The Abandoned Colonial House Investigation

by Amelia

The Unbelievable is Everywhere.

The Unbelievable is Everywhere.

It was a cold, sunny day when a friend of mine asked me to take a ride with him and my husband to a house, nestled in a small town, near my friend's home place. I was intrigued. The colonial style house, he stated, has been abandoned for more than 50 years with the exception of the occasional teenagers and young adults that entered for bragging rights.

I had no knowledge of the house, its history, its location, or the reputation of reported ghostly sightings. I am not a ghost hunter. I do not seek out spiritual confrontations. My friend's request was sincere. It stemmed from a conversation among friends at a small gathering at my home.

The previous evening we had discussed many topics during dinner, ranging from our careers to our future goals. We stretched ourselves intellectually, as we like to do, and although the evening was deepening, we poured glasses of wine and relaxed in the den speaking in hushed tones as one seems to do when the hour is late. As we became more comfortable, my husband mentioned that whenever I am in a home, or a building, or in an intimate setting, spirits know I am there. I can see them, not as mists or forms, but as pictures that become strong enough to show me whatever it is the spirits need me to see. When I am in an intimate gathering with people, I am able to feel the emotions they are experiencing, whether the event that triggered the emotion is still on the surface or long buried.

Breaching that subject on my behalf was somewhat frightening. His words opened a door in that cozy den, and I clearly saw an older woman that had long ago passed when I looked into the eyes of my friend, who was still processing this side of me he would have never fathomed, and I asked him if he knew this spirit was around him from childhood. He nodded his head slowly in agreement. As I described the picture of this woman to him, he continued to nod in agreement. He believed it was his grandmother. I asked if she hummed soft, lovely tunes while she cooked. He just kept nodding. The beautiful humming was his clearest memory of his grandmother.

As the hour or so passed, we grew weary enough to call it a night. At that point, I was hoping my friend would understand that I was only telling him what he was relaying to me when I looked in his eyes. My husband walked outside with him, as the other guests said their good evenings and left for the comforts of home. I prepared for bed while the two men talked outside. My friend asked my husband if he could take me to the old colonial house that the town claimed is haunted. My husband agreed and the next day I was on my way to history.

The scenery was breathtaking. The countryside stretched for miles with houses, then farms, then just fields with rusted farm equipment, fences that needed mending, and trees with bare limbs that cast long, slim shadows.

I was in the back seat. The three of us were enjoying the comfortable silence. As we approached a bend in the road, I felt the pull of the house. I knew we were near the overgrown drive to the left. My friend turned toward the left, driving slowly so he could remember the path. He had not been to the house in many years. I directed him. I told him where to park because I knew there was a path hidden by a thorny bush.

The three-story colonial, and its occupants, drew me in as I stepped out of the vehicle. My friend made it very clear he would go no further. He and my husband stayed in the vehicle. I was pleased. The spirits directed me through the thorny, tangled path. My heart was in overdrive, but my mind was calm. I stepped out of the path in pure awe. I went through an open doorway that has a one foot gap to the floor. I passed over with ease. I was at the side of the house that lead me into the foyer and sitting room. I knew a man was watching me. He was menacing. I could see his dark hair, dark eyes, and a suit with a pocket watch. He had removed his hat not because there was a lady present, but to see me clearly while bending his tall frame from the top landing of the staircase. This house was his. I attempted to go up the stairs. I was physically unable to take even the first step. I was being held there by a frightened woman. Her spirit was desperate. I backed away from the stairs and greeted the male spirit by saying hello twice. After each hello, I heard heavy footsteps in the room above me. The boards were creaking. I turned about and went outside through the front door that was directly below a white, spindled balcony. I knew he was there watching. She was with him. She had no choice. I walked back to the vehicle to retrieve my cell phone. I wanted video and the voice recorder. I heard whistling. It was faint, but there were many voices. My urge to get back inside the house was overwhelming. I had to wait. My friend asked me what I experienced. This was his moment. He knew the area, and he knew the people. He was ready to know what happened.

I felt so much grief that I wanted to cry. I told him the tall man in the suit with dark hair and dark eyes stands on the balcony, and has been seen by others as if he were real. At times, a young black girl, with beauty that is ageless, stands beside him. She calls him Uncle. She was telling me this without words. He had an injury to his left ear. He was not born with it. A bullet grazed his ear in an accident. The young black girl, approximately fifteen, died during child birth. The child lived. A boy that was given to house slaves to raise without his birthright. My friend was very quiet. He stared at me a moment, cleared his throat, and said that is exactly how it was described by the individuals and elders of the town. They could see a man standing on the balcony, and sometimes they saw a young black girl standing with him or looking out of the adjoining bedroom window. I was still hearing the whistling. I had to go back inside the house. I abruptly walked away and went back through the path to the side entrance. This time I dropped to my knees and looked into the gap between the entrance and the floor. I saw a dirt floor. I saw what looked like horse stalls, but they were too small and too close together. I was going down. My husband did not like that. He could see me start to descend. Before he could protest, I dropped to the dirt floor. The whistling was beautiful. It was a gospel song. My back was to the sound. I turned and looked directly into the mouth of history. It was a tunnel. A slave tunnel. I was humbled to the point of not entering the cave. It was sacred as if God Himself had His hand on it. I cannot whistle. Instead, I hummed Amazing Grace. The tunnel was silent with the exception of the slight echo of my tune. I was never approached while I was down there, but I was not alone. My respectful behavior for their suffering and subsequent freedom was understood. I quietly pulled myself back up with not one thought about the phone in my pocket. I reentered the house, but this time I could not feel the young girl. She was hiding. I still felt the presence of Uncle. I walked around and took pictures. I bid farewell to the voices of the past. It was getting dark, and I did not have a flashlight. I did not speak to Uncle. He did not speak to me.

My friend and my husband looked relieved when I came walking from the path. I was dusty and a little shaken. As I climbed in the vehicle, and took my seat all there was was silence. My friend wanted off of that property before night settled. I spoke of the tunnel. He confirmed it was used to transport slaves to freedom. I did not speak of the quiet moment I had while listening to the whistling of a gospel tune by many beautiful voices. I did not share that I hummed Amazing Graze out of respect, and in turn, the peaceful silence that permeated me while I hummed. That moment was precious.

Once we shook off the experience, we decided it would be a good idea to find out if that boy, born out of wedlock and given to house slaves, which they did as part of their passage for a time, had children of his own. That house and the land is his birthright. His mother will weep for eternity for him.

I have not returned to the house. I knew that next time, Uncle would be less pleased. I do believe he can harm me physically because he is a demon. Evil in life, evil in death.

Although I was taken to that location so my friend could believe that the unbelievable is everywhere. I am glad for him. Reassurance is nice in any form. I must end my story by explaining how I have this gift. My Granny was three-quarter Cherokee. I always wondered how she knew the things she did. My gift comes from my heritage, although I do not seem to have any Cherokee in me; such as features and skin color, I have the blood line. They respect the spirits. Also, when I am getting signals, or hearing stories in a way I cannot explain, I am wearing the full armor of God. Please understand that our battles are not earthly. The battle is between angels and demons. It is spiritual and wages war in our very presence. Believe; for the fight is a good fight. Angels and Demons also walk the earth. Do not tarry. Open your heart and you will see.

Respectfully yours,
My Strange But True Story Teller

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