The House At The End Of The Street

There is a house at the end of the street that sits at the top of my street.

It looks exactly like the rest at first glance, nothing special about it. The home sits peacefully at the corner where two roads intercept, greeting cars that pass each way. Quickly passing eyes won’t notice anything off about the warm bricked home, the eyes of frightened children see more.

Looking closer at the seemingly ordinary home the window fixtures no longer match the aesthetic of the surrounding homes. The white paint still trying to desperately cling to the wooden fixtures as the weather breaks down the wood. The curtains, barely visible through yellowing windows, are discoloured and old like they have stood in silence for years. Following the overgrown grass and decaying driveway up to the front door, standing painfully shut, still trying to protect the sickly building.

Although the building looks old and ailing, it fights to protect a dark and devastating history.

Tales of the event, unfortunately, still seep out of the cracks that slowly grow and engulf the decaying plot.

The home, like many in the estate, belonged to a young, growing family. A young couple, moving here to give their young child and baby on the way a safe place to grow and discover the world. The home backs on to a beautiful path that is surrounded by open grass with tall, strong trees scattered around, full of wildlife.

Everything for the couple was perfect. That was until one night, not long after they had moved in, the late 1990s. No one knows what really happened. The details of what lead up to the family’s eventuality have only been speculated about.

No one has been inside since the police were finished.

It is said that the husband went crazy. His behaviour wasn’t sudden, per se. It was more of a gradual build, he grew more and more irritable. Some people say it was the stress of a new and bigger home, his job, or, a few people think, his true self was starting to break through his perfect doll facade.

People say that he kept his family locked inside the house for a week, gagged ad tied up. He was said to have beaten them and slowly their bodies gave out. Their souls finally free. Soon after, he took his life. Some people say to continue his heinous deeds towards his family in the afterlife, others say he did it so he didn’t need to pay for what he had done.

Whatever the reason, the events that took place inside the walls of the home were whispered away with him.

Everyone is told to stay away from the house. Some of those who got too close started to feel different. A rage that they couldn’t control.

Some say if you watch the windows long enough you can see him pacing back and forth in the living room. His pregnant wife and young child can occasionally be seen upstairs, not calling for help or pacing hoping to escape. She stands at peace, looking out the master bedroom window, with her toddler in one arm and soothing her pregnant belly with her other hand.

If you see all of them at the same time, you’ve never to keep looking.

Walk away as if you saw nothing. If he sees you looking upstairs, like you can see someone, he will follow you home and pour his energy into your home, hoping for the same fate to come to you. Keeping his secret hidden from prying eyes.

The house still stands, the grass was cut by neighbours. A new couple bought the house a few years ago. They use it as a holiday home so the neighbours cut the grass for them now. The couple only stays for a few weeks over summer and winter.

The rest of the year the house lies seemingly empty too quickly passing eyes but to the eyes of frightened children and those who know of this tale, the house is never empty.

Just remember to always count who you see.

Him, Her, Toddler…

The Inspiration

The “haunted house” this story is based on isn’t actually a haunted house. Instead, the house is just a house. I moved house when I was five and when I moved I made new friends who had lived in the area their whole lives. Pretty much everyone was under ten years old. We would walk around the estate knowing where we could and couldn’t go. This house wasn’t where we normally played but sometimes we’d end up in the area behind it. There was a lane near it and if I went that way it was quicker to get home.

I made the mistake of asking the older kids why that house looked different from the others. The front garden was overgrown, the windows still had the old wooden fixtures on it (majority of home at change to PVC), and it looked run down. There was never a car in the driveway and no one ever came or went. It wasn’t out of the way either. The house in this estate stood maybe two or three people shoulder to shoulder apart. The neighbour on one side was close and the other side was slightly further due to the bend. This house sits on a corner.

The older kids told me the story above. That the house was haunted and that going near the door was certain death. You know, ghost stories, but to a five year old who is brand new to not just the area but the town.

This was all real.

A few years ago, I noticed that the house had been fixed up and the neighbours took turns cutting the grass. I told my Mum the story I heard when I was younger and we had a good laugh. She told me what was really going on with the house. It wasn’t a haunted house and it had never been a haunted house. The house had belonged to a couple who lived in Spain and they used it as a holiday home. The house was getting work done on it as it needed to be updated and they might be selling it. I don’t know if it has been sold but I always take a good look when I pass by to see if I ever see any ghost in the haunted house. Old habits die hard, I guess.