Haunting House

As a seasoned professional in all things Halloween, I reasoned eight was the proper age for my first haunted house excursion. Since I knew there was no talking my mom into such a venture, I turned to Dad who was more “older brother” than father when a chance at scaring the hell out of me presented itself. Predictably, it was an easy sell. We settled on a mall parking lot haunted house…er…tent, for its reasonable ticket cost and close proximity to our apartment. On the ride over I was so convinced of my ability to separate make-believe from real life that I bet my Barbie dream house I’d walk coolly through less the screams or tears; a bold statement for an eight year old girl who was still working past her fear of the 2 ½ foot space beneath her bed. But as we neared the mouth of the black, tarp pergola that’d taken up most of the parking space usually allotted for the now defunct Montgomery Wards, I felt the onset of panic: intense fluttering in my chest partnered with the overwhelming urge to run. Nonetheless with Dad’s hand on my shoulder and the looming danger of losing Barbie’s dream house, I pressed on. Now, something I had not been made aware of, but should have, was the importance of haunted house viewing order. Everyone knows if you’re first, then you accept the responsibility of guiding the group while catching all the jump scares, but if you go last then you’re that person who’s shadowed by all the straggling haunted house personnel. For a first time haunted houser, neither is really ideal, but I chose the latter with the intention of cowering behind Dad, clinging to his shirt tail.

After scraping just beyond that first blind turn, to our right there was a witch stirring a smoking caldron filled with eyeballs and severed limbs. She cackled raising one green makeup slathered hand motioning for me to come closer and insuring this would be the last display I looked directly at for the duration of my haunted endeavor. Within minutes, I’d surrendered any concerns of Barbie’s impending eviction and screamed myself to the point of near hysteria without ever really shifting my gaze from the floor in front of me. The clanking chains, petrified squeals and slamming doors were plenty. Once I’d caught sight of the exit surrounded by clear asphalt, our car sitting safely in the distance, I abandoned Dad’s crumpled shirt tail and ran as fast as my squatty legs could go. Then…I heard the chainsaw. Glancing hastily over my shoulder, I saw a hideous, crudely sewn man. Jesus! What is that? Years later Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974) would give my answer, Leatherface. I launched myself towards the car, the roar of the chainsaw finally growing faint. Leatherface had lost interest; though as I watched he continued to sporadically raise his chainsaw at my defiance. And, of course Dad took his time meeting me at the car; he really had no choice given that he was doubled over with laughter. Driving home we sat in silence, my ashen tear-streaked face, eyes staring blankly ahead in terror. At last, Dad pat my knee and wryly said, “So, when do I get my Barbie dream house?” Thankfully he never seized control of the prestigious Barbie estate nonetheless, since the mid-80s my prefab haunted house visits have seen a dramatic decline.

Even so, my reluctance hasn’t made me a stranger to haunted houses, not at all; in fact, I’ve frequented one practically each month for thirty years…every time I stay at my grandparent’s house. Constructed in 1905, Nin and Paw’s house was originally one of two built identically for the Schneider brothers. As prominent entrepreneurs in the budding German town, the Schneider’s had made a good living running a produce store on Main . These houses were to be a show of that success. Overtime, Nin and Paw’s future home was passed down through the children of elder Schneider until eventually landing in the hands of “Pudgy” Schneider, the town drunk. On countless occasions, Pudgy was found inebriated, face-down just shy of home; time after time, the townsfolk would simply remove and deposit him to the home from wince he came. One faithful evening, like so many nights before, Pudgy had been dropped off to his own devices intoxicated and on the verge of passing out. As the story goes, he switched on the gas fire and, assuming it had lit, drifted off to drunken slumber. Unfortunately, the fire had not caught and poor Pudgy, of incapacitated stupor, was unknowingly asphyxiated. Days later, yes…days, he was discovered. Afterwards the house sat empty for seven years, until 1978 when Nin and Paw purchased the now dilapidated abode from the property caretaker for $20,000…furniture and a crawlspace of empty beer bottles included. The next two years saw Nin and Paw refurbishing the house beyond its former glory tackling everything from installing indoor plumbing to constructing an entire upstairs from the studs…all for the sake of their dream retirement home.

Over the years we’ve all joked about the house being haunted. We’ve all experienced the right-side upstairs bedroom door opening and closing at will. We’ve all had the unmistakable feeling of being watched. Perhaps that’s all just mind play encouraged by the era of the house. I wouldn’t think a place could exist for over 100 years without having a palpable history to it. Or is there more? To hear Nin and Paw tell it there’s no hauntings, there’s no ghost. Get back, there’s nothing to see, move along. You see, they’re from that generation who could have an apparition appear before them and insist it’s a result of too little fiber in their diet. Whereas the paranormal has been a passion of mine since Ray Parker Jr. first posed the question, “Who you gonna call?” And I firmly believe when it comes to feeling the presence of a remaining spirit all one need do is pay attention. They’re not always going to kidnap your children through the television or possess Whoopi Goldberg in order to dance with you; they’re more subtle than that. I suppose that’s a trapping of circumstance. Spirits are primarily measurable in relation to energy sources. They remove heat creating cold pockets, effect light and sound on a molecular level. Speculation with regards to Nin and Paw’s ghost gathered speed after I’d taken a photo of their house that revealed what appears the shadow of a man’s face in the upstairs window. Logically, I realize there also happens to be a large tree in front of this window and that this shadow could have been created through this tree, except in the numerous retakes at varying times of day and season, I’ve not been able to recreate anything close to this image.

And it just so happens that upstairs is where the paranormal occurrences seem to be focused. Just a couple weeks ago, while staying at Nin and Paw’s, Mom witnessed the pull chain light at the top of the stairs click on of its own accord. Upon mentioning this to Paw, he embarked into a lengthy explanation, complete with a diagram, of how such phenomena could occur, whereupon Mom offered to sketch Casper as a visual for her explanation. In addition prior to this, an aunt of mine claimed to have felt a shift in the bed, as if someone had joined her yet no one was there. I, myself, have felt on numerous occasions that something or someone was right beside me, or behind me, but of course no one has ever been visibly there. All unsubstantiated hauntings bear the caveat that maybe there’s nothing there, maybe it’s all a figment of an overactive, horror movie lovin’ imagination and I’ve just heard Rockwell’s “Somebody’s Watching Me” one too many times…then again, it could be that maybe Pudgy is still in residence. Not on this plane of existence but another, roaming from room to room, detecting an essence of us just as we do of him and keeping watch over our beloved family home. And while I’m still more terrified of sloppily applied latex dripping with phony blood set in abandoned warehouses at $30 bucks a pop, I’ve come to realize that, thankfully, seldom are these depictions of hauntings accurate. There are those “houses” you’ll pay once a year to have hauntings enacted to fulfill a venturesome nature and then there are those houses, oblivious to agendas or holidays who haunt year-round pro bono.

 

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