It was recently brought to my attention that my childhood home was definitely, maybe, possibly, haunted. There are things I experienced in that house, unexplainable things, that I never told anyone about. I would later write these experiences off as the workings of an overactive imagination and eventually, I forgot about them. As it turns out, I wasn’t the only one in my family to experience things while living in that house. Before diving into the good stuff, a little background info is required, so what better place to start than at the beginning?
I grew up in a small town in rural Ontario, Canada. It was your average, quiet Canadian town. Our house, pictured below, was built in the 60’s. At least two or three families lived in it before us, and when my parents moved in they discovered some strange things that would only hint at what was to come. None of it is really connected to my experience, but it makes me wonder what the hell went on in that house.
For instance, my dad found a kukri knife (wrapped in old newspapers) hidden in the walls, and the family before us kept their child with mental disabilities locked in his room. The door was double-hung and could only open from the outside. My mom just told me this part the other day, and it sounds like something right out of American Horror Story. That room would one day become my childhood bedroom and I’m thankful my parents refitted it with a more traditional door. Lastly, the room that became my brother’s bedroom was just a normal old junk room... with jet black walls. Odd happenings in our little old house to say the least.
As our family grew, the house grew with it. In 1998 my parents decided to renovate and put on an addition. The construction meant that my old bedroom became the new master bathroom, and I moved into my parent’s old bedroom. No big deal, right? At the time I thought it was exciting but little did I know it would kick off a paranormal experience that has stuck with me my whole life.
Soon after moving into my new bedroom, I began experiencing what I thought was a recurring dream. A robed specter, its face half shrouded by a black hood, would visit me often. Only the bottom half of its face was visible, but I always had the strong impression that the figure was staring at me. In fact, staring at me was all it ever did. It never moved, never came closer. It just stood in my doorway. Stood and stared. I would shut my eyes and hope for it to go away, and it always did.
I never told anyone, even though it scared the shit out of me, because I had convinced myself it wasn’t real. We moved when I was seventeen and I never saw my ghostly visitor again. In fact, I had nearly forgotten about it completely. That is until one night, years later, we were sharing paranormal experiences with some family friends around the kitchen table. The kind of fun thing you do around Halloween, have some laughs and try to pull off a scare or two.
When it came to my turn to tell a tale, I told everyone what I just told you. I thought it was a funny little story about the wild imagination of a young child. Ghosts aren’t real, after all. My mom, however, had gone pale. I’ll never forget the look she gave me. One of absolute horror. It shook me to my core.
Hesitantly, she divulged how she had experienced the exact same thing when the bedroom had been my parents’ room. The same figure. The same half-visible face standing in the doorway. Unmoving. Staring. She had never told anyone either because she too had discounted the whole thing as a dream.
The logical part of my mind is telling me that she must have told me, or someone else, about the specter. Maybe I had overheard her tell a friend and then my imagination took over. Or maybe it’s just a coincidence that we both had the same dreams. There’s always a logical explanation for these sorts of things. Drafty houses, creaking pipes, faulty memories. We all know how the mind can play tricks. It is odd though, and when pieced together with a couple of other occurrences in the house, one begins to wonder…
For instance, my mom says that when I was a baby I would often stare at the spot where the specter would later appear and cry uncontrollably. I find this really strange because I’ve been told I was a notoriously unfussy baby. I mostly just slept and ate and was rarely a bother. Babies and children, as we know, are oftentimes more receptive to experiencing the paranormal.
On its own, that isn’t much, but couple that with the fact that my little brother was terrified of sleeping alone for years. His reason? He was scared of the vampire. Vampire, singular. When asked he’s adamant that it was because of a scary movie we watched as kids and nothing more, but I think he’s covering. I think he saw it too. I think he’s too scared to admit it.
And don’t forget all that weird stuff I mentioned that went on in the house before we moved in. It all begins to paint a picture, doesn’t it? Two - possibly three - different independent experiences that remained unknown, and unconnected, for over a decade before we put it all together. Odd goings-on in the house before we moved in. And in talking to my mom before writing this, she thinks we may have disturbed something when the house was renovated. I don’t know about that, but hey, I’ll add it to the pile. It’s all a little much to brush off as coincidence.
Adding it all up leads me to one unequivocal conclusion: My childhood home was definitely haunted. Maybe.