I had been renting a small apartment and looking for a house to buy for two years, but as a single mother of three small children, I couldn't afford much. In October, 2007, I bought a large house in a nearby small town of 1,500 people in northern Minnesota. When I found the house I thought it had to be a blessing. It was 8,000 square feet of beautiful woodwork, stained glass windows and hardwood floors. Just beautiful! It was a foreclosure listed at $45,000, so I swooped in and bought it as fast as I could.
It didn't take long to realize that things weren't right. I was working on redecorating the second floor and cleaned out a storage closet. I was shocked and disgusted by what I found. Behind the dusty boxes and piles of papers were pentagrams, strange symbols and some kind of magazine clippings showing decapitated bodies.
It terrified me. I immediately pulled down all of the clippings and painted over the symbols. They just kept bleeding through the paint. I eventually had to remove the original plaster and sheetrock the wall.
While working on the second floor, I decided I would use the walk-up attic as a place to store materials and tools. The only problem was that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get the door open. It was just stuck. A week later, my parents were visiting and I was showing them around. As we were looking through the second floor, my mother simply walked up and opened the door to the attic. I started using it as storage after that. I repeatedly was finding the lights in the attic on when I know for certain I had turned them off. If I didn't find them on, I found the bulbs burnt out and had to replace them. This went of for almost three months before it finally quit.
Everything was quiet for a couple of months. I found myself getting more comfortable in my new home and my life was finally started feeling right again -- until I was home alone one night. My kids had all spent the night at my sister's playing with their cousins and I was busy catching up on laundry. It was almost two in the morning and I was upstairs in the master bedroom folding laundry and getting ready to put clothes away when I heard someone walking in the other side of the upstairs.
Heavy footsteps that sounded like someone in work or hiking boots pacing back and forth. When I went to see what I was hearing, I stood in the room that the noise was coming from. The footsteps continued, but no one was there. I was scared to death! I got in the car and drove the 30 minutes to my sister's house and spent the night there.
The next day when I got home, I decided to finish putting the laundry away during daylight. As I was putting laundry away in my daughter's dresser, I heard a sniffling. I thought one of my kids was crying and turned around to see what was wrong. Much to my surprise, when I turned around, my kids were no where in sight. Sitting in the chair in the next room was a man wearing jeans and a t-shirt and... work boots.
He was sitting in the chair with his head in his hands, quietly crying. It startled me, but not because I thought it was anything paranormal. I was afraid because there was a strange man in my house and I hadn't even heard him come in! As I inched my way toward the door, the floor creaked and he stiffened. Not knowing what else to do, I asked him what he was doing in my house. That's when I realized that this was a ghost.
He jumped at the sound of my voice and when he looked up, he simply faded away. I ran down the stairs and loaded my kids in the car and left. I went back a week later with a moving truck and some friends and loaded my things and left. I never went back in the house. I would drive past it to check on it, but wouldn't go back in it.
About a month later, I was visiting a friend in the town and she told me that she had always thought I was crazy for buying that house. The house had originally been put on the market at $120,000, but everyone in the town knew that it was haunted and word in a small town travels fast -- unless you're a single mother whose life revolves around her kids and work and doesn't really socialize much.
I was told that sometime in the 1960s, the people who owned the house had a young daughter who had gotten really sick. No matter what the doctors did, nothing did any good. Her father used to spend his time outside of work either sitting by her bed or pacing outside of her room.
After almost a year of being sick, the girl passed away. The loss of his little girl was just too much for her father. He hung himself in the attic. I listed the house for sale at $60,000 in July, 2008. No one has shown any interest in purchasing the home. It still sits empty. The empty shell of its former beauty.