We ask only to be reassured about the noises in the cellar and the window that should not have been open.
T.S. Eliot, “The Family Reunion”
Strawberry Plains Tennessee doesn’t bring about connotations of spooky or haunted, but for me it always has. My Grandparents’ house runs parallel to Interstate 40. I remember walking from our shoddy apartment up and down the hilly road to the mint green house, in my early childhood.
There’s even a Native American church at the end of the road. I would stare at the totem poles and the cars zooming by on the interstate in the background. That image haunting in it’s own right, said so much about modern Native American life in a way my a childish mind could understand.
My Grandparents have lived in that house on top of the hill my entire life; I’m 41 now. Three things have always remained the same: my Grandparents still live there, the house has always been mint green, and everyone in the family has had paranormal experiences there.
The inside has changed over the years. Gone are the wall to wall dark wood paneling. Gone is the smell of cigarette smoke; habits given up. The garage became a living room. Loyal pets are buried around the property. The wooden swing is hardly used anymore, replaced by a back porch table surrounded by hanging plants. The walls were painted a bright white, but even that never masked the eerie feeling you felt if you were alone.
I hated the basement most of all. It’s steep wooden staircase without railing challenged my fear of heights, always. It was dark and damp no matter how long the dehumidifier ran. It had housed my Uncle during his teenage years and my Grandpa’s Father in his final days. Under the stairs are the washer and dryer. Shelves line the far back corner filled with rows and rows of canned goods from the garden. A few small rectangular windows on the opposite side from the staircase let in wisps of light. It has cold concrete floors and walls. There is a pool table and a dart board surrounded by folding lawn chairs in the middle of the room. Sparingly along the wooden beams are light bulbs turned on and off by pull string. The children in the family were always made to play either outside or in the basement.
None of the grandchildren would stay down there alone. I guess you could chalk it up and say that’s just kids letting their imaginations get the best of them; all basements are scary right. It felt like punishment to be told to grab canned goods from the shelves or anything from the downstairs refrigerator for my Grandparents. I had to pep talk myself going down the stairs, “Don’t be scared. Don’t be scared. There’s nothing there.” Yet before I even made it across the room the temperature would drop and I’d be covered in goosebumps. I think everyone of us would grab the item and bolt back upstairs like our lives depended on it. So many times I felt a light tap on the back of my neck or felt like I was being watched. My cousins would tell me they saw shadows in the room, while playing video games in the basement. Lights would turn themselves on and off or you would hear disembodied whispers. Just remembering the basement now from the safety of my own home, I feel panic in my chest and cold running down the length of my spine.
Upstairs you can hear the constant tick tock of the grandfather clock with it’s chimes indicating the hours. It’s quiet on the property. Neighbors are within walking distance, but with woods in between. There is a steadying lull of the zooming cars from the interstate. Other times it was unnervingly silent. My Grandparents are fully aware that we think the house is haunted. My Grandma willingly would share her experiences, while my Grandpa remained the skeptic always telling us that we “were full of shit.” The ghost sighting of my Grandma’s that I remember the most, is the time she got up in the middle of the night for a glass of water. There is a long hallway from her bedroom to the dining area. She said that there was an elderly women dressed in all black sitting at the dining table. She had on a black hat with lace covering her face. I can’t remember if the woman, was crying or not. I always pictured her in my mind weeping. The lady turned to look at my Grandma then dissipated. My Grandma has seen her more than once throughout the years. My Aunt saw a similar lady hoovering over the bed, while she was sleeping one night in the back bedroom.
Common experiences involve what us grandchildren called the “Chip Monster.” In the kitchen is a microwave stand with shelving. All the snacks are on the microwave stand. Bags of chips or cookies would frequently fling themselves off the shelves on to the kitchen floor. So many times we would catch the blame for said deed. These snacks are not haphazardly placed. One night I was watching TV in the living room late at night. My Grandma was in the shower at the time, no one else was home. I heard rustling of the bags of snacks and thought maybe my Grandma was out of the shower. I ran to look, but no one was there. I turned and then more rustling. Then finally the whole shelf of contents just flung itself on the floor. Everyone would just make jokes about the chip rustling fiend saying “oh it was just the chip monster.”
Other instances are things that we don’t really talk about. Like that time we woke up to a freezing house. All the doors, cupboard doors, and even garage doors were open. I remember one of us saying that ghosts must have opened everything and then my Grandpa promptly getting mad. He being the skeptic was convinced someone broke into the house, opened all the doors, and didn’t steal anything. Another time my family sat in the living room late at night. Suddenly, the windows started vibrating and it sounded as if someone was slamming their hands up against every wall. My Aunt grabbed the phone to call the police, as my Mom screamed for us to stay in the house. My Mom and Grandma ran outside with a shotgun to scare off any intruders. They never found anything or anyone. We were told that it must have been teenagers playing tricks. I think that was just something they said to get us to go to sleep that night.
I think most of all its the feeling the house gives you. I could never understand how anyone could live in there. It always made me so anxious. Even when as an adult, bringing my own children to visit the house still unnerved me. Growing up we didn’t have the paranormal shows that are popular today. I just thought that everyone had these experiences. I thought ghosts were normal. I thought my family members having premonitions or other intuitive gifts was completely normal. We just didn’t have labels for any of it, it was just life.
I had a toy telephone that I would talk on, while sitting at the end of my Grandparents’ bar. I must have been around 3 years old. I would talk for hours to “my friend” on the telephone. Eventually, my talks with my imaginary friend started to make some family members uncomfortable. My paternal Grandmother got rid of the phone convinced that whatever I was talking to was something sinister.
So looking back, it is hard for me to say if it is so much the house itself, as it is my family. I think for generations there has been an unspoken truth that some of us just know certain things, see certain things, or feel certain things that others might not. We are part Cherokee (jokes aside). I mean card carrying Tribal members from the paternal side and whatever hodgepodge of Appalachian from my maternal. I grew up with stories about my Great-grandmother writing words on eggs in Cherokee and burying them in the ground or painting faces on eggs before tossing them over the Holston River Bridge. So it’s safe to say mysticism runs in the family, although I never wanted to end up on an egg.
And I still don’t ever want to be left alone in that mint green house on the hill.
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