The Ghost in the White House

Science states that our first memories occur when we're at least three or so. However, my first memories took place way younger than that. My earliest memory is my grandma rocking me in a rocking chair in the kitchen. I was only a few months old. I remember a gum commercial playing on the tv. You know, the old ones with twins going around singing about double mint gum. I even remember my play swing in the corner of the room. I don't know how I remember this, but it is so vivid even after all these years.

I'm Judianne. Looking back at my life, it's been a rollercoaster. I've always believed in following my dreams, anything is possible. I believe in magic, because I've lived it. I've had my share of challenges, but I have made it through them stronger than before.

I was born and raised in a pretty white house in a small town, where most people knew each other for years. I was the oldest of the fourth generation that would call that house home. It started as a one room shack, that was gradually built onto until it was a four-bedroom house. Incidentally, the room that I used as my playroom was that original room. The walls were wooden covered head to toe in pictures of all that grew up there. The carpet was a bright red. I would lay on it and look up at the ceiling fan, which as it spun looked just like a record. There was a fireplace that I would climb up on and use as my stage. The vacuum would act as my microphone.

You may ask yourself what makes this special, but there was something different about this house. There was a room right off this living room that always had an eerie feel to it. Older family members would tell me stories of when I was a baby, looking back into that room and start crying. As I got older, I still had a weird feeling whenever I walked in there. There was a couch that was full of old dolls. There was always something about those dolls that gave me the creeps.

My favorite times was late at night when everyone else had gone to bed. I would put on my leotard and tutu, turn on my radio, and dance. Or I would kick back on the couch and look at my art book. There was a quiet, peaceful, yet eerie feeling in the air. Although I was obviously by myself, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was someone, or something with me. I never like I was in danger, it just felt weird.

My aunt and uncle would tell me ghost stories about the house, even going as far as taking me to the creepy doll room and pointing out the change in room temperature there. It always seemed slightly colder. Of course the only logical explanation of this had to be there was a ghost in there. I was told of situations where they would even see a ghost. A part of me was a little jealous, though another part of me is glad I didn't see anything.

Sometimes I would dare myself to go back to that room, waiting to see or hear something. I never felt like I was in danger, but I knew I wasn't alone. There was definitely a spirit around. I would learn to take it all in, to embrace it. That old white house has been gone for years, but the memories linger on. Sometimes when it's late, and I'm by myself, I can still feel it. In a strange, magical way, I'm never really alone.