More Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark

A Voice In The Attic

There was an old farmhouse that, until it was torn down a few years ago, stood in the middle of a three-acre plot of land in Afton, Wyoming. At the time, the land belonged to my wife's grandparents, who had purchased the otherwise barren expanse in the spring of 1982 with the intent of building a home on the northwest edge of the property closest to the main road. The home was built, the perimeter fenced, and the rest of the land kept for the horses they owned. After toying with the idea of renovating the sixty- year-old farmhouse and turning it into a guest cottage, they decided against it and now only used it for additional storage space.

In the summer of 1997, my wife and I received an invitation from her grandparents to spend a few days at their home, and so we packed our overnight bags and made the three-hour drive from our home in Utah, looking forward to a weekend spent taking in the rustic scenery and relaxing.

For the record, I have always had a fascination with the paranormal, but my interests have been rooted in its more mundane aspects: horror movies, scary novels, and the occasional worthwhile TV documentary. My wife Jane, on the other hand, has always been a more willing participant in the pursuit of such topics and, as a result of her forays into the world of "ghost hunting", boasts a collection of self-taken spirit photographs to complement her library archives of EVP (Electronic Voice Phenomenon) audio recordings. The phenomena of ghost photography--a pursuit that's been around since the invention of the camera itself- -is something that, to my practical and reasoning mind, can often be dismissed as nothing more than double-exposure, the reflection of light, or water spots on a camera lens. What really captured my imagination, however, were the audio recordings. Some of the anomalies that I have heard on these tapes could easily be written off using more earthbound than otherworldly explanations, yet there are some that even a rational mind must admit are beyond the scope of common experience and understanding. In any case, beyond having heard or read about such occurrences, I had never had a personal experience with the paranormal. Not until the weekend that we spent at my wife's grandparents' home, in July of 1997.

We arrived in Afton late on a Friday evening, and after a few cups of coffee and conversation with the grandparents, we decided to turn in. Laying awake in bed talking, not quite able to sleep just yet, our conversation turned to the old farmhouse that stood about fifty yards off the south side of the house. This was my first visit here, and I was as much enticed by the farmhouse's seemingly ancient, decrepit beauty as I was impressed by its subtle yet unmistakable air of foreboding. I mentioned to Jane how creepy it had looked to me under the light of the full moon as we approached the house, and how perfect a setting it seemed for the types of hauntings I was ever so fond of reading about on dark wintry nights. I asked her what it was like inside. She responded by telling me she didn't know, she had never been inside. I found this strange, what with my wife's seemingly voracious appetite for all things frightening, not to mention the inner fortitude she'd always displayed in braving cemeteries at night armed only with flashlight, tape recorder, and loaded Nikon. Her answer was simple: "Grandpa's never let me inside. He's afraid the roof might cave in on me." With that, my curiosity was assuaged. But at breakfast the next morning, the germ of a notion that I'd planted in her head was alive and kicking and she broached the subject with her grandfather.

"It's a dangerous place, there's bats in the attic and I don't want you poking around in there," was all he would say when asked about it, attempting to turn the conversation from the subject at hand by asking if we wanted to ride the horses after breakfast. You have to know my wife the way I know her to understand that this would not satiate her curiosity, and you also have to know how persistent she can be to understand my mild shock when she simply let the subject lie.

An hour after breakfast, strolling out toward the horse stable for a midmorning ride, she turned to me with a mischievous gleam and informed me that we would be "investigating the old farmhouse" just as soon as Grandpa headed into town for groceries. I took this about as well as someone who's been informed of impending oral surgery, but I also knew better than to resist her will or let her go alone. The last thing I wanted on this quiet weekend was an upset wife or--far less--an injured one, so I acquiesced.