I can think of several strange things I could recount, and some ended up having unexpected religious import, though occurred at times of my life
wherein religion played little to no immediate conscious role, which in itself, is intriguing, but regarding the strictly traditional supernatural
element, I spent much of my youth in a rural region, and often in houses of great age and obscured history. Two of them I recall as being veritable
hotbeds of uncanny activity that righteously freaked my family and I out, and we lived in one of these historic homes immediately before moving to the
other, though I do not think whatever caused the events in the one home, followed us to the next, and the geographical regions were also distinct, but
not too distant.
So, the first one. It was a stately farmhouse built on a field along a highway; stately and farmhouse seem incongruent terms, though this place was
not so rustic, but also not entirely elegant. It eerily had all of the original doors and door fixtures (latches, not handles, even on exterior doors,
but in that case, with modern locks and bolts added--those latches that lift and tightly fit or rest or drop into/onto a hook that juts out of the
door frame--not at all secure, and somewhat of a bitch to actually open and close). When my brother and I would go to school, my stepfather to work,
and my mother would often remain at home through the day, we would return to her reports of these latches moving on their own (again, really
frustrating to open, though not secure, they often stick in their rest/latch, and the place was really drafty and had coldspots we soon identified as
being the freaky coldspot sort associated with hauntings). My mom was really freaked out, but chocked it up to just a draft pushing an otherwise
insecurely latched latch open and pushing that door open, whichever one it might be that day.
She said one day, though, the basement door (our basement in this creepy farmhouse, quite in the middle-of-nowhere, save for its lone stretch of
highway linking us to civilization--even to get to school, my step-dad had to drive us to the nearest schoolbus stop, and even so, long before it
would even arrive, to make it feasible--the area was that remote; the basement was a full story/you could stand up and walk around, but had a
dirt/rock floor, and three-foot thick, solid stone walls, with no mortar, just the original fieldstones piled for about 250 years on their ends to
serve as the home's foundation; naturally, it had some leaks, some critters, and an overall nasty, negative atmosphere and ambience--we all detested
ever having to venture down their. Its stairs were entered from the kitchen, where my mother would often be during the day when we were away. She
called my step-dad hysterical, claiming the latched (and blocked) basement door, flew open as she was cooking that afternoon, and knocked-over the
heavy garbage can we always kept in front of it (a mix of practical use of limited space, and our mutual though unspoken fear of this damned door).
That summer (we had lived there a few years, but the summer following my mother witnessing this aggressively-opening door, from which emitted an
inexplicable gush of wind from the otherwise stagnant basement--it had no windows, and was entirely subterranean, with its bare stone walls and dirt
floor), I was in my bed in my room upstairs, reading in the early evening, just around sunset. I had been recovering from a cold, but entirely lucid,
and not light-headed or delirious, when, out of the corner of my ear, a fully-visible, glowing, transparent woman in a late-19th Century, early 20th
Century nightgown, seemingly, glided into my room (my door was open, viewing onto the hall adjacent, which connected to the stairs above those leading
to our haunted cellar), and she did no look at me or interact. It was like a retrocognitive haunting, a sort of replaying of an embedded event or
memory the house had. She glided over to my dresser, placed her hands on it, then vanished, as if it were her room and she were prepping for bed.
The other major incident at this farmhouse (which, we came to learn from its owners next door from whom we were renting, the husband of which was in
his 80s and had grown-up in our haunted house, told us several dozen horse corpses were all over the property from its former use as an active
farm--it also had a huge, very creepy barn out back, that always made me so ill-at-ease I would stop breathing out of fear being in it), was when I
moved away for a year to live with my father in a distant region of the country, the other side of the country, essentially. My mother reported that
the night I left, all photos of me, and only me, hanging in the living room on the walls, simultaneously crashed to the floor, and smashed, in front
of her, my brother, and my step-dad, with no apparent cause or force. It majorly startled them, of course. She told me no matter how many times she
would re-frame and re-hand my pictures, they would smash down, if she was in the room to witness it, or immediately after when she came in, hearing
the crash--and only portraits of me. She eventually just let them remain on the floor, propped against the walls from which they fell so violently.
We also found odd, rusted, broken farming equipment, including a scythe, and large iron spikes and nails, rising to the muddy surface during
rainstorms in our yard/adjacent fields. The large property also had a private forest/park out back, beyond the eerie barn--replete with a creepy
"camp" containing decades-old items covered in cobwebs, and a land bridge that always gave me the worst feeling in my stomach and chest as I walked
The house to which we moved after this farmhouse, was a more rustic farmhouse in a nearby rural region, and one becoming more developed and with
increased infrastructure. Our "new" house was immediately between every off-/on-ramp onto the new highway, and had little property left. The house
had an overgrown footpath that extended to nearby, dilapidated warehouses near abandoned railway tracks, and various, non-descript sheds in our small
yard. The house had a large front porch that went the width of the dilapidated facade, and we never used it, nor the front door to enter--we used the
side/back porch, only.
One evening, as I sat at the dinner table, finishing my meal as my mother, brother, and step-father had just finished theirs, the sun was still out,
it being summer, I could see across the large room, through the adjacent window onto the front porch facing me, near the steps on its side leading to
our small yard, the tall, black-clad figure of a man in a wide-brimmed black hat march heavily onto the porch from the yard. He looked into the window
right at me, but all I saw was his silhouette against the nearing sunset. His heavy footsteps plodded to our unused front door along the creaking
boards of the unused front porch. He stopped in front of it, and banged loudly, three distinct times. My mom ran downstairs, as we were not expecting
anyone, and all of our friends and relatives knew not to use the front door, since we used the side door always. Then, the man just disappeared--no
complementary heavy boot-steps to signal his departure, no one on the porch as we inspected it, and the porch was covered in cobwebs when we went
outside to check--cobwebs which this shadowy figure would have had to have passed through or brushed aside to walk onto and across the porch.
Moments later, once back inside, we heard a deafening boom shake the entire house, and what sounded like six or seven different, disembodied people,
march loudly on our upstairs floor above us--we were beneath, in the kitchen, shocked, and startled. My step-dad went upstairs to investigate all of
the ruckus, and no one, no animals, no vermin, no drafts or winds, no source of the stomping and several uninvited people could be seen or felt any
longer that same evening. Needless to say, my brother and I were terrified having to go upstairs to sleep in our rooms that night after the paranormal
events. My step-dad later told me this farmhouse was built on-top of an abandoned well or cistern in its cellar, and when he showed me, it was
peculiarly boarded-up, bolted-down, and chained-up, in the middle of the basement floor.
These are the most intense country living tales I can impart, but it seems each historic home in which we lived, however long or briefly, always had
some presence or several. I have noticed, especially in the tradition of ghost lore, whether real or imagined, that history ties spirits to places and
things, but why not recently-deceased entities? Does this imply there is some "turnaround time" before a spirit, exiting its worldly body, can roam
the other realm? And why do spirits attached to very old structures seem to linger, but not spirits of persons who died--naturally or violently--in
more modern structures seem to ever linger there? Have you any thoughts?