My Haunted House

The question that many people ask, within a few minutes of stepping inside our house, is: "Is it haunted?!" It's a 116-year old Folk Victorian with a gothic wrought-iron fence around the front yard. The ceilings are 12-feet tall, with plaster walls about a foot thick, windows leaded and wavy. There's five coal fireplaces and every area seems to have ten doorways.  A warren of rooms lead you from one to the next. It's got porches all around and ancient plants deeply rooted in the yard. There's nothing new about it, except where tasteful and careful kitchen and bathroom necessities have been updated. The old floors don't creak. They were finely joined, with many details, by some insanely skilled craftsmen. The mantels are each a work of art and have been preserved by past, loving owners. We were lucky to buy it, right at the bottoming-out of the downturn. We had to trade in our much-loved homeplace on acreage to get it, but it left us without debt and in a place that makes a dandy Papa and Yaya house. The question still looms: is it haunted?

Our society seems to think there are ghosts everywhere. There's all sorts of reality shows and people chasing poltergeists. Thousands of movies feature gore and havoc stirred up by displeased, floating souls. In my realtor treks, I am often asked by clients if I believe a house is haunted. Sometimes there are freakout sessions because of a strange doll or hole in the wall or a spooky feeling in some of the houses I show. This happens a lot. But I have my own story that I'd like to share...

Ken and I bought a huge fixer-upper home from an estate. A dead guy's estate. A man who had, unfortunately, killed himself. Thankfully, he didn't do it on the property. That might have been too difficult to deal with. There was a profound somberness as we talked with the family and entered into this huge project. The house was only half built and standing roof-high in weeds. Our goal was to bring joy to it, even as a testament to God's life-giving spirit. At the time, we had two toddlers and were pregnant with a third. Ken worked nights and we were living in a friend's basement apartment. I would leave out after breakfast to work on the house so he could get some sleep and quiet for a few hours. 
The first day that the children and I walked into the empty house, I heard heavy footsteps upstairs, directly above us. I yelled "Hello!" and carefully proceeded into the hall. Creeping across the downstairs, I kept hailing the ghost, with no response. Curiosity got the better of me as I slowly climbed the stairs. I even hollered out things like, "Hey Ken, honey, somebody's here." (Remember, Ken was back at the apartment in deep snooze by now). Great security tactic when you don't have a weapon on you. Eventually I realized there was nobody else in the house. At least no Body. I got busy and shook off the spookiness, but we didn't stay long. Ken had to work several days of overtime, so he didn't go to the house until a week later. I told him about the phantom that had made his presence known every day we were there. He thought I might be leaning towards the dramatic and brushed it off. 

Bright and early the next Monday, we pulled into the yard. I wondered what Ken was going to think about our little (well, he sounded big) friend. I didn't say a word when he opened the door and walked in. Within a few minutes, Mr. Casper began his heavy trod across the ceiling. Ken jumped, then grabbed a large metal tool. He went into Ninja mode, crouching around corners and anticipating a blood-thirsty mercenary. After an exhausting search with no visible results, he turned to me: "I'm sorry, Rose! I didn't believe you." He then made a call to my Daddy, who made haste to come over to the house. We stood around, hands linked, and prayed over that abode, over the other family, over us. With the most sincere of hearts, we asked the Lord to bind Satan in the name and through the blood of the Lord Jesus Christ. We had a good laugh and went about our business. It took us six months to finish that house, and then lived there quite merrily for the next eight years. The "ghost" was never heard from again. Not a peep, creak or even one chilly draft.

We're not charismatic, heck we're not even non-denominational anymore. We don't watch scary movies and we've never celebrated Halloween. And now we live in a really old house that people want to believe is haunted. So what's my take on all this? From the scriptures, we can find truth about these things. The Bible says that it is appointed once for a man to die, and then the judgement. Once. If you're dead, you're dead. You're not floating around. You're either in heaven or in hell. But the Bible also says that there are spiritual beings, both angels and demons. Good and bad. And there are entities on this planet that we cannot explain. He also tells us that we are to take dominion of this earth and to pray against principalities and powers that are evil. This spiritual warfare, in my opinion, can attach itself to all sorts of things and people. I know that I am not in a bubble, life is not ever going to be perfect, and I may have bad things happen to me at the hand of evil people and things. But I also know that, as a Christian, the Lord is working all things for my good (Romans 8). I have that confidence and do not have to be afraid. When we prayed over the weird spirit that seemed to be in our house, we knew that God had the preeminence. We never had to doubt or to be fearful of what something might do to us. God's on the throne and Satan has to flee in His name. 

When we bought our Victorian, we did as we have learned to do. We prayed and dedicated it to God and His glory. These flawed, sinful souls that live in it are firebrands that He picked out of the flames, redeemed bearers of His mercy. So when someone asks me if our house is haunted, I just tell them, "Yeah, it is. With the Holy Ghost."