I AM the haunted house…

If you know me personally, or have read my previous blogs, you know that I have always been haunted.

Mostly in the best ways—by the spirits of my grandmothers, by my soul family, by my guides who stand watch in the quiet hours and warn me when needed. Their presence… a calming hush in the room, a hand on my shoulder, a whisper of old wisdom, the fleeting glimpse of a familiar face.

And then sometimes the haunting is darker, chilling, maybe a little scary. The shadow man who tormented me for years—and tormented my then three-year-old son…. or the fluorescent bulb that shattered against the door when I tried to escape. That electric, crawling sense of being watched by something ancient and menacing.

But sometimes—I myself am the haunting.

I am the one who rattles the walls with old grief—the one who carries rooms inside of me that no one else has the strength to witness.

In this story—I am the haunting.

I have this recurring dream that shifts and changes ever so slightly over the years as I shift and change. In this dream, there is always a beautifully decayed gothic house with endless hidden rooms, winding passages that no one knows about but me, and a myriad of ghosts tucked away in every corner.

I love these dreams. I crave them.

They never scare me…though anyone else might wake up screaming.

Instead, I am filled with an obsessive, possessive feeling—this is MY place.

There’s a deep relief in being there, like coming back to one of my favorite places—this is MY sanctuary.

A sense of calm, though there’s always a slight edge to it—this is MY home.

I wander through these secret passages almost every night. Mostly alone, though sometimes there are others with me—friends or family members, long gone from this mortal coil, that come to visit. And when there is someone with me, I always warn them before entering, I tell them they can’t go into certain rooms, or open certain doors.

“A violent ghost haunts the top floor. Never go up there—ever. He is pure rage.”

Or a ghost they wouldn’t understand, one I don’t want them to frightened away.

I tell them: “He’s a strange one, always looping through tragic memories. If you see him, just stand very still and don’t make eye contact.”

Or the shy ghost in the basement that won’t show itself unless I’m alone or with someone I trust deeply.

“I’m here,” I call to it when I go down into the shadowy depths below the house. “You can come out,” I call out. I bring a candle, I open the door, and I offer my company. This one is so quiet that you wouldn’t even know of its existence, if not for the occasional shuffling footsteps in the shadows. But I still visit, forever trying to coax it from the dark spaces, hoping to share a moment of light.

The violent ghost upstairs is my favorite though. He throws things, he cracks mirrors, howling and warding everyone away—except for me. He is absolutely terrifying to anyone else who sees him, because they see only violent fury in his dark eyes, malevolent chaos… but I see something different. In those obsidian depths, I see the haunted, the broken, the sorrowful eyes that don’t want to be seen. I see myself. I see the deep wounds that only I will ever truly know and understand. And when he sees me, he stops. He calms. He remembers who he really is, looking into the mirror of ourselves— him seeing the calm in the storm, and me seeing the violent grief that I’ll never share with another soul.

The house is fiercely protective. Do not enter without the caretaker.

In one dream, I was outside of the house gardening when someone tried to sneak up behind me. Before they could reach me with their ill intentions, I heard them scream. I turned, just in time to see them being attacked by vines that coiled around them, pulling them down into the earth. The house itself was protecting me. I wasn’t scared even for a moment as i witnessed this horrific scene, because I knew—I always know—that I am safe here.

“I’m sorry,” I tell them as they take their last breath and disappear beneath the moldering leaves, even though they meant me harm.

These dreams are not nightmares. Oddly, they are beautiful to me. Like a private sanctuary that belongs to only to me. A place where I know where all the doors lead, where only i know the way out of the labyrinth— the dangers, the hidden places that no one else could survive or even bear to look upon. The dark, the damaged, the grieving, the raging—but also the fragile, the beautiful, and the brilliantly sunlit spaces.

I’ve had these dreams for years, and more and more I’ve come to realize that this house—this gloriously haunted place—is ME.

The rooms are all the parts of who I am—the house of my mind.

The ghosts, the emotions that dwell in that space, the fractures of myself, wandering the corridors in silence or violence. Old griefs that hide in the darkest corners of the basement, where I go to visit and bring offerings— My anger and rage on the top floor where no one is permitted to enter, for their own safety and sanity—And then there are my ancestors and guides—my beautiful grandmothers waiting at the kitchen table or on the front porch for me.

My house is fierce and loyal and dangerous in all the best ways. It is a beautiful inheritance—a space that holds all the most wonderful and most horrific parts of myself. The guardian of all that I hold sacred and fearful. It keeps the unworthy out and it welcomes me again and again, it’s eternal caretaker. Tucked away in the beautiful bones of this ancient structure there are legions of tales, yet untold. Stories, like vines that creep into every space. Fictions and truths tucked away like precious relics, immortalized outside of time and waiting for the pen.

I am never afraid in this place, because I AM the haunted house