls. That said, that house was too damn creepy for my liking!
A few years ago, my brother and I mentioned this to our father, who grew up in that house. While he never admitted to feeling any sort of dark presence in the house, he did let us in on a little secret that he discovered. Apparently, many, many years ago, in the late 19th century, a young woman hung herself in a small hallway that connected the two troubled rooms that I just described. The hallway was later sealed, and turned into a closet. For what it’s worth, it is in precisely that area where the force felt the strongest. I am getting chills just thinking about it now.
Was my grandmother’s house haunted? I think it was, but then again, I might be completely nuts. What about you? Do you believe there are forces beyond this life that haunt the living? Do you believe in ghosts?