The Barn House Ghost: An Interview

Hey Kar-bear, how’s it going kid?

My father and I call at odd hours. He being a farmer and me being a freelancer living on the opposite side of the world makes for difficult scheduling. At six am, New York time, he is already in the shop, looking over the hay baler with an overheated motor. At 7 pm Korean time, I give him a call.

“Got time to chat?”

Sure. What's up?

I know his time is limited, so I cut to the chase. “Do you remember our old barn house on Milo Center? I want to ask what you remember about that night you found me under the stairs.”

He chuckles, Oh yeah! You gave us a hell of a scare. We looked all over the house for ya’.

I laughed too, though the memory isn't funny.

What were you doing sleeping in that musty closet anyway?

On Milo Center, a wide hill above our hometown, our farmhouse rested and looked over fields of hay and corn. The house was a two-story, white Victorian-style building with drooping roofs and pointed windows. If not for Mom’s sunflower beds and the fresh coat of paint, it might have been spooky.

The Amish family that built the house decades before we inhabited it kept the second floor closed. My dad spent hours tearing down the wood partitions and insulating the rooms that would become his children’s bedrooms.

 By the time we moved in, the place was so clean that all memory of the Amish family's warnings was forgotten.

Here’s what I know.

I would sit up in my big-girl bed, staring at the Minnie Mouse poster illuminated by the nightlight underneath. I sat there for a long time, looking over Minnie's outfit, until I was sure everyone else was asleep. Then, I'd slide out of bed to the short hallway that connected our bedrooms to our parents'.

I loved the night. I did not have to play with my brothers or herd of male cousins who forced me to be the boring damsel in distress. I could do whatever I liked in the dark.

I reached the steep wooden steps and began my usual imaginary play.

Lion King was my latest obsession. “Long live the King,” I’d mutter, and slide down the steps, pretending to be Mufasa dropping to his death.

On the night I went missing, I was sliding down, step by step. Imagining cats and the wild plains of Africa until I felt a cold wind push against my back.

I turned. But nothing was there. I felt uneasy. I started to chant in a strange sing-song voice, “Mommy, Daddy. Mommy, Daddy.” But no one came. The stairs no longer felt like my refuge of solo play. The dark of my living room at the base of the steps shifted into something hollow and frightening.

I do not remember running up to the comfort of my bed and Minnie Mouse. Instead, my memory is sparse. I woke in a damp room. The ceiling was low, and I could hear my Mom yelling for me somewhere outside. I was too scared to move. I couldn’t even answer their calls. I shivered and cried until my father yanked the stiff door open.

“I don’t remember, Dad. I was just playing and maybe got stuck? I can't even remember falling asleep.”

Yeah? Well, it scared the shit out of me because your mother was going on and on about seeing a ghost the night before.

“Shit. What did she see?”

He took a moment to gather his thoughts. I knew he was also inspecting the engine in the hay bailer.

Well, she said she saw a man standing at the top of the stairs. She said he was wearing overalls and looked like her grandfather. She was too scared to move, worried that someone broke in and I was still out in the barn talking to Poppy. But when I got back, she said the man just sort of disappeared. I felt pretty bad for her. Your Mom’s always been a tough chick, so it was weird seeing her so shaken up. I looked around the house and checked the doors and windows, but everything was locked.

“Did she say what the man was doing at the top of the steps?”

Hmm no? He was just looking down them.

"Did Mom ever say she heard me calling for you guys?"

No, I don't think so.

“What do you remember about me being in the storage closet?”

He laughed again, I remember your mother was running outside, calling for ya'. Sometimes you kids would play in the cow barn or climb up into the tractors. For whatever reason, I thought you might be in the garage, so I looked there first. Then your brother came out and said he heard you crying in the closet, but the door was locked. I thought, huh, that’s weird, because I don’t think I ever even opened that damn door. And I kid you not, that thing was practically glued shut. I had to heave it open, and you were in there just sleeping. He laughs again. Jeez, kid, I seriously don’t know how you got in there.

“Me neither. What happened after?”

Oh, your mother gave you a good spanking, and you pouted all afternoon.

"I don't remember that either," I chuckled.

"Heh, you kids got your fair share of woopens. I imagine they all bleed together."

Writer’s notes: Shout-out to my father for taking my calls and chatting about anything. This was my first time interviewing someone for an article. It was fun to take notes and focus on my Dad’s side of this weird, potential ghost story.