I grew up in a Victorian farmhouse at the top of a hill in small town, Iowa. As my parents joked so many times it made me want to throw up, "It was built by a doctor before doctor's were rich".
I was 4 years old when my parents took me to see our new house. They were all smiles and excited for my reaction. I can clearly remember the horror and the feeling of my fervent head shake as I cried out, "I don't wanna live in a witch house! I don't wanna live in a witch house!".
With its' steep peaks and gables, peeling yellow paint with BLACK trim (were they paying homage to the U of Iowa Hawkeyes??), and overgrown "landscaping" it DID look like a haunted house in any children's storybook.
My feeling of dread only grew when I learned that it had been built by a doctor and that his office had been on the property in a building that had since been destroyed. I knew with all my being that people had died at this house and that their ghosts were still there.
Little did I know that the real haunted memories of the house were still to be created by our family.
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