Are ghosts real, or just our freaky imaginations?

Can we interact with a ghost through multiple senses, or just our 6th sense?

How do we develop our 6th sense and become good at relying on it? Is our 6th sense ever wrong?

Does someone have to die in a house for it to become haunted, or can a house just be the ghost’s home, a favorite spot perhaps, maybe a special place that it wants to protect… or possibly it’s simply trying to stay connected with friends and family members?

I lived in a haunted house for three long, frightening months. It was extremely terrifying despite the fact that it seemed like a friendly, protective ghost. I doubt I would have lasted a week if it had been an evil, spiteful spirit.

On the legitimacy scale of 1 – 10 , this ghost was an 11…

The old, red saltbox proudly graced the top of a notable hill on Main Street in one of Connecticut’s charming historic villages. It had been one of the first houses erected in town, approximately 1672. I was ambivalent about signing the lease – I’d noticed over the course of a year, that just like clockwork, every 3 months the “FOR RENT” sign reappeared in the front yard again. I couldn’t help but have a weird, nagging feeling in the deep recesses of my mind that perhaps the house was haunted. I even asked the landlord whether or not it was spooked. “Why do tenants move in and then out every 3 months?” … “Oh, they’re buying a house and just need a short term rental.” Hmm, maybe one tenant would rent for that reason. But every three months, really? I couldn’t help but feel a little suspicious. Without many other options though, I reluctantly took the plunge, signed the lease despite my apprehension, and secured a Uhaul.

Upon moving in, I was startled to see that the back door off the kitchen had been nailed shut. How peculiar, I thought at the time, annoyed that I couldn’t open it to move my furniture into the house, but instead had to use a very inconvenient narrow door that led through a screened porch along the back of the house.

A few weeks after unpacking the very last box, there was a dark, moonless night when I was sitting at the kitchen table working late. Completely engrossed in what I was doing, I was shocked to hear heavy booted footsteps, clonking at the back door. I glanced at the clock as I hustled to the impenetrable door, shrieking, “Who are you? Go away! I’m calling the police.” It was nearly midnight. I was now intensely grateful that the door had been nailed shut (it appeared that there were at least 100 thick, heavy two inch nails hammered around the frame in regular intervals).

The noisy thuds were not responsive to my threatening warnings. The more I screamed, the more the heavy Thump, Thump, Thump, Thumps continued. I finally had no choice but to dial 911.

As the police officer’s car slowly inched up the hill, stopping next to my car a few yards from the back porch door, the clomping abruptly halted. I was in disbelief. The heavy footsteps did not run away and grow fainter with distance until they eventually disappeared into the night… but rather they simply evaporated into the cool autumn mist, like a flip of a switch.

I was perplexed. How could this be?

The police weren’t eyeing me as if I was nuts the way I expected they might, as I described the alarming details of getting spooked. Oddly enough, they seemed to totally understand what I had gone through. They asked multiple probing questions, just as one would expect after calling 911. In fact, they spent upward to thirty minutes investigating the area that surrounded the house using their big, powerful flashlights.

“I found this,” one officer informed me after reappearing from his roam around the deep, dark, tangled back yard. He handed me my wallet. “It was on the driver seat of your car; the door was unlocked.”

I was baffled. How could this be? And yet I could actually picture myself being that forgetful considering how distracted I’d been when I arrived home with my five year old son after school that day. “You’ve been here before for the same reason, haven’t you?” I blurted. “It’s a ghost, isn’t it?”

The two police officers stood in silence neither confirming or denying. Finally one admitted, “Yes, we’ve received similar calls before. But hey, you found your missing wallet. That’s a good thing.”

I nodded, stupefied. Yes, it actually was a good thing. The officers soon bid their farewell and rolled back down the hill.

Approximately one week later, I was sitting at the kitchen table working late again, when suddenly… Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump over my shoulder at the nailed shut back door. I jumped, ran to my handbag in the den. My wallet was there.  The Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump continued. I darted to the back door that led to the porch to see if it was locked. Yes it was. Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump. Back into the kitchen to check the gas stove. OMG, the dial was turned to the right just a smidgen, while I thought it was completely off. Yikes! My heart raced with panic at the thought of my son and I perishing from carbon monoxide poisoning in the middle of the night.

The house grew eerily silent. The ghost had vanished.

But then, a few weeks later still. Working intently at the kitchen table as usual and thus completely unaware of how late it was, the clock struck midnight. Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump. I leapt from the table and began my drill of checking the stove, Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump… the back door that opened to the porch. Voila! An unlocked backdoor, I gratefully turned the bolt and secured the entrance. The house hushed.

After this third interruption, spending days mystified by the ghost’s apparent omniscience, and kindness, leaving me with the impression that I had the best security system in town, I could no longer ignore the fact that this particular ghost was very tangible. The boot stomps were audible, and could have been recorded. A wallet left behind on my front seat, a gas stove left on, an unlocked back door… were all very physical. From that moment forward, I would never be able to deny that ghosts are real.

I survived three months… just like clockwork, and then moved out, or should I say ran out.

Several months later, I wasn’t the least bit surprised to see that the owner had leveled the house and was selling the land. A new modern house was built as it’s replacement.

But the weeping willow tree is a whole other story, it’s still there at the top of the hill. ~

The Drish House in 1911. (see picture above) Located in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, this plantation home was built by one of the town’s earliest settlers, Dr. John R. Drish. Since the 20th century, the tower has been said to be haunted. Numerous people have reported seeing the third floor burst into flames, when no fire was present, and other supernatural elements.

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Posted by:Gallant Gold Media

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