I grew up in a three-story, Victorian house with five bedrooms, constructed in the year 1889, located seven miles north of Boston. It seemed like a small house, even then, probably because I was crammed in there with not only the parents but also with eleven brothers and sisters, my dad’s parakeet, my occasional pet dog, and a ghost.
The house only had one bathroom which freaked out some people living there.
But the one bathroom did not freak me out.
The ghost, on the other hand, did!
Forty-four Fifth Street looked like any other house from the outside, warm and inviting, and the sunny exterior fooled most people. But beyond the enclosed front porch, if you turned the brass doorknob and walked past the heavy oak door, you’d reach the dreaded parlor — residence of the entity — AKA, “The Ghost.”
The parlor, unlike any other room in the house was always clean, somewhat formal, dark, cold, and mysteriously empty of the living, except when we had a lot of company and people had no choice but to spill into the parlor.
Interestingly enough, the only time that parlor was a happy room, was at Christmas time. I thought it was because we had the Christmas tree there, so that’s where we opened our presents. At a tender young age I had it all figured out that only the magic of the season was powerful enough to scare The Ghost into submission.
Was it real?
Or maybe the disembodied entity was just a product of the childhood imagination of a budding writer.