My Experiences Living in a Haunted House

The thought of living in a haunted house often sparks fear or a little skepticism. Many people don't believe it's possible, but I've lived in two. The experiences living in each house varied greatly.

The first haunted house I lived in belongs to my grandmother. When I was very little, my older cousin would try to scare me by telling me the house was haunted. He'd tell me it was Grandpa's ghost. I thought he meant that my grandfather was haunting the house, but he actually meant that the spirit belonged to my grandfather.

When my grandfather was alive, this spirit would massage his feet at the end of a long day. It would pull the covers up around him when he was asleep. It essentially took care of my grandfather, and occasionally rattled the pots and pans. When my grandfather passed away, we never gave much thought to the ghost. We never really experienced it anymore, or so we thought.

When we were downstairs, we'd always heard romping coming from the floor above. We always attributed it to the cats playing, but my grandmother hasn't had cats in years. However, the romping still goes on. It sounds as if there are about a dozen people stomping around upstairs.

I was never afraid in my grandmother's house. Even as a small child, I never felt threatened or uneasy. The spirit was simply there just like the table or the oven. They were parts of home.

When I was fourteen, my mother, brother, and I moved from my grandmother's house and into another smaller house. From the outside, the house was very cute and cozy looking, but the inside was anything but. It had three bedrooms and an attic loft. I wanted the loft as my bedroom, but my mother said we needed it for storage.

All went well for about a month, and then I started having this eerie feeling. I felt as if someone was watching me, even when I was home alone. I started looking over my shoulder every time I left a room. I even developed a fear of the dark. I didn't say anything to my mother about this because I thought I was just going crazy. Then one day she asked me if I'd ever heard someone mumbling in the loft.

I told her I had not, and I told her about my feeling of being watched. She told me she'd felt the same way. We lived in that house for less than a year. We moved shortly after my mother awoke to see an angry man standing over her bed.

The feelings this house evoked were very different from those of my Grandmother's house. It's been ten years since we moved, but I have never gotten over my fear of the dark.