As a child, the haunted house we lived in on Bannatyne changed my perception of the world. There was more than what the eye could see. There was our world and the unknown, separated by a fine line. Strange occurrences like the lights switching off or on, on their own or eyes piercing into you were frequent. Whenever I had to use the washroom, I did it in Olympic time, not unless I was mysteriously locked in there. (It was an ordinary door with no lock)
In the wee hours of one particular night my grandma's horrific scream had the entire house at her bedside in a matter of seconds. She was almost hysterical as we witnessed blood dripping from the ceiling and onto her pink flannel nightgown. I recall standing there gawking as the adults tried to make some sense of it. I can't remember what happened next but I'll never forget that night.
The house is long gone. It was torn down and a small apartment complex is in its place. I'm positive spirits remain on the site. I wasn't surprised one day when I read in the paper about a grisly murder on the very land I speak of.
I'm in my early forties now and I avoid driving down Bannatyne as much as possible. If I'm feeling nostalgic, I'll cruise by and glance over to see if I can catch a glimpse of something, anything.