Everything She Painted, She Painted It White And Then She Painted It Red

                                 




A Ghostly Tale From Homestead Road, Middleboro

B. was a professional hairstylist whom my mother met at the nursing home she worked at and B. soon became the official hair-cutter/stylist/barber for our little troop for many a years.

B. was a courageous woman whose body was riddled with painful tumors and fought cancer for most of her lifetime and strived valiantly forward even to the end.

B. lived on Homestead Road in the Middle-Boro with her two children and her talking Parakeet and beloved dog Scooter Pie in a nice, cozy, ranch style house which was originally built in 1954.

Many a time, I can recall traveling to B's home, sitting in her quaint kitchen and receiving a stylish haircut. She was really good at what she did and when she found out I had spent many years investigating the paranormal, chasing ghosts, visiting many mysterious places and Fortean anomalies in New England, B. confided to me about the strange goings-on at her house.

She felt the place was haunted!

First, she had all sorts of problems with her garage door opener. Her garage door would suddenly open by itself. I suspected it could be some stray signals from other neighborhood openers or perhaps, some type of testing of exotic technology relating to the microwave spectrum by the military or "alphabet agencies". Or it was a problem with the garage door opener itself, but "No," she said, "it worked fine." Batteries were up to date and so forth with it.

She also revealed to me, it was more than just a wonky garage door with a mind of its own that was plaguing her residence. She said, she never felt quite alone there, a feeling of not being "comfortable", such as another energy or presence in her midst. I believe she mentioned, "seeing shadows."

I have to admit, every time I was there sitting at the kitchen table and I am usually somewhat sensitive to spooky places, I didn't sense anything, but B. lived there and took in what she believed was a haunted environment every day, so who was I to doubt her?

Now, eventually life's difficulties caught up with B. and she had to sell the house and found another property in a neighboring town, but she always had found memories of the house, despite the possible presence of ghostly happenings.

Her house was eventually purchased by one of the pillars of the Middle-Boro community. A middle-aged woman who was a dignified lady, the director of a local church choir. An upstanding citizen, as steady as a rock, who had never missed choir practice in all her time supervising the church services.

But she did have one quirk: everything she painted, she painted white, especially the living room!

Why white, you ask? Well, white is the color of purity and the white light of God is the most powerful force in the universe, so maybe the color had religious connotations. Or, maybe it was a personal preference and she simply loved white. It is hard to say. But we do know, she painted much of the house white with a verve and a zeal, and even with the exterior, she went for that cool, pristine hue.

Things were fine at the "white house" for awhile. But, as B. was to learn from the police, the woman, "a rock of Gibraltar" type if there was any such a person, suddenly missed choir practice, didn't notify church officials about her unexplained absence, and had been incommunicado for several days. Her friends and family became increasingly nervous and worried and decided to contact theMiddle-Boro police when there was no word from her and they could not enter her house.

The police broke in and found her in the living room, lying there, her veins split open, her blood poured out winter red over her pristine white furnishings.

She had committed suicide and no one was quite sure why such an upstanding citizen had taken her own life and had done it in such a dramatic fashion?

Was she so unhappy in life? Could it had been a tragic love affair gone bad? Was it the pressures of being so wholesome and solid?

Or perhaps, and this is just my one possible theory: the ghosts of the house's past sought her out and caught up with her and invited her to join them, or perhaps they affected her psyche in such a way as to bring her down to their level? I don't know... and neither did the authorities, in fact, the case was basically kept quiet, swept under the rug because of her standing within the Middle-Boro.

Meanwhile, when B. was informed of the events by the local cops, she "cried." She became really emotional. She told me, she felt the woman had "desecrated her home" and that she felt "icky". And why had she decided to do herself in, in the nice living room of all places?  I mean, B. was quite upset and shaken when she heard the news and who can blame her?

And now, who knows what evil still lurks in the heart of B's former house there on Homestead? I see by the real estate records that there have been many residents and owners since the lady took her own life... and the outside is still painted white!


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Night Of The Singing Phantoms Of Death

This is a story from T. who experienced the events firsthand for herself. T. is a beautiful woman of Italian descent, who grew up in the West Side. She was a neighbor of my mother's, who used to babysit T. who had rheumatic fever as a a child  and her sister, and they affectionately called my mother: Dora.

T. was a grown woman, married to a former Middle-Boro firefighter with adult children, when the incident took place. She had been sick for awhile and found herself being treated in a Boston hospital. On this particular night, her husband and family members visiting her had left for home. She was lying in her hospital room alone, when her condition took an extreme turn for the worst and she started to feel very sick.

For T. it had become a long night of struggle at death's door. Perhaps it was the medications she was on or she was experiencing hallucinations because of the grave nature of her condition or her state of mind, soul and body at the boundary and barrier of the realms of life and death, whatever the case, she started seeing figures walking about in her room.

Dark spectres... phantoms... wraiths... who T. described as "old Italian men and women" in black clothes, the traditional clothing that Italians wore in the olden days when they attended wakes and  funerals. So it was truly like a funeral procession in T.s room and they were not silent. They were talking and singing mournfully in Italian or perhaps you would describe it more like chants or dirges.

And this left T., fighting for her life, completely overwhelmed, frightened, feeling that the end was near. And she did not want to die! She thought of her family and her children and grandkids and did not want to leave quite this soon.

And the procession of the Italian spirits seem to go on forever... walking, just walking, back and forth, back and forth in the room, and those sad, mournful hymns of theirs, always in T.'s ears.

Sometime during the night though, T. noticed in the chair next to her bed, that Dora was there, once more watching over her, as she did when she was a child. T. was surprised and amazed and so happy to see Dora once again, especially under the circumstances.

The reassuring presence of Dora  brought enormous comfort to T, who was scared as all hell by her condition and the wraiths of the departed with her. And who wouldn't be?

Gradually as the night turned towards day, the spectres faded away and Dora remained there a little bit longer providing T. with safety and comfort and the gaze once more of a beloved friend.

And T. survived the night and went on to a full recovery. It was not her time to go and I like think Mom, Dora had a little bit to do with that.

Addendum: This is indeed a true story and T. called up my father and told him the details of it and how grateful she was to see Dora there in her moment of great need once again

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