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The Experience That Changed Her Life
So I have always been into the paranormal and I was lucky enough to get the chance to investigate the lovely Zalud House in Porterville in August of this year. This was my very first investigation (been on four now total) and it was a very strange experience for me because it was so outside of my realm and I got to do something I have always wanted to do.
So this is a story that is basically my own experience but I written it in the third person because it felt and still feel so unreal. I don't know if that makes sense to anybody. So when you are reading it, remember this isn't a fake story, it actually is my experience, and it was awesome.
I hope you enjoy the story, let me know what you think.
It is all about getting new experiences. She stared at the house that had long also ran its course, what once was a masterpiece of beauty and wealth, now stood among other broken down houses whose owners had long ago passed into the realm of death. The smell of mothballs and musk stained her clothing as she walked through the small hallways, so tightly together that it felt suffocating. The living room with its grand windows-once held a body for three whole days so people walking past the house can pay their respect- heaviness in the doorway that squeezed the heart like a hand.
Old furniture, falling apart, once was used by those alive, the small two-seater couch still held the quilt of the last remaining person of the family, who died in the same house, in her late mother’s bed. The armchair, the master of the house, his newspaper laid spread out on his favorite seat. An old piano, sat in the corner, alone and dusty, rusting slowly, pictures of the family, fading and fading, on the wall above it. Unsmiling faces glared through the pictures at her as she walked past, as if showing their grief that people come to their house as if it was a zoo, staring at the family in pictures like animals in cages.
She walked through the living room to the dining room with its hanging chandler that glistened in the artificial glow of the dim lights. The table set for ghosts, silverware rolled around in napkins sitting on top of flowered plates on faded placements. A lone chair was pushed outwards-even ghosts like routine.
A bell placed on the corner of the table-rung a total of ten times when nobody who was still capable of bleeding was around. The kitchen was behind-she was only able to step aside for mere seconds for reasons unknown other than an uneasy feeling that left her dizzy.
A blind walkthrough, going upstairs, steep stairs, the terror was all upstairs. Rooms full of manikins, dressing in their clothing, standing in front of beds, on beds, behind beds, hiding behind doors, hiding in the corners. Their beds had the family’s original bedding, a reminder of a family growing up, growing old, and dying. The son, only sixteen, died first. His horse smacked him in the head, he died instantly. His father, died in the city hall, a bullet in his head, an obsessive woman gave him the final shot.
A court case, a year before the fatal shot, a woman obsessed, tried to make him run away with her. When failed, she told lies to police, of rape and molestation, even today in death, he couldn't escape the false charges, curses of him being a monster yelled into the sky by those who do not know the whole story.
His chair resides in his son’s room, the bullet hole, a focus of attention, covered with men’s clothing as if to hide the fact that a crime occurred in the chair. Beside it, pins and gadgets, so proud, an old razor sitting in a glass jar-a masterpiece by itself.
The mother died soon after of unknown cases, probably broken heart syndrome, she was the only person whose body sat in the window for three days, the son only had a day, the father a day and night, the two girls, one died in a nursing home in Los Angeles, her grave the only one not with the others, had her wake at a funeral home, her body on show for less than an hour. The other girl, the one died in the house, didn't get that luxury. Her body was never for display-seems a bit unfair.
Beside it, the bathroom, the only bathroom, small, pink, wallpaper peeling. An old bathrobe was hanging on the door; the toilet hadn't flushed in years, the bathtub stained with the line of where the family preferred to fill it to.
A red room, dark, too dark even with lights on, a large bed and a small bed, the girls’ room. A chair stood by the door, its tram slowly falling off. A picture of the son again hanging on one side of the room, a mirror on the opposite side-some say his face was imprinted forever on the mirror-what an interesting sight. A man’s uniform, resting against the wall, a beautiful blue faded dress laid out on the bed-signs that this family when alive used to have money. Rough, ticklish rugs that smelt like old woman, making the room look darker than what it would be if it just had its beautiful wooden floors.
A grand room, used as a sewing room, held one of the only clothing that the family didn’t own-a wedding dress from around the 1900’s. The dress had a pull of energy to it, it didn’t belong in the house-the family must be mad to have it in their home.
There was a basement, closed to the public, the foundation cracked, unsafe, outside was a garden that was like a mini maze. Dying flowers from the valley drought destroyed the beauty that the family once spent so much pride on making back in 1900. The caretaker, only allowed to plant the same plants that the family once planted, embarrassed by the failure that this year of no rain caused. Cockroaches, waterbugs, and black widows crawled around the ground while kittens jumped and played with joy, their mama closely by to monitor.
Streetlights outside, a smoker opposite side of the street from the house, watching, smoking, phone in hand. Back inside the house, time for light’s out and the main reason of coming. Flashlights out, voice recorders out, upstairs first. She was told to sit in the red room, her back to the bed, flashlight off, complete darkness, recorder on, it’s time to tempt fate.
People getting touched, voices whisper into ears, footsteps down the hallway, she experienced none of it. She sat, her back getting tickled by something behind her, she didn't look. Cars zoomed by the house, little hums that relaxed. People joking as they shuffle, blurp, stomach growl, all must be reported out loud.
The bell from downstairs rang, she heard that. Little clicks echoed throughout the recorders during playback, nobody could claim the noises. A light going across the room, the outline of the hand outside the window, the dark mass that had nothing outside to stand on. A trick of the mind, real, neither real or fake, nobody could know.
Eight different EVP sessions, only seven recorded, the recorder never turned on for two and was accidentally turned on one time, disappointing failure. Footsteps never sounded cooler when nobody was walking and the sound of breathing when alone was awe inspiring. Moving, shuffling, thirty, hot, oh god so hot, move from room to room, asking questions to nothing and everything at the same time. Just need a sign. Just one sign.
Move downstairs, take a break, take pictures, never stop taking pictures. Catch images that made no sense, a human shape before a window, a picture of a gliding orb that was moving down the stairs, take a picture right afterwards, the orb was gone.
Smile and sit through religious mumbling about protection against spirits and what happens if they follow you home, the people who died after going to places they shouldn’t be going, a cross should be worn, she would rather a spirit kill her. She was never one for God or any religious cults. Nod while listening to the same person talk about abandoned places and why they should be avoided, diseases, mold, bacteria that would one day kill, of holes desperate to swallow naïve people whole.
Break over, time to get back to work. Sit in the living room, first floor, in a group, ask questions to spirits unknown. Footsteps from above, as clear as possible, could be heard, walking down stairs, nothing was there.
Move to the dining room, sit in the corner, face under the table, nothing happened. The bell rang once, footsteps, nothing appeared. Sitting, smelling mothballs, coldness ran behind her, a tickling sensation ran down her back, she scratched, that was that.
Move to the parent’s room, a room with no doors, just a bed and a desk, the daughter died of disease right on the bed. Nobody knew what disease she died from. Sit around, stare around the room, notice everybody looking toward the kitchen, hesitantly turn to. See nothing-no-see a blue light-no-a shadow-no nothing-no wait a shadow again-no a blue light-maybe she really had no clue what they were really seeing but she didn’t want to admit it.
Dust particles, maybe, floating right beside her face like a person passing, a growl, lightly, she couldn’t be sure. Lights back on, the night was over but she wanted pictures. Everybody else wanted to leave. She walked through the house one more time, taking pictures after pictures of every room. Half the pictures, blurry, she was standing still, others looked normal, a few terrified her. Walking upstairs in the dark, no light, steep stairs, almost tripped, could have been a new member to the ghost family.
Take more pictures, feel uneasy, feel heavy, still panic, feel alone, feel isolated. Want to go back, keep going, keep taking pictures, must find out for sure, must get facts. The noise of a door shutting, footsteps on the stairs creeping up, a picture worth a million views but no money, it’s time to go.
Leave the house, get in car, look back at the kittens playing in the yard. Leave untouched but she felt like she left part of herself behind to play with the ghosts so bored in their home. One day, she would return to collect the part of herself she left behind and collect all the stories it had to share.