Hi it’s Christina –
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| Our house before Sandy Knocked down our tree |
In February of 1998, we
purchased the house we currently live in from a little old lady named Althea.
Althea was an only child, raised by her mother and her stepfather. She was
married to a man named Larry, and they did not have any children of their own.
Althea’s stepfather lived with her and Larry before he passed away. Some time after
Larry passed away, Althea decided she wanted to move to a warmer climate, and
told us she, her ancient dog, and her caregiver were Florida bound. (We later
found out her care giver moved Althea, the dog, and all Althea’s money, not to
Florida, but to Bogota, but that’s a whole other story.)
Shortly after moving in,
odd things began to happen in the house. Cabinet doors would open, lights would
turn on and off, pots would fall off their hooks on the rack over the stove. In
the tiny hall between the hallway and the main bathroom, right in front of our
linen closet, you would see a shadow on the rug, but if you got close, you
could no longer see the shadow. Lys, who was three at the time would not walk
across that three foot section on rug. Anytime she needed to use the bathroom
or bathe, we would have to carry her over the spot. (That changed one night
after she got out of bed, walked over to the linen closet, opened the door and
looked for the ‘angel’, but again, that’s a whole other story.)
The house was very ‘active’,
but never once did any of us feel threatened. We began calling our unseen
visitor Larry (because we didn’t know about the stepdad at the time). When
Althea moved out, she left many of her possessions behind, items we kept and
used until we could afford to buy new ones of our own, so we figured Larry
decided to stay behind as well. And, other than Larry not caring for my using
his potholder rack to hang my pots – they’d get unhooked and crash down several
times a week – no the rack wouldn’t come down, the pots would actually fall off
the hooks – we had no issue with Larry sharing the house with us.
The February after we
moved in, our youngest daughter Dani Rose was born. At the time, my mother was
also living with us while she was waiting for her new house to be built. Our little
three bedroom ranch was packed to the hilt. PJ, our son, had his own room. Lys
and my mother shared a room, and Dani was in the bedroom with my husband and
me.
One night while I was
sleeping, I was shaken awake by a hand on my shoulder. I glanced down at my
infant daughter, sleeping soundly between my husband and me. My husband was
sound asleep. My bedroom door was closed, and I could not see anyone else in my
room.
I got up, thinking one of
the other kids needed me. I poke my head into Lys’ room, both her and my mother
are asleep. I’m was about to open the door to PJ’s room, but then I could hear
him snoring through the door, so I didn’t bother. I then wandered around the
house to see if anything was amiss. I even went into the basement, nothing.
Then, right before I decided to return to bed, I opened the door in the family
room which leads to the garage. My husband had forgotten to close the garage
door before he went to bed. I close the door, and grumble to Larry the whole
way back to bed about how I did not appreciate being woken up at three in the
morning because the garage door was left open.
At dinner that night, I
told the family about what had happened to me the night before. My husband, who
chose to ignore everything that had been happening in the house for the past
year, even though he had experiences of his own, thought I was crazy. This kids
thought it was nice of Larry to tell me, and my mom kept her opinion to
herself.
The following night when
we sat down to dinner, my husband plopped our local newspaper on the table in
front of my plate, and told me to read the police blotter. It turns out, the
night we had left our garage door open, several houses on our street had been
broken into. Our house would have been easy access had I not got up, turned
lights on while I investigated, and ultimately closed the garage door.
This morning, when I woke
up and brought Colby out to be emptied, I found my husband had forgotten to
close the garage door again before he went to bed. That was when I realized how
much I missed “Larry”. Even though I couldn’t see him, well at least not
clearly, his presence was definitely felt; and you can feel the absence of it
now that he is gone. The house somehow felt safer when he was here. It’s like I’m
mourning the loss of a family member, even though I never met him.
A number of years ago,
Larry decided to leave, and I have a theory as to why. Our ghost, who I now
believe he is actually Larry’s father-in-law, but I don’t know his name, never
had any children of his own. Althea became his daughter when she was around ten
or twelve years old. Then when he moved in with Althea and Larry, and they didn’t
have any children, he again was denied the privilege of having little ones in
his house. When I showed up with a seven and three year old, and then a baby,
he finally got to have the children he always yearned for. When my kids got
older, he decided he had fulfilled his bucket list and was ready to move on.
I realize many of you do
not believe in ghosts. I also realize by me telling you this tale, you may very
well think I am crazy and no longer wish to follow me. I understand, and there
are no hard feelings.
A few of my followers have
experienced Larry first hand, several have heard stories of him over the years,
and one follower, a friend of mine from high school, is actually related to him
through marriage. It’s from her I was able to find out more information about
the previous occupants of my home.
Okay, time to leave this
tale to work on my other tale. I hope you have a great day, and happy writing!
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