It was the Christmas holiday in 1997. I was attending a military professional development course in Georgia at the time and had a number of personal belongings stored at my parents’ home in Newton. I had arranged to pick up those belongings to move into an apartment in Durham and requested the help of my younger sister in loading my pickup truck with items that required two people to move.

I arrived at my parents’ home at about 11:00. The doors were open as they had been arranged to be, but my sister was not there as I had instructed her to be. Peeved, but still needing to haul my belongings, I moved upstairs to the storage room where my things were and began moving items to the bed of my truck.

I began moving the mattress of my bed across my mother’s bedroom when I heard the sound of tromping on the stairs. The sound was the sort of clumsy footfalls that my sister was known for, so I figured that it was her. I called out, “Hey, Wendy! Come give me a hand with this mattress, will you.” No answer. “Wendy, come on! I could use a little help here!” Still no reply. Puzzled, I let the mattress lean against my mother’s bedroom wall and headed toward the stairway. No Wendy. I walked down the stairs and all around the house calling my sister’s name. No reply, no evidence that she had ever been there.

Months later, my mother was talking to several people who were visiting about strange experiences she had had since moving into the house three years before. In one instance, she awoke to see a man standing over her bed cursing at her and threatening to shoot her head off.

At this time, I related my odd experience to my mother — she was not present for my ordeal of moving my belongings by myself. She believes that the footfalls might have belonged to the young lady.

She then related that my stepfather had found a rifle in the basement when they moved in and that he had talked with a neighbor who familiarized him with some of the history behind the house. Apparently, the house had been a small apartment complex early in the 20th century, and a young lady had been hired to take care of a woman who married to a rather unpleasant fellow who had a drinking problem. This young lady stayed in the area that is now a large craft room. (When my parents bought the place, it was the dining room and kitchen, as all the working pipes were in this part of the house.) She had made an announcement that she was engaged to be married, and a few days later, she allegedly shot herself. My mother is convinced that the man shot her.

When I go to stay at my parents’ house for holiday visits, I am always reluctant to go upstairs. There is a point at the bottom of the stairs that feels “out of phase” with the rest of reality. (That is the best way I can describe the feeling I get when I pass over the first three or four stairs of the stairway.) The guest bedrooms have an eerie feel about them, and I don’t always feel alone when I am there, especially at night. I can make myself at home in many places, but I don’t feel comfortable here at all. I usually sleep on the couch, even when the guest bedrooms are available, because I feel strange in most every room beyond the stairs.

Michael D. Moore retains the sole copyright © 2001 for this article.