You might think there’s no such thing as haunted houses. You might say I’m getting carried away by juvenile seasonal traditions that simply don’t apply in this part of the world, that I’m buying into the occult-lite trend that’s sweeping the indie publishing industry, or any number of other excuses to fob me off. But I’m here to tell you that haunted houses are real.
I’ve seen one with my own two eyes. Sure, it might be just one, but that’s enough to undermine the notion that these things are no more than campfire tales. And let me tell you – a haunted house is nothing to brush off lightly. It’s a house inhabited by the souls of the dead, and that’s something that should shake you to your core.
It all started when I was a kid. I was about 7, and I was dragged along on a house hunt by my parents during the summer holidays. I remember hating all the houses, as well as being bored, hot and uncomfortable, while my parents argued on and off about conveyancing. Well, we finally came to a house that had an odd appeal to me, although I remember seeing my parents shudder a bit when we pulled up there. Maybe that’s why I liked it – to get back at them for dragging me along.
I explored the property while my parents anxiously talked conveyancing. Near Richmond and Clifton Hill, where we’d been looking that day, a lot of the houses kind of look like they could be haunted from the outside, but then you go in and they’re all renovated and clean and light, and evidently devoid of… entities. This one, though, was full of the bloody things. They weren’t evil or terrifying, per se, but they were sort of following me around and asking for help in crossing over. That’s a lot to ask of a 7 year-old, if you ask me.
So, yeah. Be careful out there in the property market.