The grill was fired up, the man was playing catch, and the woman was traipsing in and out of the back door with items for the picnic table. She looked stressed, haggard. I sat in my lawn chair, surveying the scene, wondering how I ended up at this cookout to begin with since I didn’t know the owners . Then my eyes became fixated—the large windows to the basement were opened, airing it out. There was light shining in the basement, and it looked as though the family had made it a work room or project room.
I suddenly remembered being in that room at night just a few years before. The air was dark and dank and suffocating. No air movement at all. The windows were the only respite from the stillness. I was with a group, on a tour at night . . .a ghost tour.
“Is this house haunted? I heard it is.” Someone from the present asked, and it brought me out of my memory. I answered before the owners could, “Yes it is. That’s how I know this house. I came here looking for the spirits with a group of people, and we found them.” The family froze, tired eyes glaring at me, as if I uncovered a dark secret. They lived in this haunting, and likely were unable to financially get out of it. They were prisoners to this place. They had no idea at purchase what they were getting.