Product Description

Once upon a time, my house was haunted. It still is. I began recording my experiences, hoping to one day share them. I kept waiting for the incidents to stop, so I'd have a logical conclusion to my book. So far, that hasn't happened. It may never happen. I'd like to get my story told before I become a ghost myself.

The True Story of a Haunting
Beginning in 1968 and spanning four decades, this true story chronicles the hair-raising experiences that nearly drove an ordinary housewife and mother to the breaking point.

Not every haunted house is an old Victorian mansion, as the author and her family discovered when they bought a modest house in the suburbs. Even a post-war starter home can be a dwelling place for earthbound spirits—especially if it holds a tragic secret from the past. Eerie feelings of being watched, disembodied sobs, mysterious scratches appearing on her throat, and a child's voice crying, "Mommy!" convinced M. L. Woelm that she was sharing her home with ghosts. This is her story.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #66368 in Books
• Published on: 2007-09-01
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Paperback
• 288 pages

Features

• ISBN13: 9780738710310
• Condition: NEW
• Notes: Brand New from Publisher. No Remainder Mark.
• Click here to view our Condition Guide and Shipping Prices

About the Author
M. L. Woelm (Minnesota) has experienced paranormal phenomena since she was a little girl. A retired grandmother, she enjoys exploring popular haunts around the world. She lives with her husband and her dog, Max, who loyally alerts her to every ghostly visitor.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
A Memoir of the Early Years

1: My First Look Around

March 1968: House Hunting Is a Drag

My story began the first day Paul walked into our apartment and announced that he had found a house for us. We had been house hunting for several weeks. Each trip began with eager anticipation and ended with the words, "We just can't afford this one." The houses I loved were always out of our price range.

We were a one-income family, period. Although many wives and mothers were carving out a nice spot for themselves in the workplace, Paul didn't want me to join them. He had a troubled childhood and seriously believed that children raised by a stay-at-home mom would fare better than those with a mother who worked outside the home. This meant less money, fewer material things, and the frustration connected with both. I stayed home with our two small children just to keep peace in the family, even though it meant living without a lot of things we needed and many things we wanted-including my dream house.

At first, we dragged the kids with us on the numerous househunting trips. The weather was still cold and snowy, so this meant boots, scarves, and lots of whining-and that was just me! Finally, to simplify matters, Paul began going out by himself. I didn't like that arrangement at all, but back in 1968 the assertiveness movement was still in its infancy. Come to think of it, I hadn't even heard the A-word yet. The afternoon Paul came home saying he'd found a house, I was overjoyed, in a suspicious sort of way. "Where is it? How much is it? When can I see it?" It was in Blaine, Minnesota, and the asking price was $16,500. We could just barely swing it. Paul called Jack, the Realtor, to set up a date for me to see the house. I arranged for a babysitter. I was so excited.

By the time Jack and Paul took me to see the house, the FHA people had already looked at it, given the owners a list of repairs that needed to be made, and assessed the value of the home at $12,500. When I called to share this good fortune with my best friend, Carrie, she asked, "What do you think is wrong with it?" I laughed and blurted out, "Maybe it's haunted!" Why I said that, I'll never know. Those prophetic words just popped out of my mouth. We cackled over my silly joke like our cartoon role models, Wilma Flintstone and Betty Rubble, and then got down to the business of discussing my long-overdue move. By this time, all my friends had abandoned apartment living and settled in new or nearly new homes in the 'burbs.

En route to my first tour of the place, the Realtor explained that the house was an older, two-bedroom expansion model. This style made its debut around the end of the Korean War, when these homes sprang up all over the country to accommodate returning war veterans. These structures were designed to be starter homes-built quickly and cheaply.

Is This Really My Home Sweet Home?

I'll never forget pulling up in front of the small clapboard house. I couldn't understand why anyone would paint this style of house in two colors, since it only accentuated how small it is. It looked like a sad little orphan in tattered clothes. Yet there it stood, proudly holding its head high, adorned with peeling white paint on its top portion and cracked aqua blue on its bottom half. I actually felt sorry for it. This was the awkward child in the orphanage whom no one wanted, the child always left behind after his pretty playmates were placed in good homes. I've always been a sucker for a hard-luck story, and now the orphan belonged to me. Although it's difficult to admit, I was embarrassed to end up with the worst-looking house in my circle of friends. Apparently, history really is destined to repeat itself-especially my history-because I grew up in a house that always looked shabby and rundown. My family never had any money, and even though my darling dad did his best to provide for the family, ours was the worst-looking of all my friends' houses back in those days too. I'd hoped for something better when I grew up.

Everything in Minnesota looks its scruffiest in March. I sighed as I gazed at my future home sitting on its bleak piece of property. There was no garage, but apartment living during the past six years had rarely afforded us a garage, so that was no big deal. There were a couple of massive oak trees in the front yard that looked pretty friendly despite their dormant state. I pictured the gnarled giants covered with leaves and flanked all around by green grass, flower gardens, shrubs, and maybe a white picket fence. I'd had my heart set on a house with a picket fence for as long as I could remember. Here was my chance to make that dream come true. If only I'd had a fairy godmother who could turn this melancholy property into a sweet little cottage with one grand sweep of her magic wand.

Two huge elms stood guard in the backyard, surrounded on three sides by an odd assortment of neighbors'...(Continues)