The First Time I Saw a Ghost

Twenty-seven acres of mountain land surrounded the pre-Civil War farmhouse that sat majestically on a hill. Twelve large rooms, three chimneys, two outbuildings, an old barn, and a gravestone belonging to a little girl who had been killed by a carriage in front of the house – this was my new home.

On the day we moved in, my father told my younger brother and me to run upstairs and pick out our rooms, and I chose the first one on the right at the top of the stairs. An attic ceiling, a small closet, and two tall cathedral windows was the perfect place for a four-year-old little girl, and I settled into my new life as a country girl.

I had never heard the terms ESP and paranormal, and I didn’t think about ghosts and the afterlife. I was too busy living in my own world of tire swings, Barbie dolls, mud pies, and treehouses. It was an ideal place to raise children.

The gravestone wasn't dug up until years later and it still leans against the old apple tree.

My mother was a stay at home mom and my French-Canadian father wanted it that way, so she found things to occupy our time before I was to attend school the following year.

She made one room downstairs a sewing room and there she kept her ironing board, her linens, and such, and it’s where my brother and I hung out with her sometime during the day.

Our lives were filled with joy, adventure, and farm life, and after my father purchased several chickens, ducks, and geese, our life seemed complete.

Moving into the old farm during the summer seemed ideal. Fresh mowed grass, hay bales, playing in the creek, and gathering eggs, our days were full. The winter cold seemed far away, yet Christmas came before we knew it. My older sister, who was the child of my mother and her first husband, chose not to live with us at the farm but stayed back in the city to finish school with her friends. Although she missed her, my mother understood her need for a normal teenage life and the drive was only an hour, so it wasn’t too bad for anyone.

One day my mother gave my brother and me the chore of taking Christmas packages up to my sister’s room. She would visit often, and my mother wanted her to have her own room, her own little space in our big farmhouse, and she chose a side room off the master bedroom. She was coming up for Christmas and we were excited to see her.

The Secret Room

This tiny room was known as “the secret room” because back in the day, the unwed daughter lived there and if she was so brazen as to sneak out of the house in the middle of the night to meet a boy, she would have to go through her parent’s bedroom and they would catch her in the act.

Whether that was true, it made for a delightful story.

My brother, a three-year-old toddler, did his best to carry small gifts up and down the stairs and my mother instructed us to place them under my sister’s bed. Keeping a close eye on him as he climbed the 13 steps, she smiled. She took such joy in her two young children.

Being told she and my father could not have kids, we were their pride and joy. She was 35 and my father 38 when I was born, and I liked that. I liked the fact they were older and knew what they wanted and what they wanted was children. Fourteen months later, my brother was born, and our family was complete.

As my brother completed his turn and wobbled back down the steps, my mother would give me a package to take upstairs to hide under my sister’s bed. “Hold on to the rails,” she would call from the living room.

We took turns in the fun Christmas game and I remember when it was my turn, how happy I was to be doing something to surprise my sister. Although she was 11 years older than me, I enjoyed having a big sister to look up to.

The bedroom was small and painted a lovely light shade of lavender with a twin bed up against the wall under the window. To the left was a tall closet with a vintage brass door handle. My mother kept the door shut, using it as storage. In the closet were boxes and old clothes, and a vintage green evening gown hanging on the back of the door.

As I made my way into the room with the package, I noticed something was different, off.

The closet door was now open, and I could see the elegant green evening dress, but that was impossible. The door handle had a latch on it, and we were told never to play in there, but yet there it was, open.

I remember when I walked into the room, I felt funny, and as a four-year-old could not describe the feeling, but I can now. It was as though I was underwater and walking through a slight current. My arms were heavy, and it was difficult to move. I now refer to that feeling as “being haunted” and I have come to recognize it as I am about to enter into a paranormal experience. When it happens, I cannot back out, I must walk through it and face whatever is about to happen.

However, at four years old, I was terrified.

My eyes fell onto the open closet door and standing inside the closet was a little girl in a long white nightgown. She looked like me, with pale skin and long blonde hair. Standing with her was an older boy wearing blue jean overalls, and he looked at me with an angry expression on his face.

I could “hear” them talking to me. They were talking, yet their mouths were not moving, but I could hear them clearly. She “told” me she had gotten into trouble for going downstairs and “talking to the woman in the sewing room.” The older boy was keeping her there for some reason and although it was unclear, I knew one thing, they were ghosts and she was not to have left that room and go downstairs.

He lunged at me with something in his hand. As a kid, I have no idea what it was and although this was no man, an older boy was just as scary as a grown man when you find them standing in your sister’s closet!

He chased me from the room and when I looked back, I could see he could not cross over the line from that room into the master bedroom. I ran into the nearest room with a door and screamed bloody murder.

My mother who was downstairs waiting for me was wondering what was taking me so long to come back down the steps. When she heard me scream, she dropped the packages she was holding and ran to my side.

I had locked the bathroom door and would not let her in. Frantic, she finally convinced me to open the door. I was screaming, crying, and shaking all at the same time. I told her what I saw, and what happened with the boy and the little girl, and instead of punishing me for making up stories, she believed me.

She too had seen the girl downstairs in the sewing room, just as I had said, and she had told no one for fear of scaring us. We were too young to hear such stories about our new home.

After that, she sat me down and told me what she could for my four-year-old mind to comprehend. She said she would tell me more when I got older and she did.

My mother was a third-generation psychic medium who had the gift of communicating with Spirit. I too have the gift.

She said I had the choice to either do nothing or to help others.

My life changed from that moment and has never been the same.

Now an adult, I have had countless encounters and over the years have been able to recognize my gift as “clairaudient”, I hear “them” more than I see them. I have helped many people reach out to their loved ones who have crossed over, and I have given messages that have brought the living comfort and peace.

After 53 years, I still live in that old pre-Civil War farmhouse and although I spent my childhood in fear of that room, it is now my clothes closet and I am no longer afraid.

I have accepted who and what I am and have chosen to use my gift to help others.

As for the little girl… she belonged to the tombstone we dug up when renovating the barn. She was eight years old and had been killed back in the day in front of our house by a horse and carriage. I hope she is finally at peace. ♥