Author: H.Griffiths

It was 1976 and I was living in Edinburgh, Scotland. My family and I would correspond to each other on a regular basis which help filled that void known as homesickness as well as keeping me up to date of the news from my beloved Fremantle.

One such letter arrived in July of that year and I remember vividly being filled with a feeling of dread when I read of my parents decision to purchase an old house in another part of their home suburb. At the time, I couldn't explain why I felt such panic at their decision, I felt rather mean spirited at not feeling excited for them. I returned home in December of 1976 to stay with my parents for awhile in the new family home.

Driving over the Stirling Bridge, the feeling of unease returned. My parents were chatting over what they planned in the way of renovations to the house and I did not want to spoil their happiness so I kept my thoughts to myself.

As we drove into the driveway, I realized that this was the house the neighborhood kids (including me) called the horror house. It might have been the widow's walk perched above the front porch or just the general appearance of the house that gained it such a name. Anyway, I remember as a child riding my bicycle along the street outside this house and joining in the ritual of scaring my friends and myself with imaginative descriptions of what was inside the house.

It was an enormous two story house that had been constructed in the mid 1880s for a gentleman who had received a land grant in the area of North Fremantle.

The entry to the house was up a small set of stone steps which led you to a small portico then through a heavy wooden door into the hallway. There were cherubs with garlands decorating the hallway arches and ornate plaster ceiling roses.

The limestone walls of the house were almost 3 feet thick and the ceiling height was 14 feet ( in old measurement terms). Upstairs, there were two very large bedrooms with their own fireplaces, a bathroom, a kitchen and a small enclosed rear verandah and a huge lounge that had 4 French doors opening on to a verandah which skirted three quarters of the house.

Leading off the hallway, was a set of stairs which led down to a wine cellar, a small sitting room with a door leading to the garden , another full sized room and a room that had been sealed up. The temperature was very cool in this part of the house. The house was set on a half acre block which was mostly lawn and trees with the remnants of some old stables at the rear of the land.

My first night in the house proved to be an eventful one. After chatting to my parents for a couple of hours, I retired for the evening. I am not sure what time it was, when I was awoken by the sound of very heavy and fast footsteps across the ceiling of my room. I lay there too terrified to move or call out to my parents, not that they would have heard me from their bedroom.

I tried to tell myself that I was being silly and of course it couldn't possibly be footsteps. A short while later, I heard the bathroom toilet flush and thinking it was one of my parents, I called out. There was no answer, so I got out of bed and went to see if someone was out there. There was no-one there so I went back to my bed but spent the remainder of the night in a very restless state.

At breakfast the next morning, I mentioned the happenings of the previous night and my father laughed and said that he was glad that the spooks knew how to flush the toilet.

Over the next few months, odd things started to happen. My parents have always had lots of pets mostly cats and dogs. A few of the cats died suddenly without explanation from the vet. Flowers brought into the house would wither and die very quickly. One day, my mother found her underwear strewn down the stairs. My parents who were always very healthy and rarely caught a cold, were stricken with a dreadful virus that lasted 3 months.

My father told me that one night after being asleep for awhile, he heard the bedroom door handle rattling. He could see the handle turning round and round, he finally admitted to me that he believed there was a presence in the house. From that moment on, my father stopped making fun of my so called imaginings.

We never did open the sealed room, we talked about it and decided that whatever the reason, it was best left undisturbed. It was as if the family knew that things were not right in that house and we didn't need to voice the feelings.

Almost a year after my parents moved into the house, I held my wedding reception there. After the event, I wrapped my wedding dress up in tissue paper and stored it in a heavy camphor chest. One day, in a fit of nostalgia, I went to the chest and took out my wedding dress. I almost fainted when I saw the front of the gown. It was as if someone had taken a cup of liquid and splashed it across the gown. The stains were brownish and appeared to be old blood. I yelled out to my mother and sister to come and see. They were equally shocked and my sister said she would take the gown home and see if the stains would wash off. I was very upset at finding my wedding dress in this state.

My sister called me later with the most chilling news. She had taken the gown out to her laundry and left it there while she attended to some other chores. When she returned to the laundry, she held the gown up to again inspect those horrible stains. It was her turn to feel total disbelief as there was not a trace of any mark on that gown. The fabric was a white as when it was purchased. After hearing this, I told my sister to dispose of the gown as I would not have it back under any circumstances.

My sister had given me as a wedding present, an oil painting and had inscribed in black biro, an endearment on the back of the frame. After the incident with the wedding dress, I turned the painting over to read what she had written. The words were no longer there and yes, the painting had been hung for awhile in the old house.

My marriage did not last and whilst I do not blame the house for that result, I do believe that something in that house knew that the union was doomed.

My parents finally moved from the house after spending 3 unhappy years there. I felt great relief in knowing that they no longer would be under the influence of whatever or whoever was living in that house.

These days,I often drive past the house as I head up Stirling Highway and still to this day, feel great unease and a sense of dread in remembering the days within its walls.