NORTH VANCOVER B.C

The following story is one that hits home for me–not only because it took place in my grandmother’s house, who I was close with–but also for the fact it’s a tale I would come to experience a chapter of first hand.

My late-grandparent’s bought their house in the Highlands neighbourhood of North Vancouver in the mid-1950’s, back when the roads in nearby Edgemont Village were still dirt. Grandma’s house was your typical fifties bungalow with its white stucco, small bedrooms, and cramped, dark basement with stairs off the kitchen. It sat on a large lot that backed onto a ravine. It was one of the first homes to be built along Wellington Crescent, a then middle-class neighbourhood of post war homes built in the shadow of nearby Grouse mountain.

Though I never met my grandfather–who died long before I was born–the accounts I’ve heard is that he was not a particularly warm, nor fuzzy man. No pictures of him hung in the house when I was a kid, and from a young age I’d deduced that my grandparent’s union had not been an especially happy one.

Though my own parent’s separated when I was small and we eventually left the area, I retained a close bond to my paternal grandmother. Her house was warm and inviting and we had many happy times there together during my frequent visits.

Much as I loved our visits though, there was one thing about Grandma’s house I really didn’t like, one that so unnerved me, I still think of it today. The back bedroom.

It was a space no different than the rest of the house: small; dark wood furniture; pink old lady carpet. For whatever reason though, I hated that room. There was something about it that genuinely frightened me–something I couldn’t put into words or make sense of in my head. I wasn’t the kind of kid usually afraid of those things either. For whatever reason though, the thought of spending a night in that room filled me with a kind of dread I hadn’t yet known in my young life.

One distinct memory I have is sleeping in that room was when I was seven or so. I remember lying there, trying to will myself asleep, and feeling as if somebody were standing directly beside the bed. The longer I lay there, the stronger the sensation became, until every nerve in my body was thrumming. However, it was when I actually felt the mattress begin to shake that I couldn’t take it any longer and fled to my grandmother’s bed. I tried rationalizing to myself that it could’ve only been the dog, which had been asleep at my feet, twitching or scratching itself. But I digress. All I can say for certain is that that feeling of being watched was so strong I used every excuse in the book to avoid sleeping in there again.

It was only when Grandma relayed a story to me a few years later, that I realized my fears might’ve been validated. We were talking and the subject of ghost stories had come up, Grandma decided then to tell me one of her own, going on to explain that back in 1978, 12 years before I was born, my grandfather had died in that back bedroom of a heart attack while watching TV. He’d been just 52. According to her, a couple weeks after he died, she’d awoken in the night to a knock on the front door. Climbing out of bed, she’d gone down the hall to answer it, to see who else but her late-husband standing on the stoop. As the inevitable shock of what she was witnessing wore off, she explained that they’d had a conversation about how she and my dad and aunts were holding up without him. What she said next is something that still creeps me out to this day. She said he’d all at once began laughing mockingly in her face, with the deep, loud, bellyful-laugh he’d been known for in life.

“Now, it might’ve been a dream, but I’ll tell you, it was so real I really don’t know what to think about it,”I remember her saying.

Of course those words aren’t verbatim, but something very similar.Needless to say, I gave the back bedroom an even wider berth after that.

The following are two experiences of my own I had in that house in the years that followed.

The first occurred a few days before Christmas when I was 10.

My dad and his girlfriend had gone out gift shopping and I was sitting in the kitchen with my grandma and great aunt. Suddenly from the hall I heard the front door swing open and my dad call out to us.Excited at the prospect of what presents might be in tote, I upped and ran from my seat to front door–the same door my grandfather’s spectre had knocked on some 20 years before–to see nobody there. Opening it, I saw no sign of my dad’s car, nor any other evidence he’d been there. Confused, I went back in the kitchen and asked the others why my dad had left so suddenly. To my surprise, they’d looked even more confused than me. Apparently, they’d heard nothing.

Ten minutes later, the door opened again and Dad called out the same greeting. Only this time, when I got up, he and his girlfriend were coming in with bags of gifts.

The second story is creepier.

A couple years later, I was home alone in the living room watching TV. Suddenly, I heard voices coming from the hall behind me. Getting up from my show, I moved slowly down the hall towards the source of the noise, which I realized was coming from Grandma’s bedroom. Stepping through the door, I realized the source immediately. Next to her bed was a large, tabletop General Electric radio from the 1930’s that my dad had recently restored. The dial was lit up and it was playing the golden oldies station Grandma had it tuned to. It was so strange I don’t even remember being that scared at time. It was one of those moments when you realize what you’re witnessing is so beyond the bounds of rationale there’s no point in trying to explain it. Clunking off the power knob, I went back and tried to concentrate on my show. All was quiet after that.

Those are the only experiences I had in that house. Asides from Grandma, nobody else experienced anything there that I’m aware of. The house was sold in 2008 after Grandma went into a care home and the house still stands today, looking the same as it did when I was a childAs a funny side note, my mom told me the story of how in the 80’s, when she and my dad were at a family dinner there, Grandma relayed her tale to the guests around the table. Right at the part when she was describing the nocturnal visit from her late-husband, there was a knock at the front door and everyone at the table looked up, throughly creeped out. It was only a late arriving guest.