I Lived In a Haunted House


No, really. I used to live in a haunted house.

A friend of mine on Twitter, author Aaron Clayton, posted a question on Twitter the other day. He was wanting to know whether or not his followers believed in ghosts. I had to chime in as I know, first hand, that ghosts are real. As I said before, I used to live in a haunted house.

When I was about 14/15, my parents moved us into a little apartment building. When I say little, I’m talking about an old house that had been converted into an apartment complex. There were a total of 4 apartments in the whole place; 2 upstairs and 2 downstairs. My parents and I lived in the back basement apartment and some friends of theirs lived in the front part. My brother and his wife were living in the front upstairs apartment, but the back upstairs space was empty. Nothing seemed out of the normal. That was soon to change.

About a year after we’d moved in, my sister and her husband moved into the back upstairs apartment. It was the smallest one in the whole place. A single bedroom, the kitchen and living room were pretty much one space, and a bathroom that had originally been a closet. It was tiny. But it’s what happened after they’d moved in that caught our attention.

It didn’t seem like much at first. When they first moved in, little things just seemed to get misplaced. My mom’s car keys, the neighbor kids’ school books, one of my sister-in-law’s glass unicorns. Nothing major, just enough to keep all of us wondering what the hell was going on. Because we were all basically one big happy family, we were always in each other’s apartments. I thought the 2 boys who lived in the other basement apartment, both of who were just a little younger than me, had had something to do with it. They were rotten kids, always in trouble.

However, the longer my sister and her husband lived in the apartment, the worse things got. My brother and sister-in-law crawled into their bed one night (a waterbed) and started feeling something scratchy on their bodies. They tried to play it off but said they just couldn’t get past it. They got up and discovered little slivers of glass strewn throughout the whole bed and not so much as a pinhole in the waterbed. They spent most of the rest of that night picking glass out of each other.

A couple of weeks later, I’d come home from school and found a huge mess in my bedroom. My parents had been gone all day, no one had been in the house. Even the dog had been out on her chain while we were gone. I walked into my room and found that everything that had been on top of my dresser had been thrown to the floor. It was like someone had just swept their arm across my dresser; cleaned it right off. Freaked me out.

Our dog, a little female Doberman, had always been great inside. But with my sister living in the upstairs apartment, right above ours, our dog became strange. She’d growl at the walls, run up and down the stairs as though chasing something or being chased, then she got mean.

My dad had a ton of houseplants. Even in a basement apartment, we had houseplants in just about every corner of our home.¬†We had to go out for something, one day. We left the dog in the house as it was cold outside. We’d done it a million times, no issues. This time, however, we came home to find that she’d destroyed every single plant in the apartment. There were torn up leaves and stems all over and piles of dirt everywhere. The dog was covered in it. My dad was pissed but said she looked “confused” like she had no idea what she’d done.

A few days later, she destroyed my mother’s antique Bible collection. My mom had about a dozen very old Bibles. One of them had even been published in the 1890s. Our dog had completely destroyed all of them. Not just tore them up a little but shredded every one of them. There was nothing left to salvage. My mother was devastated.

Weird stuff continued in the whole building. My sister, sister-in-law, and I were starting to feel like we were being “touched”. Then, my sister and her husband found a new place and moved out of the apartment. Almost immediately, everything stopped. Our dog even seemed to calm down and was back to being her old self. That’s when my dad decided to do a little investigating.

It seems that sometime in the 40s or 50s, when the place was still a house, someone had committed suicide in the back bedroom. Apparently a teenaged son had hanged himself in his bedroom, which ended up becoming the back upstairs apartment. Once my dad found that out, it didn’t take him long to find us a new place to live. My brother and sister-in-law, the friends in the other downstairs apartment, and all of us in our apartment, found new homes. We never set foot in that place again.

I still drive past that place from time to time. It has since been completely remodeled and is a single-family unit again. I have no idea whether or not there’s still an entity dwelling within, but I’ll never forget the couple of years I spent living in a haunted house.

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay


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