Spooky stories

Growing Up In A Haunted House: A True Story

’Tis the time of year for a good scary tale

Photo by A on

(Note: I know this reads like fiction at first, but it’s a true story.)

It was almost midnight when I parked in front of the house where I’d grown up. I had driven, alone, back to my hometown for a birthday bonfire, all the while thinking of breaking into my childhood home.

I knew the house was empty. Two of the people who had lived there were dead. The third was in prison. None of them had lived there long. I was willing to bet that when my dad sold the house, he’d forgotten all about the old key we kept hidden in the garage. If the key was still there, I could probably slip right into the house.

Inside the console of my car, I kept an emergency flashlight, but when I took it out, the batteries were dead. This was years before anybody had the sort of phone with a built-in flashlight. If I went into the house I’d have to do it without a light.

This was a problem, because the reason I wanted to get inside was to see the murder room. I had tried and failed to get any information about the murder. The murderer, had pleaded guilty and had no trial, so few details were released. All I knew was that he had shot his fiancée or ex-fiancée…