From 1963 to 1967, I lived with my father and two brothers in an old house in Rochester, N.Y. It was a solid two and a half story three bedroom home built sometime in the 1920's. Even though worn, there were hardwood floors throughout the home. The formal dining room had a huge bay window with a
window seat and built in cabinets on both sides of the window, constructed of gum wood and leaded glass. The chandelier was made of brushed silver with blue highlights and 100 oval, beveled crystals that shimmered so beautifully in the sunlight The house had a parlor by the front door and a full pantry off of the very out-dated kitchen. The living room had an entire wall of gum wood and leaded glass cabinets with gum wood trim on ceiling and floor. 

We loved the house because it was the first one we could call our own, but the love affair with the house on Gothic Street began soon began to cool off when we all came to realize that the house was truly haunted.

It was the summer before my sixteenth birthday and I loved being alone to paint, write or just listen to my records. I was up in my room writing. Being at that age, I craved my privacy and always closed my door whether anyone was home or not. Also, I never felt secure in the house. I always had the feeling that I wasn't quite alone even in an empty house. 

I was totally absorbed in my writing, when a knocking started on my bedroom door. Fear coiled around me like a noose. It was loud and at first I thought one of my brothers had come home and was trying to scare me. I got up out of my chair totally shaken and went to the door. I held the cool glass doorknob in my hand. The knocking stopped. Just as I was about to open the door, the knocking started again. Not lightly as before, but pounding, as
if someone was beating the door with their fists. I was so afraid that I couldn't breath as terror filled me.

I leaned into the door, as there was no lock, hoping that who ever was out in the hall wouldn't try to come into my room. The pounding was persistent. I wanted it to stop. I needed it to stop. The awful, ear-shattering noise just kept on. Yet, as I leaned full weight into the door, I felt no vibration through the oak. For a moment, I thought I was losing my mind. I started to cry, feeling so alone and vulnerable and I slid to the floor, as I leaned
against the smooth wood, hoping that whatever was on the other side wouldn't try to enter. Then, abruptly, the pounding stopped. I didn't move. I couldn't move. My body seemed paralyzed, permeated with fear. Soon after, I heard footsteps on the wooden stairs. My heart almost burst with anxiety. Imagine my relief when I heard my Dad's voice and my brothers close behind asking if I had finished my project. I was never so happy to see my brothers and
father as I was at that moment.

They had not heard a thing when they came into the house, but soon, in time, would all know the fear that I experienced that night in the house on Gothic Street.