I’m from a real winner of a town that goes by the name of Harlan. I guess you could say I’m “from” a couple of places in Kentucky. My parents split when I was 3, and so I moved away from my birthplace to live with mom. But, dad stayed there, where he was from, and so I went back there every other weekend and part of the summer as ordered by the good ole court system.
It can go by other names…Bloody Harlan… or Hell on Earth as I like to refer to it.
I’m only writing about it today, because I can’t get that place out of my head. More specifically, my grandparent’s house. I grew up in that house. It was the first place that was home to me, when I was born. As a kid, when I “went to dad’s house”, it was really their house I was going to, because he lived there. I think it haunts me. I think it haunts everyone that has ever spent a significant time there.
I dream about it. A lot. It’s not always a house either. Sometimes I’ll be dreaming I’m working, but it’s there. Or I’ll dream it’s my house. Sometimes my grandparents are there too, and sometimes they aren’t. My granny and pap are gone, I lost them both in 2009. Now some new family owns their home, and I wonder, does the place haunt them too?
If you have doubts that there are ghosts in this world, visit that house. Your doubts will fly away.
My uncle killed himself in that house. I didn’t know him, it happened before I was born.
Another uncle was killed Christmas of 1984 – I wasn’t even a year old yet so I don’t remember him, but I’m pretty sure I have felt his spirit.
They are there, they are still there in that house. It wasn’t always scary thinking that, but for some reason I always had to run past my pap’s bedroom if the door was open, because I was scared of it.
I had a weird childhood. I grew up there at my dad’s parent’s house, I grew up at my mom’s parent’s house, I grew up in a trailer mom rented from the college she attended, I grew up in a house on a hill, I grew up in a different house on a different hill….but when I think back to my childhood memories, more often than not, I think of that house.
I think it’s part of my soul, my psyche, and I can’t even explain why.
I’ll never be able to go back into that house, and that hurts. I’m terrified of the house. I love the house. I can’t explain it. It’s just a house. My grandfather’s grandfather built it – I wish it was my house. I hate that town though. It’s a bad seed. It bears rotten fruit.
Someday I will think of the right words to turn that house into a ghost story. It wouldn’t all be fiction.