Life among the Spirits
I once lived in a haunted house. At least it had the reputation of being a haunted house.
When my roommates and I moved in, we noticed the neighbors staring at us, and none of them would come to visit. We also heard women’s voices late at night, but that wasn’t too unusual since one of my roommates was so good-looking (he made Brad Pitt look like Homer Simpson) he always had women with him in his room. Since his bed was next to a heating duct, we could hear every pant, moan and scream. Sometimes, when we had nothing better to do, we’d just listen to him and write down a blow-by-blow description (so to speak) of that night’s conquest.
This good-looking guy and another roommate eventually got to where they couldn’t get along. At that point, their stuff (stereo, a bowling ball etc.) went missing, and each blamed the other.
One night, we were watching Saturday Night Live when we heard women’s voices coming from the basement. We couldn’t make out any words, but we assumed our resident Casanova had notched a double conquest on his belt, and for some reason took them downstairs instead of to his room. But he surprised us all when he and his date walked into the house. They listened to the mysterious voices along with us.
We later did some spring-cleaning, and we eventually went to tackle the basement. We had pretty much finished everything except for a closet that was blocked by a heavy bureau. We had never gone in there, of course, but we figured it must be dusty. So three of us moved the bureau, opened the closet, and found the stereo, the bowling ball, and all the other missing items that were believed stolen.
That summer, we got a visit from a friend of ours who worked at the local historical society. As soon as she entered, she gasped, “You guys live in this house?”
“Yeah,” I said. “What’s wrong with this house?”
“It’s haunted.”
She then told us about the history of the house. Its first owner was a wealthy, adulterous doctor, who bought it sometime around 1890. One day, his mistress came over while he was away. The wife let her in. The mistress promptly took out a revolver gunned down the wife, and then called the doctor on the telephone to tell him what she had done. The doctor told her to wait there for him. When he arrived, he shot the mistress to death.
Because of its notoriety, the house had never been sold. In fact, our landlord was the doctor’s great-great nephew, who inherited it upon his father’s death in 1974.
When my roommates and I moved in, we noticed the neighbors staring at us, and none of them would come to visit. We also heard women’s voices late at night, but that wasn’t too unusual since one of my roommates was so good-looking (he made Brad Pitt look like Homer Simpson) he always had women with him in his room. Since his bed was next to a heating duct, we could hear every pant, moan and scream. Sometimes, when we had nothing better to do, we’d just listen to him and write down a blow-by-blow description (so to speak) of that night’s conquest.
This good-looking guy and another roommate eventually got to where they couldn’t get along. At that point, their stuff (stereo, a bowling ball etc.) went missing, and each blamed the other.
One night, we were watching Saturday Night Live when we heard women’s voices coming from the basement. We couldn’t make out any words, but we assumed our resident Casanova had notched a double conquest on his belt, and for some reason took them downstairs instead of to his room. But he surprised us all when he and his date walked into the house. They listened to the mysterious voices along with us.
We later did some spring-cleaning, and we eventually went to tackle the basement. We had pretty much finished everything except for a closet that was blocked by a heavy bureau. We had never gone in there, of course, but we figured it must be dusty. So three of us moved the bureau, opened the closet, and found the stereo, the bowling ball, and all the other missing items that were believed stolen.
That summer, we got a visit from a friend of ours who worked at the local historical society. As soon as she entered, she gasped, “You guys live in this house?”
“Yeah,” I said. “What’s wrong with this house?”
“It’s haunted.”
She then told us about the history of the house. Its first owner was a wealthy, adulterous doctor, who bought it sometime around 1890. One day, his mistress came over while he was away. The wife let her in. The mistress promptly took out a revolver gunned down the wife, and then called the doctor on the telephone to tell him what she had done. The doctor told her to wait there for him. When he arrived, he shot the mistress to death.
Because of its notoriety, the house had never been sold. In fact, our landlord was the doctor’s great-great nephew, who inherited it upon his father’s death in 1974.
posted by X. Dell at 10:01 AM
4 Comments:
The Dead, they're always causing trouble, those bastards.
Wrong gender in this case.
Actually, the voices never bothered us. And frankly, since it wasn't my stereo or bowling ball involved, I couldn't have cared less.
X Dell, you and me see eye-to-eye on this ghost thing.
I used to try to contact them as a teenager with automatic writing techniques, but back then I lived in a very old house, and I was very bored.
When I did find something, it just drew portraits of me (fairly accurate ones) over and over again.
Ghosts don't bother me much--what are they gonna do? Boo me to death? Steal my bowling ball?
I've never actually understood why people are afraid of ghosts either, Sukes. After all, what can they do? Kill you? Then you'll be on equal footing. What's worse: you'll be pissed.
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