Our ghost was considerably quieter — but not silent — after that.
Within a couple of weeks, the house was filled with workmen. We gutted most of the house to remodel it. After that, we did not hear the boots upstairs on our new wall-to-wall carpeting.
We began using the new bedrooms on the second floor, and there were no further significant incidents in the house.
However, soon after that our marriage began to fail dramatically.
For awhile, I moved into another bedroom. Looking back now, I realize that I selected the room with the two little closets, but now I was the woman quietly weeping.
Things became worse. I couldn’t seem to sleep at night, and I turned into a self-pitying shrew, constantly demanding more and more from people around me.
My husband responded to my unhappiness by insisting that he was a victim, too. Soon, he became the man storming around the other bedrooms, and pacing in the hall.
He found comfort elsewhere.
To save our marriage and our sanity, we decided to move out of our lovely Victorian home, leave the town and even leave that part of the country.
My husband was convinced that something, perhaps invisible, was affecting him. That sounded a little strange to me but — at my wits’ end — I hoped a change of environment might help both of us.
As we prepared to move, the ghost resumed activity in the one upstairs bedroom that had not been remodeled. This was the room with the strange closet and unexplained “filled in” areas in the walls.
I’ve often wondered if there was a body in those walls. It’s probably triggered by too many Gothic novels and scary movies.
The windows in the un-remodeled bedroom were funny, each opening like a cabinet door. They swung in, with latching hardware like a medicine chest. Because we rarely used that room after the hauntings started, some of the windows’ latches were stubborn, or still rusted closed.
During the weeks before we moved, our ghost waited for me to go downstairs each day. Then, he opened the windows, one by one, in clockwise fashion. And, even on windless days, each window would thwap-thwap-thwap against the wall next to it. It was like a strong breeze was forcing it back and forth.
I’d go upstairs to close the one that had opened, and check all of the latches.
Then I closed the bedroom door behind me, to prevent any cross-draft… although these were always hot, breezeless days.
About five minutes later, the next window would open, thwap-thwap-thwap. I’d go upstairs, close it, and check the windows again.
This routine would go on, with the windows opening in clockwise sequence, for over an hour.
Many days, I’d leave the house just to get away from it. Sometimes when I returned, all of the windows were wide open. It was never just one or two. Either he opened them all while I was out, or he left them alone. There was no halfway with our ghost, and there was no pattern to this.
At other times, I’d stay at home, running up and down the stairs, trying to cope with the pounding noise of the windows. Then, I’d hear a low male laughter, and sometimes a woman quietly sobbing, as each window-opening session slowly drew to a halt.
This annoyed me, but it didn’t really frighten me. I can’t explain why. Something about it seemed logical. Even when we nailed the windows closed and they kept opening on their own, the experience wasn’t frightening. Maybe I was numb at that point.
What irritated me the most was that this usually happened when my husband wasn’t at home. At night when we slept upstairs, the house was as silent as any other older home. There were merely the usual creaks. I know, because I spent so many nights awake, miserable and too exhausted to sleep.
When I’d complain to my husband about the stress of dealing with the windows, I’m not sure that he believed me.
But, to be honest, I’m not sure I’d have believed my story, except that I was living it every day.
We left that house without looking back.
Within six months, my husband and I had filed for divorce. The stress of that house had left us exhausted and unable to communicate what we felt.
I have so many regrets about that, yet — looking back — I don’t see any other outcome after what we’d gone through. Instead of drawing us together, the stress of dealing with something invisible and menacing… it had driven us apart.
Since we moved out, at least two other families have lived in our former home. I’m not sure if they’ve encountered the ghosts. I hope that they didn’t and never will.
Though I miss my lovely home and have terrible regrets from that time, I do not miss the ghosts.
This house was the subject of a true ghost story, “Boots,” by Margaret Brighton, which appeared in FATE magazine in 1981.