The House on Jackson Street
Written By: John Westrick

Estimated reading time — 5 minutes

I used to walk with her, now I walk alone. We used to marvel at the beautiful houses together, now I look down at my feet. Each home a grain of salt in the wound, each house a reminder of what I lost. Even though it hurts, I still find myself continuing our walks. Sometimes pain is good. I’d rather feel the pain of her passing, than not feel her at all.

She’s alive when I walk. She’s the shadow that strolls behind. Though I can’t see her, I can feel her. Her presence is like a windbreaker draped across my shoulders in an especially violent storm. The pain isn’t gone but it’s bearable when I’m moving. I can’t speak to her, but she’s there. When I trip over a root, a hand steadies me. When I veer off course, I feel a gentle nudge.

And every day I end up in front of the same house on Jackson Street.

A grand home, at least at one point it must’ve been. The windows are boarded closed. The door is locked. Beware trespasser signs are strewn haphazardly across the tangled mess of the once impressive lawn.

I feel her presence strongest here. It is almost tangible, as if she’s hiding behind a thin curtain. I call to her, yet she never answers. I reach for her, yet I can never lay hands on her. It is here on my journey where my emotions get the best of me. Every day I come, every day I cry.

The neighbors look at me with trepidation, but long gone are my days of caring what others think. I stand there an old man, face in my hands and weep for the woman I lost. Let them think what they want, but my Lenore was worth every tear.

I feel a tap on my shoulder, and look up to see the front door of the house swung wide. Light is pouring out of it, and there she is, my Lenore. I rush towards her and the gaping maw, towards the woman I’ve lost. The woman who heard my cries and has returned for me.

As I barrel forward through the brambles and overgrown weeds, I hardly am aware of the scrapes and cuts. Nor does it bother me that I trip over a hidden bottle and go tumbling face first in the dirt. I sling myself forward with the stamina of a much younger man.

And then, I am there standing in touching distance from her. It’s definitely her. She’s got the same strawberry blonde hair that always tended to leave me breathless. It’s wrapped in a French braid with a daisy tucked behind her left ear. She looks younger by nearly twenty years. Her nose and cheeks are dusted with a fine layer of freckles.

I began to giggle like a schoolboy as I remember I once tried to count them. Twenty-three is the highest I got before I found my mouth on hers. And suddenly I have an inappropriate urge to pull her close and continue the kiss in front of God and all the neighbors.

Shortly before I do just that, she vanishes, leaving me standing in the front door alone once more. I look around the hallway and notice it’s fully furnished. There is no dust or decay. The parlor is in perfect condition. Even more shockingly I hear someone playing the piano. It’s Fur Eliza and I could recognize that sound anywhere. Lenore was playing it the day she died.

The Turkish rug leading down the hall looks familiar, the pattern of the wolf howling at the moon, the picture of the ship sailing in rough seas. I know it. I walk forward, no longer in control over my own body. Instead, everything begins to flash in front of me like a movie. I see my own hand reach for the gilded door knob. I know on the other side of this door is a set of stairs that leads to the great room.

Still, I don’t remember, I can’t remember. They threaten to come back, but I don’t let them. I don’t want to remember. I’m back. Oh God have mercy on me, I’m back to the day my wife died.

I come to this conclusion even as my own traitorous hand throws wide the hallway door. I fight for control. I do everything in my power to not see. My eyes fling wide and I look to see the back of my sweet Lenore’s head, the damned daisy still perched behind her ear. She’s playing and she doesn’t know I’ve arrived.

I know what is coming but I don’t want to. Yet those damned feet, those mutinous mother fuckers keep pushing me forward. First up one step then two, before I even know it, I’ve scaled half of them. Now I can see her back, she’s in a flowery dress with what looks to be hummingbirds sucking at the honey. Fur Eliza is ramping up, and the song is nearing its climax.

And then I see it. Him to be precise. He’s lounging in my chair, drinking my whiskey, with his shirt partially unbuttoned. Rage, white hot fills me once more. I look to the left and then the right, and that’s when I see my cavalry saber hung on the wall for decoration.

I remember the outcome, yet I can’t force myself to let go of its hilt. My hand turns white from grasping it so hard. There’s nothing I can do to lessen my grip. I see myself marching up behind her sword held high in one hand.

Fur Eliza climaxes as my arm swings. I strike her left shoulder blade and with a discordant whine the music stops altogether. Inwardly I scream. I curse my God’s damned temper. I watch as she slumps out of her chair.

Without a second glance, I am charging the man just beginning to look up from his comfortable spot in my seat. My blade penetrates his right abdomen, he lets out one shriek before my second swing catches him directly in the throat.

I am appalled at the blood spurting from his nearly decapitated neck. My hands are scarlet, I feel wet stickiness oozing down my face. Yet I can’t control my own limbs as they swing and swing and swing, chopping the man into kindling. I try to close my eyes but they won’t, so I see his hand go flying. I watch as his innards come bubbling out of his abdomen. I split his head like a grape and watch his brain matter leak out of the side of it.

To my dismay, I hear a gurgling sound coming from behind me. I turn knowing what I’ll see but powerless to stop it. I look to see my Lenore’s face towards me trying to speak. Blood bubbles drizzling out of the side of her mouth. I don’t need to hear the words to know what she is trying to say. “Please, no more.”

Pity fills my heart and my own eyes refuse to cry. “Please don’t do this,” I scream at myself in vain. I watch as I slowly move towards my former wife letting the blade carve a wicked groove into the marble floor. With no mercy my arm swings the blade up once then twice then three times, and all goes black.

Finally, I regain control of my limbs and body. I look up to see a vandalized great hall with a nasty groove in the marble floor, and there my chopped wife lying on the floor looking up at me with dead yet still very much alive eyes.

I see the monstrosity of my late wife clamber to her feet. Her left eye slides out of its socket running like egg yolk down her face. Black pustule blood leaks from her wounds. Her right eye locks with mine and in a slobbering wet noise she said, “I will never let you forget what you did here. Jail wasn’t enough for you. You didn’t stay your hand, so even in your Alzheimer’s I won’t let you forget. Same time tomorrow, honey?”

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Read this story and more on Creepypasta at https://www.creepypasta.com/the-house-on-jackson-street/.

This story comes from an Anonymous writer on Castle Of Spirits. The original story and site can be found here: https://www.castleofspirits.com/ghost-stories/ghosts-of-okinawa.

“The following are just some of my experiences while I was stationed in Okinawa, Japan, from 2011 to 2015. While it is a beautiful island, anyone who has been there can tell you that the spiritual activity is rampant. This is, no doubt, a direct result of it being the site of the final major battle of World War II. Countless thousands of men, women, and children died during this battle on both the allied and Japanese sides. I suspect that many of the Ryukyu spirits (the native peoples of Okinawa) harbor some resentment towards both American G.I.’s still living in their homeland as well as Japanese who had occupied the island.

Many fellow servicemembers I have worked with were very much against the belief in ghosts or the supernatural – until they were stationed in Okinawa. I have heard many wild stories, but I will primarily relay my own.

Upon moving into our house in Okinawa City, we started noticing strange things. The kinds of things you don’t see with western spiritual activity. It seemed far more aggressive. For example, I would often see shadows moving behind me in the hallways in the mirror. More than once my wife and I would hear screaming in the house, only to find nothing on inspection. A baby gate we had installed in the hallway would open and slam shut in the middle of the night waking us up, with no evidence as to what caused it. At one point it appeared that our toddler was interacting with something that wasn’t there; she would often point to nothing and just start chatting away.

I eventually got the gut feeling that it was multiple different entities we were dealing with. I tried to show them through my words and actions that I harbored no ill will towards them, and that I respected their culture, language, and history. One day I had enough because it was starting to terrify us in the house – so I loudly proclaimed that I didn’t mind that they were in our house, but I just wanted them to stop trying to scare us. After that happened, I did not notice anything more nefarious again in the house; only more playful activity which did not bother us.

If anyone is interested in Japanese ghosts, I would highly recommend looking up Yurei or even Yokai for some examples. Some coworkers of mine experienced things like a Rokurokubi (a woman with a long neck who can look into your window on higher floors of a building). One co-worker, who was staunchly and adamantly against the belief in ghosts, eventually had to move out of his house because the activity was too threatening to his family – his child would tell him how a man would come in through the window on the third floor and tell him he was going to rip his skin off, among other things.

I hope this has spurred some interest in Okinawa or Japanese ghosts. Thank you for reading!”

This article comes from The Shadowlands, reprinted and shared with permission.

Uncle Mike

Interview by Dave Juliano

I interviewed the owner of this haunted house located in southern New Jersey about 12 years ago. This is the story she told of some incidents in her house and others with her family. This house is on a quiet street in a small town.

It started in the early sixties , when Joan’s brother Mike started dating a wild girl whom the family called Reds. One night out, Mike and Reds were joy riding around Philadelphia. Both of them were intoxicated. Reds kept telling Mike to drive faster and faster. His speed still did not satisfy she reached her foot over and stepped on the gas pedal, Mike lost control and slammed into a utility pole. Reds was killed in the crash and Mike was seriously injured. He was even unable to attend the funeral. He was ordered to remain at home in bed. When the family returned from the funeral they went up to Mike’s room. As soon as they walked in the door Mike began to describe exactly what Reds was wearing in the coffin, down the rings and other jewelry. The family asked him how he knew all this since he wasn’t there. He told them that Reds had just been there to visit him.

Years later Joan’s son, Bobby, was supposed to ship out to Vietnam on the following morning. His Uncle Mike told him he would stop by in the morning to give him a lucky coin that would bring him good luck and protect him. His Uncle was very persistent about Bobby getting this coin. The next day, The whole family was there to see bobby off at the airport except for his Uncle Mike.. As they waited for him to arrive Bobby bought his 2 young sisters Raggy Ann dolls. His Uncle never showed up and Bobby had to leave without the lucky coin. When Joan arrived home her neighbors told her to put on the TV and watch the news. She turned on the TV and the scene was of her brother Mike laying dead in the street. He had been killed while attempting to rob a bank, he was trying to steal a coin collection.

One night while Bobby was on guard duty near the front lines, He saw a figure approaching him in the distance. He called out for the person to identify themselves. Bobby had never fired his gun at a person before and He was hesitating. The figure was even closer in an instant and he recognized it, it was his dead Uncle Mike. His Uncle told him to turn around and he spun around to be face to face with a North Vietnam soldier with his bayonet raised. He fired instantly killing the enemy soldier. He quickly turned around but his uncle was gone. Joan received many letters form men in Bobby platoon who told of mines not going off, shells veering off in opposite directions, etc. All of these occurred when Bobby’s life was in danger. His uncle had failed to give him the lucky coin, so he was protecting him from beyond.

During the war the sisters had started sleeping in Bobby’s room. This was the same room that Red’s had visited years before. One night they both awoke to find the Raggy Ann dolls sitting up in bed laughing at them.

After the war Bobby went to work as a bus driver. On one late night run he got the feeling of his Uncle’s presence just like in Viet Nam. He heard his Uncle say “turn around”, he did and there was a man with a knife ready to stab him. He overpowered the man and called the police. Bobby still has times when his Uncle Mike appears to aid him.

The day before I conducted this interview Joan’s grandchildren were over and were playing in the room that was once Mike and Bobby’s room. They ran downstairs to Joan and her friend and claimed someone was watching them as they played. The women went upstairs to look. The room was very cold, but they found no intruder. The girls said they were being watched form the closet. Joan showed the girls there was nothing in the closet, she even stood inside to point this out. As she stood in the closet, she looked up and noticed a small hole in the ceiling above the closet door. She inspected the hole and found a box full of old clothes and things. Among them were the Raggy Ann dolls that had come alive years before.

For the skeptics among you, I met Joan through my Mother at our Church. She became a good friend of the family and later became our town’s mayor. I also know Bobby, he was my football coach. Real people, real story. 

See more from The Shadowlands at www.theshadowlands.com.

The picture in the article here isn’t related to post, I just need some eye candy. Got it from Google Images.