by Bella

Created on: February 11, 2007   Last Updated: April 30, 2007

THE HOUSE ON SECOND STREET

I moved into a haunted house when I was eight years old. My mother had passed away, my father remarried and we moved up the coast to another small town in New Jersey. The house we moved into was a "century home" as determined by some research conducted by a local organization and we had the appropriate plaque displayed beside our front door.

Well this century home had some stories to tell. Being a haunted house it was not necessarily scary, except for the cellar. There was an old sand cellar and a covered well behind a closed door my new sister and I were never allowed to open. She assured me in the greatest confidence that someone had drowned in that well and that's why it was now boarded over. Try as I might to inform my new mother that her house was haunted, she strictly denied my "signs" as the childish imaginings of a young girl whose mom has recently passed away. Much to my dismay, my Dad held with her opinion of my "feelings".

I felt a presence in certain rooms of the house that could make the hair on the back of my neck stand up. A feeling that took every ounce of will my small self had not to run screaming from the room. Although on a few occasions I did just that. After all, I ended up growing up in that house for the next ten years. One of these heart- racing moments happened late one summer night when a girlfriend and I having a sleep over thought we would have a bit of fun pool hopping. We are at the crucial point in making our escape-through the dining room, the room just off my parents' bedroom when the organ in the corner of the room turned on and played a chord! The two of us tripped over each other running back to my bedroom. We held onto each other and shook and cried for what felt like hours. Neither of us went to sleep for the rest of the night. For the rest of my years in that house is slept with a night light on. To this day we recount that story and most are hesitant to believe us, but it matters not because it was the real deal.

Over the years other small things, mainly I would hear muted voices in the background, like a group of people having a party may sound many mixed pieces of conversation. The living room was the worst. I used to have to practice my piano lessons on a beautiful baby grand in the living room for an hour per day for at least seven years to someone I could never see. At times the feeling was so frightening I would leave the room-pretending I was unafraid for the benefit of the "spirit" and also for my unbelieving mother.

It was not until years later at some family gathering we were sharing stories and I started to talk about the house on Second Street. "Remember Mom how I insisted that place was haunted, I cannot believe you never felt it" I said. "Oh, I knew it was haunted, but you were a kid and you would have never slept again" she replied. She did not know the source of the haunting for sure, but the most recent owner of the mysterious organ in the dining room was her late husband who had died of a heart attack while playing it. As for the voices and the person in the living room, she had no ideas. She did however confirm my fears about my ever constant companion during my childhood piano practices. She knew for example that the daughter of her best friend as a baby could never sleep in that room. When together for an afternoon visit many times they would try to put her down for a nap in the living room, but when they left her alone there, she would awake wailing in moments. My childhood fears confirmed a mere 20 years later.

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