I begin my story where a part of my life has been left
off. Now as unusual as this may seem, I have but a select
few true memories from my childhood. Notice how I use the
word “true”; I consider all the others to be just horrible
illusions of my past. To me, they never happened. But I do
remember my home.
One may be confused that of all things, I remember a house
rather than a family picnic at the beach, flying kites on
a breezy, clear day, or going to the park and playing tag
with my friends. And it is sad to know that for some odd
reason I do not remember my mother, either. From the time
I was small all I knew were the yells and shouts that came
from my parents’ room as they argued over our many family
issues. I became confused and disoriented on this constant
roller coaster of emotions; with all the hurt and anger my
parents produced for me that moved along with the love and
happiness I received from them.
Maybe that is why I have long ago chosen to block happy
memories from my young mind. What does that leave? Bad
memories. Simply all that is there are bad memories of my
childhood home and nothing else. But because of this house
being a very unique one, it would have been just as
memorable to someone even without all of the negative
family life. I will never forget it. If you promise not
to laugh, I will tell you why. So as I travel through my
thoughts I will try to recover as much memories as
possible, though they may be pessimistic, they are still
my past. My name is Julianne, I am 14 years of age, and
this is my story.
Clarence Avenue was a simple street in a simple town with
simple people, to put it simply. During the day it was
sunny and lively; people were always taking walks,
watering their lawns, or out in their backyards. Our
neighbors were friendly and talkative. The houses
themselves were beautiful: most were older and larger
homes that had been built during the early 20th century,
with porches and unique structures. But of all the
dwellings, one stood out the most.
This residence was the one situated directly across from
the church, maybe a little to the right. It was made of
brick, while most of the other houses appeared to be wood
or some other form of cheap material and this one was red
at that, while most other homes were a dull blue or gray.
It looked grand and mysterious, defiantly spacious; but
there was just something that stuck out about this
particular house from the others. It gave off some kind of
special feeling. Maybe it was the large, stone staircase
that led to the door, or the magnificent detailing in the
outer limestone filled with curves, lines, and shapes. Or
maybe this feeling emerged from the gorgeous stain-glass
windows that extend along the sides of the home.
The interior itself was just as beautiful and unique as
the exterior, with oak woodwork and the early-twenties
look it produced. As soon as you step in the front door it
feels as though you’ve stepped back in time. This was 3323
South Clarence Avenue, my home.
My family lived here for eleven years. From the
time I was one to when I was 12 years old, I grew up in
this magnificent house with my father and sister, Teresa,
who is two years younger than me. I loved this house and
yet hated it, as messed up as that may sound. Actually,
sadly enough, I can prove it is possible. Let me take you
back in time, maybe four or so years…
I am once again 10 years old. It’s a warm and dark
summer night as I lay in bed. My father and sister are
already asleep and the whole house is eerily still and
quiet. My room is hot, pitch black and I sigh with
nervousness as I routinely sit still under the covers. I
am just waiting for that familiar sound that comes every
midnight to constantly haunt me and awake me from my
slumber. I begin to dose and my eyes start to close when
suddenly I hear it.
I instantly open my eyes again with terror. It’s creeping
and creaking up the stairs, one step at a time. Creak,
Crick Crick. Creeeaak. It slowly reaches the top of the
stairs and proceeds down the hallway. Beads of sweat
trickle down my stiffening, frightened face. My fear
grows. Creeak, Creeak. It moves its way past the master
bedroom and towards mine until I hear it stop abruptly at
my doorway. There is a minute of pause and my whole body
becomes as stiff as a board. I clench the blankets while
praying it goes away. But it doesn’t end. Creak, Crick.
Creak, Crick. It continues in a circular motion around my
bedroom then stops at my bed. Silence. I close my eyes
tight and hold my breath, waiting under the hot and humid
covers. I am unbelievably petrified. What is it going to
do now? “Just stay still; don’t move. Don’t breathe. Wait
for it to leave. Oh god, just don’t move,” I think to
myself. The thing stays by me for a few more horrid
minutes, and then leaves, creaking down the hallway
towards my sister’s room, until I can no longer hear it.
Creak, crick, creak crick.
I am so hot and still afraid. My breathing slows and I
begin to relax again but still worry whether or not it was
going to come back, until I eventually fall into a deep
and uneasy sleep.
This occurred every night at the exact time, for
about fifteen minutes at a time, and never stopped. Not
once. Whatever it was, I felt that it either was aware of
me, or just going about business. I still question though,
why would it stand right next to my bed, right next to
me? The question haunts me today as much as the thing
itself did then.
About the troubled background of the house: not
many good things happened then either. It was built in
1921 by a man who owned a stone company, which would
probably clarify the stone all about my distinctive abode.
He was well off and created this marvelous four-story
home.
All I know is that it had at least twenty rooms in it, and
among these rooms, one terrified me the most. It was in
our basement, which was to begin with scarier than the
rest of the home. Of the four small basement rooms that
came off the hallway and two larger rooms, this one had a
thin, red door. I always thought of it as a barn door,
because it resembled those on the red farm houses I’d
seen, due to the fact that it was made of wood boards,
with a small latch on the side.
Within, the room had peeling “sailor” wallpaper with
pictures of boats and anchors, and revealed underneath,
the aged brick walls. Sitting there against the wall was
an old bed with a wooden, black frame and worn-down red
mattress. Supposedly, this is where the African-American
maid’s younger brother had slept. This room had an odd,
creepy atmosphere. It was peculiarly mysterious; to me, it
was somewhat of a treasure room. I found an antique toy
airplane, wood golf clubs from the 1920’s, and a small
metal treasure chest-bank with a pirate and skull painted
on it, all in that single room. The space still always
terrifies me and caused me to form the most unexplainable,
horrific feeling I have ever felt. I refused to ever step
foot in the haunted room alone in fear that something may
happen to me.
The original owner died in that house, his coffin was
dragged in through the porch window, and his wake was held
in the front living room. Till this day, there are two
small chunks of stone missing outside the window ledge
where it was chipped off because of the coffin.
The previous owners who sold my parents the house were an
elderly couple. They had painted the rooms black and red
and placed pictures of fighting bulls on the walls. The
woman was half-way insane, going out on the balcony and
cursing loudly at bystanders walking to church. She had
written notes on paper about Satan and stapled them into
the wood surrounding the doorways amongst every room of
the dwelling. There was always a red socket plate behind
the couch and a single rusted staple in my doorway.
My younger sister and I would hear the occasional
whispers. Teresa once confessed recently that she heard a
woman speaking or having a conversation with another
person, while she was going about her bedroom. She has
also seen a single eye suspended in mid air. Teresa has
always had a wild imagination and was young at the time,
but now I believe her story. After all the things I saw,
naturally I would believe such a wild account.
Teresa had been around three or four at the time, moving
around uneasily in her bed that night for she couldn’t
find a restful sleep. She turned to and from facing the
pink wall of her bedroom and to the other side again, when
she unexpectedly noticed something. It was an eye floating
in the air, staring straight at her. She claimed that it
was glaring, if you will; an eye hovering in her face, and
all she did was gaze right back at the object. After
staying for minutes, it plainly blinked and disappeared.
Ever since that night, she never dared come up from under
the covers after the lights were turned out, and refused
to be exposed or look about her bedroom. The eye was green…
a bright green eye that stares and disappears would
honestly scare a three year old to death. Till this day,
Teresa sleeps under the covers because it became habit
while living in that home.
I heard the murmurs. I would hear a voice saying my
name, “Juli”, in my ear. Not next to me, but directly in
my ear. It occurred rarely but I remember the happenings
vividly. I was constantly horrified. But I learned to deal
with it.
I never could comprehend the gloomy, creepy atmosphere the
whole house cast upon me. As I continued to grow older and
more mature in my home, I learned that these haunting
presences were not really harmful, but were rather just
there. That’s all it became: another charisma of my
beautiful residence. I got used to the odd incidences and
came to live more comfortably with them, until it came
time to move.
I was not happy at all by the move because I felt that
this was my home, and the horrible family buying it from
us was stealing it. I did not like them at all. I was mad
that I had lived here for 11 whole years; this is where my
memories are, and here I was getting my childhood home
taken away from me. These people were meddlesome, unkind,
and rude for forcing my family and me to leave. I had
grown up with the house, learned so much, and experienced
an even more intense level of feelings and happenings than
ever before in my life. But maybe it was time for me to
learn something for the last time, for it was then when I
first experienced my true encounter with one of the
spirits.
Let me take you back once more…
I am twelve years old. It is a cool and dark July
evening, a little less than a month before the move, as I
sit on my bed going through my belongings and placing them
in boxes. I have been organizing and packing my room for
the majority of the day, so I was growing tiresome. My
father and Teresa were downstairs watching T.V. therefore
I was alone on the third floor. Lately, I have grown up;
not many creepy things have happened for a while for I
have now been wandering the basement and different levels
of the home by myself, which I would never have done a
year ago. I was sorting through old toys when I was struck
by the most distinct feeling that someone was watching me.
It came from the doorway, I felt, so I slowly turned my
head upwards to see whom or what was there. It most
certainly was not a member of my family, and was not
a “whom”…it was what I have feared seeing all my life up
until now. The spirit was see-through, as most people
would imagine them to be, and blurry. All I could make out
was a hazy outline of what looked like its body. A man, I
believe. A man that was wearing old clothing, had brown
hair, and…green eyes. A sudden burst of light actually
came from the center of the figure right at me…I could not
ever explain it. I was stricken with panic as it stood
there in my doorway. I was still sitting, silent and
rigid, staring directly at the form, my mouth open, hands
still holding the single toy I was about to place in the
brown box. So, I followed my instincts; I ran.
You see, it is rather hard when you need to run away from
something terrifying and possibly harmful, and you can’t.
It was standing right in my doorway! I had no choice.
Honestly, that was the fastest I have ever run to this
day. I was as fast as those professional Olympic runners.
As I ran through it, I could not breathe. It wasn’t until
after I dashed down the stairs as fast as lightening and
was sprinting into the living room I could gasp for air,
for the spirit took my ability to exhale completely. When
I went through, I breathed in, but couldn’t. It was the
most unusual sensation.
My father and sister suddenly exclaimed, “What happened,
why are you running,” for I had made so much noise while
booming down the stairway. I told them why. I told them
exactly what happened, and as I did, I was still shaking
from fear. I never went anywhere in that house alone again
for the remainder of time we stayed.
My father didn’t believe me. He made up an excuse
like, “Oh, that light was probably reflecting through the
window off the cars outside and you couldn’t breathe
because you were so scared.” No. I knew what I saw and
felt, and he could never understand. Teresa, on the other
hand, believed me. With every word of my story, she
believed me.
Today, two years after seeing the ghost, I still
believe. I think a part of me stayed with the house. Don’t
take my tale wrong though, because 3323 S. Clarence was
just as marvelous as it was horrible. I can now recall
playing dolls with my sister in the middle of the hallway,
eating pizza and watching movies in the living room with
my family, washing our car in the backyard and playing
with the soap suds, and those beautiful Sunday mornings
when I could hear the church bells ringing and the sun’s
warm rays always gleamed in through the windows. That
house kept my family safe, kept us warm, and for the
majority of the time, happy. My parents fought and
divorced in that home. My younger sister was born in that
home, and we all grew up together in that home. Since
then, I think my sister has matured more than me. She no
longer believes in what happened…she lost faith. I still
and always will believe. I loved that house.
And so, I will leave my memories where they are
and belong; 3323 S. Clarence Ave. I will let the house
take care of them as it took care of me. I can finally let
go off the bad ones for I have completed what I needed to
for so long. That part of my childhood has now been
filled. And I now can make room for new and better things;
I finally have the ability to keep the good experiences
and fun times permanently glued in my mind to be treasured
and recollected upon. As I continue on in this journey of
life, I will gather new memories and thoughts, will
discover new homes, and learn so much more. I can now
remember what I want to, without reminiscences haunting
and torturing me. And, above all things, I have finally
realized that….I have not grown apart from my home; I have
grown with it.
-“A house is not a home, until it has love.”
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