Haunted Houses, Then and Now | The Shadows We Learn to Live With | by Allan Schwartz | Inspiring Story #233

I wasn’t quite 7 years old when my parents decided that I would benefit from the joys and excitement of a sleep-away summer camp. Never having been away from my own home other than perhaps for a one-night sleepover at a friend’s house, this three-and-one-half-week experience was to be an opening of new frontiers for me, not to mention a long-awaited and anticipated degree of freedom for my parents.

Getting accustomed to sleeping in an insect-infested, cold bunk on a cot with a 2.5” thick mattress, along with seven other kids, was a novel experience, not particularly rewarding. Even more so was having to trek across wet fields to the “junior camp washrooms”, especially in the middle of the night, when who knows what type of wild animals we might encounter? Let me add that having to take mandatory swim instruction at 9:00 a.m. in the frigid, probably polluted waters of the Ottawa River was not adding to the appeal of living the great outdoor life.

Nor was I overly enamoured with having to take meals in the common mess hall, where the morning eggs, oatmeal, and toast were cold and almost inedible. Worst of all, we had to line up cafeteria-style to get our breakfast (no one brought it to the table), and then, if you were not watchful or quick enough to put your index finger to your nose at meal’s end in a timely fashion, you were relegated to clearing the table and returning all soiled dishes to the kitchen clean-up counter.

Stories Told in the Dark

What I do remember best about that year, however, were the counsellors we had and several of the activities in which we participated. One of those activities involved a twice-weekly, after-supper hike or walk just past the perimeter of the campgrounds, where the counsellors would sit us down near an abandoned barn or farmhouse and begin to relate stories about the ghosts that purportedly resided there.

Now remember, we were just kids, seven and eight years old, and several of us were fearful of the darkness and what lurked “out there”. One of our bunk counsellors was a master at spinning yarns about a specific farmhouse and who had once lived there years ago. While seemingly abandoned now, it was his understanding that the house might still be occupied by someone or… something, because on some of his solo walks he had often heard what seemed like moans or groans, and what even sounded like laughter coming from inside the house.

To say that we were impressionable was an understatement, and at a certain point during the counsellor’s story, he asked if any of us wanted to enter the house just to “see” if there were any signs or evidence that anything or anyone might be there. Understandably, there were no takers, even from the bravest of our gang.

A Fear That Stayed With Me

I never did enter that particular abandoned and dilapidated building, nor do I recall that any of my contemporaries did, even as a few years went by and we continued to attend the same camp.

There was “something” about that building…

Fast forward to the present. I am now an adult — basically a senior adult — and my wife and I often take walks in our residential neighbourhood after the dinner hour. One such walk brings us across the street from what I can only call a “modern-day haunted house”.

This particular three-storey residence looks as if it were transplanted from 18th-century Transylvania. Leaded glass windows, some with blinds drawn. Dark wooden doors and window shutters. Never a light to be seen, either inside or outside the residence, and never ever, in over the 24 years we have lived in this neighbourhood, have we seen anyone either entering or exiting the premises.

The building once had a history of serving as a place to either purchase or sell antiques, but as stated above, the place appeared to be abandoned. Except one cannot do that in a major city centre; thus, someone was still paying taxes on the property, and in all probability there might be some sort of security system in place to prevent squatters or the homeless from occupying the premises.

It has sometimes crossed my mind to cross the street on one of our walks to peer in through a window or ring the doorbell to see if, in fact, anyone lived in or occupied the house. But old childhood habits hang on, and my anxiety and apprehension about older, abandoned, foreboding-looking properties still haunt me to some extent.

Fear of the Unknown

My wife laughs at my discomfort when we draw abreast of this building, but when I turn to her and say, “One never knows exactly what might be found inside, and I have absolutely no desire to pursue that inquiry in earnest,” she responds, “You are seventy-plus years of age. What frightens you about a dilapidated old house?”

I cannot answer.

What frightens me isn’t the house itself, but a fear of the unknown and unfamiliar. That feeling has stayed with me since childhood and still causes me a degree of anxiety. A gloomy building with no visible evidence of occupation would likely create uncertainty for many of us, particularly those more comfortable with black-and-white answers than with grey.

Perhaps that is part of living a full life — learning to walk alongside certain uncertainties rather than trying to eliminate them.

In all probability, this relic of a building will come down one day and be replaced by some sort of condominium or rental apartment building. I would sorely like to be in attendance when the demolition commences, “just to see” if perhaps, just perhaps… literal or even physical skeletons of the past are uncovered.