The Haunted Victorian

It’s no secret in my town of only five hundred residents that the house I live in is haunted. In 1911, the original owners were murdered maliciously in an act of jealousy and greed. The killer—who was never found—had had an affair with the wife of Gregory O’Malley, and couldn’t take it anymore.

The name of the lover was Fredrick Banks, and all that I know is that one night he shot Mr. and Mrs. O’Malley in cold blood on September of 1911.

When my parents bought the house about a year ago, it was because the old Victorian had been fully restored with all the old elements in tact. They were not told by the previous owners of the hauntings or the murders. They were not informed about the number of families that had fled the beautiful house at a moment’s notice, and no one said a thing about the girl my age that was mysteriously murdered in the house five years ago.

December 1, 2010

“It’s gorgeous, Dad.” I said as I gazed at the ninety-nine year old Victorian.

My mom got out of the car slowly, adjusting her Gucci sunglasses and Prada skirt. Always prim and proper, my mom can’t stand to have a hair out of place. She looked at the house and her mouth tilted downward in disgust.

“How is it we ended up with such an old house, David?” My mom asked my dad, who was just turning the key in the lock and opening the front door.

My dad glanced back at my mom, “Ann, this house was fully restored two years ago and it was a steal. I’m actually surprised it was on the market for as long as it was.”

I followed my dad into the foyer. It was beautiful; the white marble floors were polished and obviously not the original flooring for the room. The ceiling ended at the top of the second story, so I could see some of the second floor, and the spiral staircase was like none I’d ever seen.

The kitchen was right off the foyer. It had all new stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. The cabinets were original to the house, but were sanded and stained a darker color.

All in all, the house was a sight for sore eyes. But, there was something that was nagging at my conscience also, something that made me think not all was well in this beautiful house.

September 15, 2011

It’s eleven thirty at night and I can’t sleep. I lay staring at my white ceiling, the curtain billowing from my open window in the late night breeze.

I hear creaking outside my door, but dismiss it as my mom going to bed after her last glass of wine for the night.

My thoughts drift to the cute new Police officer in town, Tony. He’s twenty-one, the Sheriff’s son, and the apple of all the girls’ eyes in town. His brown hair falls just below his hazel eyes, and he frequently pushes it out of his way. There’s no denying he’s an attractive guy, and it’s also pretty obvious that he’s got those hazel eyes set on me.

Twenty minutes later I’m falling asleep thinking of Tony when I hear my mom let out a blood-curdling scream.

I jump out of bed and race down the hall to the master bedroom, my pulse pounding in my ear from the sudden rush of adrenaline.

I throw the door open to the master bedroom and what I see freezes me in my tracks.

My mom is lying on the bed in a pool of her own blood, pouring out from a hole in her head. Her eyes are staring at me, motionless, and dead. I scream so loud my ears start to ring in pain. I stumble back and trip over something. The pain vibrates through my foot, but I don’t care.

My back hits the wall behind me and that’s when I get up and run to my room. I grab my cellphone off my nightstand and dial 911.

Except the screen on my cellphone is black, and I can’t get it to work.

I start to panic. The adrenaline rush is starting to diminish, and my whole body is quaking in fear.

I run downstairs to try for the landline, but I can’t find the phone anywhere. I don’t know what to do anymore, and I know I’m not imagining the loud footsteps that seem to be coming down the stairs.

The back door is locked, and of course no matter how much strength I put into it, I can’t turn the lock. I don’t understand what’s happening.

Tears of fear stream down my face in rivlets. I start for the front of the house, running because I feel my life depends on it, and for the second time I am frozen.

Standing in front of me is my mom, hole still dripping blood from her head, eyes unseeing and blank. But she’s standing in front of me with a smirk on her lips, an evil smirk that sends chills down my spine.

I can’t believe my eyes, can’t process what is happening right in front of me. I scream and turn around, running again towards the kitchen. I turn my head for just a second to see if she is behind me, and run smack dab into what feels like a brick wall.

My screams get louder as I recognize the face of Gregory O’Malley, the husband who was killed in this house almost one hundred years ago.

“She’s a cheater...cheater...CHEATER!” He yelled, and proceeded to run through me. I spun around and watched in horror as Greg O’Malley attacked my mom. They continued to fight.

All of a sudden, my dad came bursting into the house. He saw someone attacking mom, and I knew what he was going to do before he even did it.

It’s almost like it was slow motion when he reached for the gun on the side of his belt. Gun in hand, he aimed at Greg O’Malley, and fired the gun.

The bullet soared in mid-air. I was right behind the ghost of Greg O’Malley, but my dad wasn’t aware that Greg was a ghost.

My life flashed before my eyes., and then it ended as the bullet hit my chest.