I finally got a Canadian story, an I am very grateful. It comes from Ontario, and the sender happens to be a relative. Her name is Tracy, and she has seen enough ghostly sightings to make one cry, piss their pants and babble like monkey. I won't use her last name because I failed to ask if that was alright. I must say that I was a little surprised to hear of such a story that directly affected members of my own family.
Although I've never had the opportunity to be close to Tracy, she seems to be an honest woman and not one to exaggerate. Her sister Kim also has a story to tell that I will be documenting on the tail of this one, and is directly tied to this one so make sure you keep reading.
This entry is one written from Tracy herself.
During my early adolescence, I wrote numerous poems about a house that would claw and bite. It was a separate entity. It wasn't until many years later, as I sat across from a city psychiatrist, learning about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, that these poems became significant.
Armed with this new found knowledge suggesting I was super-sensitive, dissociated and suffering from PTSD, I began to severely question my experiences with the highly speculative 'paranormal.' Was everything I had witnessed a massive illusion?
I am 34 years old now and there isn't a section of my life where I don't recall an event that can't be deemed as extraordinary. Whether the memory is twenty years ago or yesterday, I have learned to trust my instincts and believe in myself. After all, how likely is it to have only a tiny slice of you be crazy?
My family history is thick with confusion and the stories I've heard paired with my own personal experiences have always held the question: "Is it the land or the family?" In this situation, I believe it to be both and I have arguments for each suggestion. Foremost is the evaluation of our land.
My great-grandfather(on my father's side) travelled to this country from England as a pre-teen. He eventually purchased land which has since been passed down a few generations. This land once held native walking trails leading to small lakes, namely 'Grave Lake,' which still holds a native burial ground. It is said that natives passed on during their travels and often were laid to rest alongside these trails. There is no guarantee that the farmhouses built here were not resurrected upon grave sites.
The land was eventually sectioned and given to a few of my great-grandfather's children. Farmhouses were built within miles of each other and although the house my father was raised in was tore down before my time, I have never doubted the paranormal stories I've been told. The presence living on the land was so extreme and obvious, that it would move objects and often injure those in its path.
As the old house was demolished, my father retained some of the material and built a home directly across the driveway. I don't recall moving into this house, but this is where my older sister Kim, younger brother, Kevin, and I were raised. Seemingly, each individual family that built on this land experienced tremendous hardship. In particular, my great-aunt suffered the loss of all three of her young children as they drowned in a nearby pond. To this day, many people have witnessed a small child with blond hair and faded blue coveralls roaming the land. Even I saw him once, as he walked from a bedroom, down a hallway to stand at our wood stove. It wasn't until years later while looking at a photograph that I shockingly realized that I was staring at the same little boy who was haunting our house, or at least one of the entities. His name was Alfie, and he was one of my great-aunt's children who had drowned in the pond.
Whatever or whoever was there with us took to purely tormenting everyone all the time. There was such heaviness over the land that as soon as we stepped off the school bus and hit the driveway, it felt as though a thousand pounds was put on our backs. The dread, depression and tension were insurmountable. I often bypassed the house and continued on into the field. I would sit for hours and watch the masses of cotton-like orbs roll around the house, seeping in and out of the windows.
One evening while Kim was babysitting, Kevin and I were sent to our room to play as she cleaned up our never ending mess. Sitting on the bed together, we played with a small bag of plastic green army men. In the corner was a red and white clown doll my grandfather gave to Kevin. It had black eyes and a bright red, wind-up nose. Cranking the nose allowed a light, music box-like tune to play. As Kevin and I battled with our army men, the clown started to sing. I sat in total fear, squeezing a plastic man so hard that it cut my palm. Kevin's eyes grew wide, and let out a giant sigh as tears spilled from his eyes. The clown's legs started twitching, and its arms began to move. The clown was dancing. In one raspy breath, Kevin and let out a piercing scream. As Kim came rushing in, the clown made its way up the wall and rested on the ceiling. It continued to sing and gyrate even as Kim beat it down with a broom.
Not long after, we had a similar affair with a toy pull-along telephone that I had. When tugged by a string, the eyes on the phone would dart around and it made a chug, chug, ring, ring, noise. The telephone ceased to exist after it chased me down the hallway.
Very often, the morning routine consisted of telling each other the noises we had heard during the night. One of us had the bright idea to set out a tape recorder in hopes of verifying the night time sounds. I think it was an idea that we all came to regret when the playback revealed whispers and snippets of conversations held by a dozen voices. The memory of those sounds coming through the speakers still haunt me and causes my skin to crawl.
Not only did our farmhouse and the house before hold unexplained events and feelings, but the land had a way of flexing its muscle. If there was an accident to be had in the township, regardless of the season, it occurred on the highway, literally at the end of our driveway and was most likely fatal. I personally had two very, very close calls with transports.
Our house and land also had a way with making things appear and disappear without reason. Considering the home was built by dad when he was young, my parents were very much aware of what went into the walls. I recall a day when a knife appeared in the house. It looked like a regular butter knife, but it had an eerie twist. On the handle of this golden knife was a carving of men climbing a ladder as flames licked their legs. It didn't take long for my mother to dispose of that knife, along with and old paper Ouija board we found.
Years later, as us kids had grown and left home, my mother found herself alone one summer night. She was awakened by a massive presence in the doorway of her room. She recalls that there was no form and no words were spoken, yet this being engulfed her doorway and she knew he was looking for something. She said: "I couldn't see him nor did he say anything, but I could feel him and I knew that he was seeking out something." He left as quickly as he came, heavy footed down the hallway, and out the door. Months later, a visiting neighbor shyly confessed that he was seeing things. "It is weird," he said. "I heard heavy footsteps and someone stood in my doorway, but I couldn't see him. I knew he was there because I could feel and smell him. I think he was looking for something." Over time, more neighbors who lived on my great-grandfather's original land came forth with the same story.
We are all adults now and question our memories and still live with the odd visit from the supernatural world. Even 4th generation children are experiencing events that cannot be accepted as coincidence. Herein lays the suggestion of being attached to the family.
At 18, I walked into my apartment and was smashed in the face with a heavy 'Captain Jack' pipe tobacco scent. As I entered my kitchen, my recently deceased grandfather(on my mother's side), greeted me. He put down his pipe, smiled at me and evaporated into the walls. Soon after, I took a flight to British Columbia to visit my sister, Kim. As I stood in her kitchen against the sink, I suggested to her that I could feel things in her house. "They don't like to be talked about," she told me. We jumped and ran out of the house as a fluorescent light bulb behind me flickered and snapped. After a few nervous giggles, and she assured me it was okay, we re-entered. In her bathroom, I admired her wall of clay masks and pointed to one - "that is my favorite mask," I said to her. As I stepped out of the bathroom, a loud bang and shatter took place behind me. That one mask that I was taken with, fell off the wall and broke into pieces on the floor.
I spent my time at her home moving from room to room, eventually sleeping on the floor beside her bed. I was poked, talked to and all around bothered by a force I could not see. Turns out that I wasn't the only visitor to her home that ended up sleeping on her bedroom floor.
To date I still experience things that I trust to be beyond this world. Every home I've occupied during this life has been met with visits from external forces. Individuals within my family have each been faced with things they can't reckon with. Even those married in, who once didn't believe in that sort of thing have changed their minds.
The older we all become, the more dates become obscured. Yet one thing remains true to each. Whether it was the house or the land, spirits do linger. When shadows rush past our eyes and whispers invade our ears, we are silent enough within to know these are not coincidences, but visits. Thankfully, our experiences now are far less violent than what they were while living in that farmhouse. Then again, children are much more susceptible.
A tiny relation of my experiences is a far cry from the whole story of course, but this was my story nonetheless.
Tracy
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