Spooky Story
Katie was horrified by her home’s terrible past
You take it,’ I insisted. ‘No, you have it,’ said Becky. My mate Becky, 23, and I, then 21, had just moved into an old Queenslander.
The property was badly run-down but we were just happy the rent was low.
Now we were arguing over the back bedroom. Despite it having the best views, neither of us wanted it!
In the end we used it for storage as we had a bedroom to spare.
Soon after, we discovered the room was very damp, wrecking all our stuff.
‘That’s normal for an old Queenslander,’ the agent told us.
We also couldn’t open the garage but, as we didn’t need it, we didn’t worry about it.
It was summer but despite being 38 degrees it was always 15 degrees colder inside the house.
And, weirdly, if our boyfriends came over, the temperature seemed to plummet to the point where we could see our breath in the air and had to wrap ourselves in blankets!
‘It’s icy in here!’ shivered Becky, pulling on a jumper.
‘And it’s so hot and humid outside,’ I cried, puzzled.
All our friends thought the place was creepy and we hated being there alone.
Once, when Becky and I went away, we asked a friend to check on the place but she couldn’t get in.
‘The key turned but the door wouldn’t budge,’ she said. ‘It was like something heavy was behind it!’
‘That’s weird,’ I said.
One day, the agent sent a guy around to mow the lawn.
He had the garage key, so he unlocked it and Becky and I went in there.
Inside were dusty boxes of toys, children’s furniture, and suitcases filled with clothes for a boy aged five or six.
‘This stuff is from the 1970s,’ I cried, picking up a little boy’s old-fashioned shirt and pants. It was so creepy that Becky and I both ran out feeling sick.
That night, I was woken by someone crying. ‘Are you okay, Becky?’ I asked, going into her room.
‘It’s not me that’s crying,’ she gulped.
Working up the courage, we entered the back room. It was sopping wet.
‘The carpet’s soaked!’ Becky gulped.
‘And look at all the condensation dripping down the walls and windows!’ I cried.
It was like the bedroom itself was crying.
The next day we went straight to see the real estate agent.
‘What’s up with that house?’ I demanded. ‘The back bedroom is soaking!’
‘I’ll send a maintenance person around,’ he said.
Bewildered, Becky and I returned home. We bumped into a neighbour.
‘Do you know anything about our house?’ I asked.
That’s when we found out the awful truth.
A young boy had been murdered, in that same back bedroom.
When we told the real estate agent, he said he already knew and we were allowed to break our lease without a fee.
Fifteen years later, I think about that place often.
Did the temperature plummet each time a male entered the house because the little boy had been murdered by a man?
And was his sad spirit causing the dampness issues we had?
I guess we’ll never know, but I hope he’s at peace now.