by Terri Kleinberg

Created on: May 03, 2009   Last Updated: May 04, 2009

1995 I moved into a two-bedroom bungalow. Built in the late fifties by two brothers, it wasn't what I would have thought as a haunted house. In my vision, a haunted house is old and Gothic looking with turrets, mullioned windows, and a pointy roof. This house didn't fit my image. I had visited places that were said to hold ghosts. Some had no effect on me; others gave me the feeling of being watched. In one extreme case I felt there was an oily quality to the air and wanted to take a shower as soon as I left. Feeling none of these sensations, I never suspected I was moving into a haunted place. The breakfast nook was rather dark. Everyone who came through made a comment about this room, how this room was different from the rest of the house. This was the only part that seemed to have any uneasy feelings that attached to it.

One of my friends gave me a print of pink flamingos as a joke. He hung it on the peachy colored wall of the dining room. The colors clashed, to say the least, and my intention was to take it down quickly, but everyone wanted to see the back yard. We went out to look at the herb garden and the roses as well as the small pasture. When we came inside the picture was smashed on the floor. The glass was all over the place and as we cleaned it up, we all agreed it must not have been hung securely. I left the wall blank for a couple of days.

On Wednesday morning I decided to hang a painting there because I can't abide an empty nail in a blank wall. I chose a very nice oil of a dilapidated rowboat on a shore. My boyfriend, for want of a better term, and I left for work, I dropped him off at his job and picked him up to come home, in the evening. On walking into the house we found the painting was face up on the dining room table, which was a good six feet from the wall. I asked him if he took it down. He looked at me as if I were out of my mind then pointed out we left the house together that morning and returned together that night. It was ten miles from his work and he had no car, when did I think he could have done this? I admitted he was right. We were in a hurry to go someplace and the subject was tabled until I had time to think about it.

A few days later, I was in the house alone and I heard someone walk from the dining room down the hall and into the bathroom. Looking out of the door of my bedroom, I saw no one. The hall appeared to be empty, as did the bath at the end of the hall. A window in the bathroom allowed light to filter through the

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