SSelling real estate is an adventure in itself. Sellers and buyers are always full of surprises, but sometimes homes end up with just a few. In April 1989, I didn't believe in ghosts. There is no real reason. It wasn't logical. But unfortunately this story is true.
This spring I put a attractive 200-year-old Italianate mansion on six acres up for sale. The house was halfway through renovation when the owner showed me around for the first time. We walked through the grand hall separating the twin living rooms at the front. The one on the left served as a living room. A attractive vintage piano almost filled the music room in the right living room.
A immense formal dining room and just beyond, and a renovated gourmet kitchen and bathroom completed the tour of the first floor. We ascended the wide, winding staircase at the center of the house, heading for the third-floor tower. The tower was a single room, surrounded by windows overlooking the entire farm and the surrounding area.
Going down to the second floor, five of the bedrooms were in various stages of construction, all but one, that is. The sixth bedroom, painted a bright yellow with white trim, was left untouched. The owner explained that the room could not be changed. If they tried to paint it, the up-to-date paint faded, and the next morning the yellow walls greeted them again. The temperature in this one room remained a constant seventy degrees, regardless of the season. It was the room of the owners' adolescent son in the tardy 1800s and she said he was one of the ghosts in the house. When you entered this room, you felt a presence. As if someone was there. It was a tranquil presence, but it seemed like eyes were on you. I wanted to leave this room, but I don't believe in ghosts.
According to the owner, a adolescent boy, a man and two men were seen while only her family was in the house. While the workers were there, the tools disappeared throughout the house and were never seen again. The sounds of something being dragged and footsteps were reported coming from upstairs while workers were downstairs. Of course, I completely dismissed these stories because I don't believe in ghosts.
“Goodbye.” I told my up-to-date client. “It was a very pleasant afternoon.” I left excited about my unique historical offering and looking forward to the first open house in two weeks.
The day of the open house was attractive, sixty degrees and bright. The tools were put away. The house was shining. Visitors entered through the kitchen door, where they sampled homemade donuts, mint iced tea and coffee while waiting for one of two agents to take them on a tour. The agent then let the potential buyer out the front door and returned to the kitchen for the next guest.
At the end of the three-hour opening, I let a very nice woman out the front door, where a icy breeze hit me as she closed the door. Returning to the kitchen, I looked to my right. A adolescent woman sat at the piano in the music room, wearing a straightforward gray dress, with her obscure hair tied in a bun. There was no lithe in her immense, obscure eyes. She sat quietly and looked at the keys. No music was playing. The hair on the back of my neck stood up along with goosebumps. Surprised to see the unattended guest, I returned to the kitchen to find the other agent.
“Why is someone hanging around the house without you?”
– There's no one else here. The second agent replied.
“Well, maybe she came in through the front door,” I agreed. – Then there is a lady waiting for you in the music room.
The owner asked, “What does she look like?”
When I described her, the owner smiled. “You just met Sally Ann.”
“Who's that?” – I asked with some concern.
“Our Spirit”.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I got goosebumps again as I ran to the front rooms. The music hall was empty. The living area is also empty. I ran up the stairs. The bedrooms were empty. There is only one place left – the tower. Taking the steps two at a time, I reached the door. It creaked as he slowly opened it. Empty. She wasn't there. Disappeared. My heart was pounding and I was shaking as I slowly walked down the stairs and back to the kitchen. It was stupid. I don't believe in ghosts.
I reached the kitchen, sat down, and the owner placed a cup of sturdy coffee in front of me. My hands were shaking and the sizzling liquid almost spilled. The owner started telling me the story of Sally Ann.
“Sally Ann, her husband, brother-in-law and eight-year-old son were the original owners of the house. Sally Ann was having an affair with her husband's brother, and when he found out about it, the two men fought a duel in the second floor hallway of the house. Both men died of their wounds. Sally Ann's son died of typhus a year later. Sally died at the age of 30, it was said, of a broken heart. She only shows herself to people she trusts as guests in her home. However, she is a kind spirit and is treated like another member of the family. Every now and then we see her son possibly responsible for the lack of tools. I didn't see them.
I think to myself, great, Sally likes me. But I don't believe in ghosts.
The owner continued her story. “I hired a psychic to assess the ghost situation. He identified all the ghosts. The entire family is buried in Lexington Cemetery. He told me to rent a metal detector and search the fifth fence post from the front corner of the house to find Sally Ann's wedding ring. And two meters below I found her wedding ring with her initials. It's in this drawer.
She went to the dresser, opened the drawer, and pulled out a tiny band with her initials on the inside. It took my breath away. The hairs on my arm stood on end.
A few deep breaths helped, mind over matter and now calmer, I convinced myself again that Sally Ann, or whatever it was, was just a figment of my imagination. It was just an vintage ring. I don't believe in ghosts.
I finished my coffee, and since the Open House had already ended, the other agent and I were getting ready to leave. As we reached the front door, I felt a frosty breeze. The goosebumps came back. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Chills ran down my spine. I slowly turned around. Sally Ann stood at the top of the stairs. She smiled.
The owner told me where the family was buried in the cemetery, and because I was annoyingly curious, I went to visit later. Everyone was there. The whole family. Just like she said. Still a cynic, I went to the historical archives in search of history. They were there. The seer's stories have been verified. There was a picture of a widow. It was Sally Ann.
I believe.
