The Truth About Growing Up In A Haunted House

There are certain memories of childhood that seem to invoke strong feelings of joy, sadness, or fear. I’m sure most could recall the first time they experienced the loss of a relative or pet, or the thrill of riding a bicycle without training wheels, or even a first crush. However, some experiences are so unusual and raw, that they imbed themselves like cancer, no matter how hard we try to forget.

I grew up in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, on the corner of Washington street. Our home was a three-story red brick structure, a perfect house for a family of eight. From the outside, the house appeared no different than the rest of the homes on the block, however, there was something much more sinister going on inside. The youngest of six, I shared a room with my brother Danny, who was two years older than me. It was not uncommon for my brother and I to stay up past our bedtime, building tents with our blankets, or playing video games with the volume turned down. Our bedroom was directly outside the attic door, a place neither one of us dared to venture alone. Just walking by the attic could send a slight chill up your spine.

I don’t recall exactly how old I was when I first realized that our house was haunted, but I could remember the first incident as if it happened yesterday. I must have been around seven or eight. One night, while lying awake, my brother and I heard a strange noise coming from downstairs. In a family as large as ours, it was not uncommon for a parent or sibling to be lurking around. Ever the curious one, my brother and I crept to the top of the staircase and peered down. Whenever we wanted a good spot for snooping, the top of the staircase was the place to be. Plenty of Christmas Eves were spent atop of those steps, just hoping to catch a glimpse of old Saint Nick.

All was dark below, but the sound continued. Downstairs, we had an antique wooden toybox, overflowing with GI Joes, Transformers, and Legos. As we listened, our hands cupped over our mouths, we heard our toys being moved. At first, we assumed it was our mother, tidying up our mess, as usual. But the more we listened, it was not the sound of toys being put away that we heard, but toys being played with. My brother and I looked at one another with a curious glint in our eyes and inched our way to the bottom of the steps. When we reached the bottom of the steps, all was dark and quiet. The toybox stood silent, the toys remained still, the downstairs remained empty. I don’t recall what we felt that night, whether it was fear or confusion, but whatever it was, it got our attention.

My eldest brothers, one who returned from military training, and the other who was in college, lived in the attic. Our attic was quite large, with two full sized bedrooms, and one storage room. One day, my mother asked me to retrieve my brother for dinner. It was winter, and on most days, it was dark before 5pm. I didn’t know why, but I always felt uneasy whenever I approached the attic door. There was a light switch at the bottom of the steps and that controlled the one light bulb at the top of the staircase. More often than not, the light seemed to be burnt out. No matter how many times my father changed the bulb, it would never last more than a few weeks. No other light in the house burned out more than the attic light. After a while, my father just stopped buying bulbs for the attic, writing it off as faulty electrical work.

As I approached the attic door, I could hear my brother typing away at his keyboard. I flicked the light switch, but as usual, the light was burned out.

“Tony, sorry to bother you, but Mom wanted me to tell you that dinner is ready,” I said.

I waited for a reply but received none. I assumed he heard me, and I went downstairs to take my seat at the dinner table.

“Where’s your brother?” my mother asked.

“He’s working on the computer, but he should be down soon,” I said.

After a few minutes, my mother asked me to go back upstairs and get my brother. “His food is getting cold,” she said, “Maybe he didn’t hear you.”

This time I recruited my brother Danny to go with me. We both approached the attic door, the sound of my brother’s keyboard pounding away. My brother and I shouted from the steps below: “dinner’s ready,” but there was still no answer. In darkness, we carefully climbed the creaky staircase. As we approached the top of the steps, the keyboard stopped. All was dark in my brother’s room. We flicked on my brother’s light and noticed that his computer was off, and the room was empty. We looked at one another, screamed, and ran down the stairs. We tried to explain this to my mother, but she didn’t believe us. She said that we must’ve heard wrong, and that we needed to stop watching scary movies. Later that night, my brother arrived home. Apparently, he had been out with some friends.

If those were the only two incidents to occur, I could probably write it off as strange but not paranormal. However, things started to get more bizarre as autumn approached. It was Halloween night, and I know this sounds like a cliché beginning to a murder mystery, but everything that happened that night is true, at least to the best of my knowledge. My brother and I returned home after a long night of trick or treating. After emptying our bags upon our beds, we started dividing the good candy from the yucky candy, hence, candy corns and healthy snacks. I said something in the realms of “here is one for the ghost,” or “here’s some candy for the attic dweller,” and I tossed a piece of candy out the bedroom door and up the attic. My brother and I looked at one another and laughed. Alone, we might have been terrified, but together, we were fearless. At least that is the way we made it appear. We knew there was strength in numbers, but how those numbers would defeat an unseen entity, well, that was never discussed. As we ate our candy, we forgot about the candy that we tossed up the steps. A few minutes passed, and the candy that I tossed at the attic door, flew through the doorway, hitting me in the head. Now that I think about it, it seems humorous, but as young boys, we were terrified.

My father, being a devote Catholic, was quick to dismiss our paranormal tales. The ghosts, or whatever it was, never seemed to make its presence known amongst my parents. One night, as my brother and I rested in our beds, a strange noise caught our attention. The noise, which came from under my brother’s bed, sounded like a finger brushing against the bristles of a comb. My brother and I stared silently at one another from across the room, listening to this strange noise for what seemed like several minutes. Finally, my brother jumped from his bed and turned on the light. The noise stopped, and other than a few dust bunnies, under the bed was empty. We shut out the lights and went back to bed.

Sometime in the night, another noise awoke us from our sleep. This time, a low groan came from under my brother’s bed. The groan got louder and louder, almost demonic in tone. We both screamed and ran out into the hallway. My father was furious that we disturbed his sleep on a work night. He said that it was probably one of my older brothers playing tricks on us. My brother and I were upset that nobody believed in us. Little did we know, our older brothers were dealing with their own demons in the attic.

Over the years, my brother and I learned to deal with the entity and its nuisances. Any time one of us had to go upstairs, we made a pact to go together. It was a stressful time in both our lives. No matter what room in the house you were in, it felt like invisible eyes were watching you. One day, my sister confided in me and confessed that she was experiencing odd things, too. She mentioned that something grabbed her hair while she was sleeping. It pulled it hard enough to make her scream, and she told my father what had happened. My father came in with a flashlight and looked under the bed, once again blaming my brothers. My sister told me that she spoke to my brothers, and they, too, were also experiencing odd occurrences, but on a much bigger level. My brother Ted was receiving the worst of the paranormal activity. His bedroom was the largest in the attic, and the coldest. No matter if it was mid-July, or dead of winter, the attic bedroom was cold.

According to my brother Ted, he was being attacked at night by an entity. He called this entity: The Apple Man. Despite the silly name, my brother was not laughing. He called all of us, except for my oldest sister, Anne, who was away in the military, up to his room for a family meeting. There were no parents at this meeting, because in all truth, they didn’t believe in such things. At the meeting, we exchanged stories of paranormal activity, and suddenly, I didn’t feel so alone. My brother Ted removed his shirt and we all gasped. His back and chest were covered in scratches, some fresh. He told us that he’d been attacked almost every night by this Apple Man. The Apple Man was a shadowy figure with arms like slithering snakes, teeth and nails as sharp as razorblades, and a body that resembled an apple. When the Apple Man attacked, my brother couldn’t scream or move.

We tried to come up with a rationale explanation to account for my brother’s scratches, but we could find no logical answer. My brother started sleeping over his friend’s house when he could, but when he couldn’t, he was stuck sleeping in the attic. It had gotten so bad that he started sleeping on the couch, but after my father complained, he was back in the attic.

Hearing what my brother Ted had endured, I felt my terror was insignificant. There was nothing I could say or do to make my brother feel better. I was young, helpless, and terrified. I just kept thinking, if this entity can physically attack my brother, what will prevent it from attacking me? One day, my brothers announced that they were moving out of the attic and into their own apartment. They both had had enough of the sleepless nights and the unusual activity. My brother Anthony stated that the entity had started to disrupt his nights, too. He spoke of a shadowy figure floating across his room, icy hands upon his neck, and a hamster wheel that moved at night on its own, even though the hamster died months before.

My older brothers were moving out, leaving me, my brother Dan, and my sister alone in the house. We had our parents, but we might as well have been on our own. Our father told us that when we were afraid, that we should pray. One day, my brother Dan and I watched a movie about a haunted house. In the film, a priest went through the haunted house, praying from his Bible, forcing the entity back to Hell. My brother and I decided to try this method, but we knew we needed a few supplies. We went to our church and filled up two bottles with holy water. We grabbed my father’s Bible, a Crucifix, two blessed candles, and the St. Michael’s prayer. We recruited a friend to help us in the blessing. Our friend, Terry, witnessed the hauntings when he slept over, and we needed all the help we could get. We weren’t sure what to expect while blessing the house, but if it was anything like the movies, we were in for a long night.

We waited until my parents were out for the night, then, we prepared our weapons. We lit the blessed candles, terry holding one, my brother holding the other. I held the Crucifix in front of us as we prayed the St. Michael prayer. We started at the basement, sprinkling holy water as we prayed fervently. Each room was blessed from floor to ceiling. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, that is, until we reached the attic. We worked our way up the attic steps, spraying holy water upon the walls. The closer we got to my brother Ted’s room, the colder it got. It was Summer, and despite the windows being closed, there was a cold breeze blowing through the house. When we entered my brother Ted’s bedroom, we closed the door, and formed a three-person circle. We placed the Bible in the middle of the room and placed the two candles on each side. I held the Crucifix in my trembling hand, and we each took turns reciting verses from the Bible. As we prayed, we took turns blessing the room with holy water. The more we prayed, the colder it got. A breeze brushed the pages of the Bible, causing them to flip. We made a pact not to stop praying no matter what. We prayed louder and with more faith than I ever prayed before or since. I’m not sure how long we prayed, or how we knew that we were finished, but when we stopped, the room got warm. Something seemed different. We were satisfied. God’s small army of soldiers had defeated the evil within, or so we thought.

For a long while after, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I finally had my own room, my brother had his own room, and my sister moved out. We were cautious, but unafraid. We no longer felt a need to sleep on edge or avoid the attic. I even went up there on my own on several occasions. Things were normal, and I felt at ease for the first time in a long time When I turned sixteen, my brother moved out and my mother allowed me to get a dog. It was a lonely time in the big house, but at least I had my dog, Sam, to keep me company. When I turned 17, my parents put the house up for sale. They no longer wanted to live in the big house, and they both moved out. I agreed to stay behind and take care of the house until it sold. There hadn’t been no paranormal activity for so long that I almost forgot about what had happened there years earlier.

One night, in mid-November, I was alone in the house with my dog. I shut off all the lights in the house and settled in for the night. Sometime during the night, I was awoken by the sound of a low growl. I reached over and felt my dog, his hair standing stiff, his teeth gnarling. I petted his fur and hushed him without success. My dog was on all fours, staring at the wall, sensing something that I could not see. I was terrified, for the first time in a long time, I was frightened. There I was, almost 18, and scared of something that I could not see. All those memories came rushing back. The child in me was released. I jumped up, reached for the light switch, and flipped it. My dog’s eyes darted from one side of the room to the other, searching for something. He looked terrified, but he was protecting me from whatever it was. I yelled for my dog, and we both rushed down the stairs and out the front door.

I never returned to the house, not to move the furniture, not to retrieve any of my belongings. I had had enough. The mental anguish of years of unseen torture was too much. No child should have to fight demons, whether they are seen or unseen. I didn’t have a normal childhood. The experience changed me. It opened my mind, allowing me to have faith in things that I couldn’t see. Some people might think that I am crazy or weird, but I can only tell you the way it happened to me and my family. Nowadays, my family and I rarely discuss the hauntings, but we never forget. My brother Ted rarely speaks of what happened to him. He claims it is too painful to relive those memories. Occasionally, I will get him to open up, but his eyes are still pained with tears of the past. It is a secret that we rarely share with others because we fear being judged, or worse yet, not believed.

A few years ago, my brother ran into a neighbor at a local tavern. Over a couple of beers, he confided that he had bought our old home, and he renovated it. He said, “|I don’t mean to sound crazy, but did anything strange ever happen in that house?”

My brother said, “It’s funny that you mention that, because the house was haunted.”

The neighbor said “not was, it is haunted. I hear footsteps in the middle of the night. I have things that move from one spot and end up in another spot. I hear banging on the doors.”

My brother just smiled and said, “It’s good to know that I am not the only one.”

The neighbor said, “Yes, I thought I was going crazy.”

I no longer know who owns the home, but once in a while, when I am in Wilkes-Barre, I still drive by the old house. The house is falling apart, and the neighborhood is a shell of its former self. The house no longer scares me. Perhaps the new owner managed to rid the house of its demons, or perhaps the house is just sleeping, waiting to spring terror on its next victim.