Haunted

By Robert Howell

For years I have been telling people of the haunted house I once lived in. Most people just laughed, some believed and wanted to hear more, and some just thought I was trying to rope them in to sell them a book. Yes, I am a writer and storytelling is what I do. But the haunted house experience was real.

Since I am writing this down in the hope that someone will find this and know the truth about what happened to me, I might as well start with the beginning.

I was thirteen years old when we moved into the house. I refuse to name the place so that no one will try and find it. It may have been torn down years ago, but those who hunt down the place, and name it, could fall into the same pit of despair that I currently reside in.

My father moved around a lot. I don’t think we lived in any one place for more than three years at a time right up until I joined the military and made my own way in life. The house was a rare exception even for this. My father had a temporary job that would last a year so he rented this beautiful brownstone townhouse in the eastern section of a city I will not name. The house was beautiful and came fully furnished. Even the beds were there, but the owner had replaced all the mattresses.

We moved in on a sunny warm day in July. It was the first time I had seen the place. It had a double-door entrance with a foyer large enough for a nice wooden bench, table, double closet, and still room to move around. Passing through the entrance, on the left was a large living room with a fake fireplace and an archway to the dining room, and straight ahead was a hall leading to the kitchen. Just before reaching the kitchen was a door leading to the basement which I will go into later.

To the right after the entrance was a staircase leading up to three bedrooms and a full bathroom. The bathroom was to the left as we exited the staircase and beside the bathroom was the master bedroom which of course became my parent’s room. To the right was another bedroom, which became my younger sister’s bedroom, and at the end of the hall was my bedroom. For the first time, I would have a bedroom all to myself as my older sister had already moved away the year before when she turned eighteen.

We settled in nicely and for the first couple of months, it was peaceful and quiet. When the change came it was not sudden mayhem and the first incident did not connect us to the idea of the paranormal nor did fear enter the picture. It was gradual as events started to pile up. Yes, it started with the basement, which I will now talk about.

It was a winding staircase that led to the basement. At the bottom, the first room had the furnace and electrical boxes. The next room was locked. The owner told us he used it for storage and would not give us a key so we had no idea what was in it. The final room was the laundry area. It was in this room it started.

It was an unusual layout. The washer and dryer were on opposite sides of the room. One day as my mother tried to put the wet clothes into the dryer it slammed shut on her, breaking three fingers. My father said it was some type of defect in the dryer door and had a repairman adjust the door. It took over a month for her hand to heal enough to start doing chores again. Myself and my younger sister took over a lot of the household chores as my father was always at work.

The second incident also took place there. This time it was me. I was bringing clothes down to do laundry when I felt a push from behind and tumbled all the way down. I was fortunate not to break my neck, but the same could not be said about my arm.

After that, my mother shut and locked the door to the basement and gave strict instructions not to go there. My father was pissed, saying using a laundromat was too expensive and that it was all in our imagination. Still, my mother stood firm.

My father’s position soon changed when it happened to him. This time it was on the back balcony. He was sitting and having a beer. It was his first one so he couldn’t even blame it on the booze. He saw a shadow at the doorway and knew it was not one of us because he saw the form of a large man. The door slammed shut and then pieces of the wood overhang above him started falling off. What convinced him though was that each piece, as it fell, headed directly at him. The entire incident only lasted about ten seconds, but when done he required over thirty stitches.

For the next two months, there were little incidents, but nothing serious. Small things like lights going off and on, and we could actually see the light switch going up and down, articles being put in one place and reappearing later somewhere else, usually in the refrigerator, and so on.

One day the owner of the property came to visit. We tried to tell him what was happening, but he got all huffy and told us if we wanted to move, we could go ahead and move, but he would hold three month’s rent. My father then demanded that he at least show us what was in the locked room or he would break down the door. By this time, we were convinced that the center of the problem was located behind that door.

The owner said fine and produced an unusual-looking key, shaped like an actual skeleton. It is the first time I ever wondered about the origin of the term skeleton key. We all followed him down, wanting to know what was there.

The opening was anticlimactic. It was not a large room, maybe ten by ten. The walls were lined with model trains. He told us that his father was an aficionado of trains and that it was his place of pride. The trains even worked, he told us, although he had not started them in a long time. He said his father had been very protective of the trains and spent many days, until his death, making hand carvings to go with the trains, and he ran the trains over and over again every day. It drove his mother crazy. We only found out after we moved that he meant literally, as his mother had been admitted to a hospital for psychiatric patients where she lived to the end of her days.

While my father was talking to him, I snuck past when the landlord wasn’t paying attention to get a closer look. What I saw shocked me. In each train, there was a sculpture of a person that I first thought was a plastic toy. But when I got close, I could see they were carefully carved of wood, painted, and had an almost real appearance. But each of the figures had a look of horror on their face. That was when the owner grabbed me by the shoulder and fiercely twisted me around, knocking me to the ground. My father was about to strike the man when he suddenly changed and helped me up, apologizing for his actions. He explained it away by saying the trains were delicate and he was afraid I would break them. He then pushed us out of the room and locked the door again, quickly leaving the house.

That night was scary. Doors were slamming all over the house, windows opening and closing on their own, the television starting up and then shutting down, and more. We would see the shadowy figure of a large man wandering from room to room. Every once in a while, we could hear his voice saying he would take care of all who had mocked him or tried to damage his trains.

The next day my father called in a friend who knows a little about the supernatural. He said we had a vindictive ghost and that if we didn’t cleanse the place we could be seriously hurt. Like we hadn’t already been. He claimed to have done some research at the local library looking through old news clippings. That he had discovered that the owner of the trains had died in this house. He had also been under investigation for the deaths of his co-workers when he had worked at the railway company but had never been charged.

My father’s friend then showed us copies of some of the articles he had read. I never said anything, but I recognized the pictures in the articles, the pictures of the people he was suspected of killing. I recognized them because I had seen those faces on the figures in the train!

He had come prepared though. Using white chalk, holy water, and reading from the Bible, he went from room to room. He used the chalk to make crosses at every window and door, reading a passage from the Bible each time and sprinkling holy water.

It all went well until he came to the door to the basement. It would not open. We used a screwdriver to pry it, a hammer to smash it, and any other tool we could find, but it would not open. Instead, he finished off by chalking a large cross on the door. He read passages from the Bible for over half an hour and sprinkled the holy water liberally over it. He then took a large padlock and ensured the door was secure before leaving the house.

That night we all slept in the living room. The banging on the basement door started at midnight and got louder and harder by the minute. Finally, my father had had enough. We packed up our things and went to a motel for the night. But as we were on the way out the door, a voice yelled, “If you ever return, you will become a permanent part of my collection.” The next day my father hired a company to go over and pack our things. The men that went there rushed through the packing as they said they felt fear their entire time there. When my father asked them about the basement door, they said there was none.

Later that week my father got a transfer and we moved to another city. Over the years, the fear and then the memories of that place faded until it just became a story.

I was in my late thirties when my parents passed in a car accident. It was at the service that my younger sister mentioned a memory about the house. She was only eight at the time and had vague memories of it. It was left to me to tell the tale, and I kind of made a comedy about it. But it got me thinking, and that was my mistake and what has led me to today.

My curiosity had gotten the better of me. I had to know what had happened to the house. Google solved nothing, so I traveled the two hundred miles to that city.

My first stop was the local library, looking through their computers for any and all news from local papers about the property. It took some digging, but I found information that surprised me. The first article was about a family who had lived there right after us. It was a family of five with three very young children. While they lived there, one of the children went missing and was never found. The police claimed that there had been a child molester in the area and he had probably snuck into the house and taken the child. The mother though claimed otherwise. She said there was a ghost in the house and it was the ghost that claimed the child. She said a voice told her that her child was to help the ghost play with his trains. Eventually, she was admitted to the local hospital and ended up sharing a room with the mother of the landlord.

The father though wanted revenge. He sent the other two children to live with his parents and one night snuck back into the house and set it on fire, burning it to the ground. He of course was arrested and jailed for arson, but the story goes that as the police took him away, he had a big smile on his face.

By the time the fire had been put out, there was little left of the place. The city ordered the remainder of the building to be demolished, and when done, they dug up what was left and carted it away.

In another article, there was an interview with a fireman who had been there that night. He told a story of a shadow moving around and taking something out, but no one believed him as the fire had been too intense for even the firemen to get close.

I decided to drive over to the place to see what was left. I had some trepidation, but I was also a very logical person who did not believe in the supernatural, despite my own experiences and the fact that a lot of my novels include tales of the paranormal. I would not let some dumb feeling get in the way of what could be an interesting story to write about. Maybe it will be featured in my next novel.

It was only a ten-minute drive, but when I got there, I didn’t recognize anything. Most of the homes that were on that street when I lived there had long since been torn down and replaced by condos. Even the land where the house used to be was a condo building. It was quite a letdown.

I spent a few minutes walking around, trying to place exactly where the house had stood, as the condo building encompassed a large area that used to be where at least five houses once stood. For some reason, I kept being drawn to one area. It was a little courtyard where it looked like the developer had decided to build around that spot. At the center was a small bush that had long since died, but had never been replaced. When I got to the spot I just knew that at this exact spot almost three decades ago, was where the room with the trains had been.

Is this all that is left, I wondered, but for some reason, I said it out loud and finished by calling it by name, the house with the owner’s name. I couldn’t begin to understand why I did that, but maybe it was because it wanted me to. What scared me though was that there was a response.

“I told you that if you ever returned, you would become a permanent part of my collection.”

There was no one around that could have said those words. For the first time since I left that house as a thirteen-year-old, I felt genuine fear. I turned and ran as fast as I could, jumped into my car, and peeled rubber like I was a teen again.

Once I was well away from the place, I began to wonder if it had all been a part of my imagination. I write scenes like this in my books. Maybe I just wanted to hear something to have a new story to write about. But deep down inside I knew that wasn’t what happened.

It took some digging, but I was able to locate the phone number and address of our old landlord from that time. He still lived and was only a few miles away. I decided not to give him a warning but just stop in. I was afraid he would refuse to speak with me.

I pulled up in front of a small townhome that matched the address I had located. Sitting in a rocking chair on the front porch was an older man. It took me a moment to realize that it was him. My memory was of a much younger person, but I was thirteen at the time.

I got out of my car and walked up the driveway. He watched me as I approached but didn’t make a move to go back into the house. He surprised me though when I got to the steps.

“You had to go back there didn’t you.” He made it more like a statement than a question.

“How do you know who I am?” I asked.

“I recognize all his potential victims,” was the answer I never wanted to hear.

“You knew and you rented the house to us anyway?”

He looked at me with sadness in his eyes. Then I saw he had tears running down his face.

“I didn’t know he could still kill after he was dead, or I would have burnt that place and his trains into ashes long ago. I spoke to the fireman who was at the fire and he described exactly what my father looked like, and what he had in his hands as he walked out of the blaze. Of course, no one but me believed him. My father was a man of pure evil. He is the one who drove my mother crazy and almost did the same to me. I was so happy when he died, in that room he loved so much. I thought it was all over then. I was wrong. He took those trains somewhere else and if I knew where I would tell you.”

“What do you mean when you said I had to go back there?”

“I felt his presence as soon as you pulled up. He will come for you soon. He will make you just another passenger in his train like he has to dozens of others. I am sorry but there is nothing anyone can do about it.”

“There must be something I can do. A priest, a fortune teller, or even the police.”

“The last victim died in a church talking with a priest. Another died in the presence of a gypsy fortune teller. One even died in jail. All under mysterious circumstances. No, there is nothing you can do but go home and make your arrangements. He usually comes on the third night after he has told you he would claim you. I am sorry.” With that, the man went into his house and closed the door, refusing to answer my repeated knockings.

The next two days I did everything I could think of. I went to see a priest who told me I should go see a psychiatrist. I surfed the net, looking for any hint of a defense. I stocked up on all the crystals, oils, crosses, and whatever else I could find that anyone even hinted would offer protection.

Now I sit in my chair with my laptop awaiting the inevitable. I can hear him coming. For the last two nights, he has whispered in my ear that my time was almost up. Tonight is the night. I can feel his presence getting closer. I will type what is happening as long as I can in the hope that when my body is found someone will believe the truth. But I will not mention his name or the name of the house. I will not take the chance of condemning another person to what I am about to suffer. My locked door has just opened. I think my time has come.

---

“This was the last story your brother wrote before he passed. I thought you would like to have it. Your brother had quite the imagination.” The police officer handed a copy of the file they had found on the laptop next to the body, to the sister of the man they had found.