For those of you wondering, yes, Iam the daughter mentioned in Lisa’s book, OnHaunted Ground. Ghosts, and ghost stories, have been a “normal” part of myentire life. I’ve prided myself on being far less jumpy, harder to startle, andjust generally cooler than most of my peers. J When my husband and I bought our firsthouse several years ago, I knew before signing the papers that we werepurchasing a haunted house. But since I spent my entire childhood in one, Ifigured that it would be fun. I was wrong. Our dream home was…well…a mess. Butwe could afford it, so it was still dreamy. At first. Before we could move in,we had to do some major renovations. Aside from the fact that the home had satempty for years, the previous owner was a heavy smoker, and not overlyinterested in home maintenance. I thought that some opened windows and a freshcoat of paint would be all we needed to make the house livable.
Even though I could feel theincreasingly agitated spirit of what I now believed to be a grumpy old man, Istarted complaining; loudly. As a carpenter’s daughter, I’d been around my fairshare of home projects, and I could tell pure laziness when I saw it. It seemedlike every shortcut the previous owner (which I strongly suspected was mycurrent ghost) made caused me even more work. I ended up taking several days offwork to dedicate to our new home. Since my husband was working, I was alonemost of the time. Yet there was an unmistakable, angry presence following mearound. Even after I stopped muttering to myself about the house’s condition, Icould feel him. Always following, always angry. More than once I had to leave,just to get away from him. The air would get so thick I could hardly breathe,and I’d have to fight down a wave of panic. The worst times almost always camewhen I was working in a small bathroom, just across from the master bedroom.I’d get dizzy, short of breath, and terrified. On more than one occasion, I wasconvinced there was actually someone in my bathtub, even though I could clearlysee it was empty. Finally, while painting the walls, it hit me: someone died inhere. In the bathtub. Now, I’ve never experienced a heart attack, but if what Ifelt that day was even a shadow of the real thing, I hope I never, ever, haveone. But, I’d lived with ghosts all mylife. I could do this. With most of the major work done, myhusband and I moved in to our new home. Since he wasn’t nearly as comfortablewith ghosts, I chose not to mention my experiences to him, hoping it would calmdown now that the construction was over. It didn’t. Moving our stuff in seemed to enrageour ghost far more than griping about his style and home repair skills. Hedidn’t like where we put the T.V., our new dining room light, or anything aboutmy things being in his cabinets. As I started loading closets andcabinets, I could feel him behind me, seething. But I chose to ignore him,instead singing upbeat songs or planning my next home purchase. And then I sawhim. The only way I can describe this isthat I saw him in my head. He wasn’t physically there, but he was real all thesame. He started jumping out at me from around corners, slamming doors on me,hissing, and even creeping around my bed at night. And the most bizarre thingwas that he looked very much like Gollum, from the Lord of the Rings movies. Now he had my full attention. Itried talking to him, explaining that we were making the home better, that wedidn’t mind sharing our space with him, anything I could think of, but itdidn’t calm him at all. Then my husband confessed. One night before bed, he marchedacross the hall and slammed the bathroom door. “I can’t take it.” He grumbled.“He won’t quit staring at me.” After talking for a while I realized that he hadbeen picking up on our housemate as well, and that he was thoroughly freakedout. We didn’t know what to do. We’d already poured all of our money in thishouse, so we couldn’t just leave, but we were scared in our own home. Later that night I was jerked awake.“I saw him.” My husband hissed. Instantly, I was up. I hadn’t mentioned myimpressions on what this man looked like earlier in the evening. But as Ilistened, he described exactly what I’d seen. Except he’d seen a physicalapparition, glowing in the hall. But instead of scaring us into leaving, ourpoor ghost just made us mad. He couldn’t have picked two worsepeople to intimidate. I had been around ghosts all my life, and my husband isthe most suborn man on the face of the planet, so we just dug our heels in,ignoring the flashing lights, slamming doors, missing belongings, and grotesqueface that liked to pop out of nowhere. And then something major happened. Ifound out I was pregnant. About the time my “momma bear” instincts kicked in,our ghost tried to scare me while I was planning the nursery room. So I did thesane, logical, thing. I yelled at him. A lot. I informed him that he was dead, andthat this was my house. If he didn’tlike it, he was more than welcome to leave. Then I told him that the room wewere standing in was my baby’s roomand that he would not bother eitherone of us. I had no idea what I planned to doto back up those threats, but fortunately, I didn’t need to. I seemed to havefound a language he understood, because he hasn’t bothered me since. Oh, he’s still here. I’ve seen hisreal face now. He’s still a skinny, withered, old man, but he’s just a grump,not a terrifying monster. I feel him hanging around, watching myhome-improvement projects carefully, waiting for me to take a shortcut, Iimagine. And he actually seems to like my son. I’ve caught my little boybabbling and making faces at an empty chair more than once, and one time, lateat night, I heard an old man’s voice coming from the nursery, talking aboutmodern baby toys. After making sure there was no physical old man in my baby’s room, Idecided that we may have finally come to an acceptable living arrangement. Myhusband, however, still insists that we keep the bathroom door closed atnight. J
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