The following was sent in by one of our readers...

I have a story to tell you. It happen to me many years ago. My family moved into a house in a little village named Blackhorse (It is located on highway 9 and Tottenham Road, 20 minutes East of Newmarket). We moved there when I was 11 months old. It was a three bedroom house. I had the bedroom across from my parents room. It was the smallest bedroom.

My parents had wallpapered one wall with fuzzy puppy dogs. The dogs where all pink. It was the early 70's. I was an only child and was sometimes got very lonely, since we only had elderly neighbors. Behind us was a gravel pit. My parents didn't get along very well and tended to fight a lot. When they would fight I would lay in my bed and talk to myself trying to go to sleep.

Well one night, it was very late and my parents had gone to bed but I couldn't sleep. I was laying there talking away. I remember asking a question and the pink dog answer me. It kinda freaked me out. I rolled over with my back to the wall and tried to forget about it. I was then asked what was wrong. I remember saying that I was scared. Wallpaper couldn't talk. It stopped.

I went into my parents room and slept with them. I never slept in that room again or even went into it. I moved futher down the hall to the empty room. When we would go to bed at night. Five minutes after we went someone would walk up the stairs and it seemed like they would check on me. My room was at the top of the stairs and the steps would pause there for a minute and then would continue down the hall.

I then got very sick. I had the chicken pox and the measles at the same time and was vomiting continuely for two days. I remember hearing someone pacing beside my bed (my room had hardwood floors). Anytime I asked my mom about these things that kept happening she would say "Oh it's only Ray" and nothing more.

I couldn't get her to talk to me about it. I never felt afraid after the wallpaper thing. I always felt protected. When my parents decided to buy a house and move. I remember sitting in my room and crying saying I didn't want to go, this was my home. I made my parents life hell about moving. When we went for the last load. We finished loading the truck and locked up the house. We got into the truck my dad, me and our dog. My dog started to cry and paw at the windshield. I looked up into my bedroom window and saw a very sad looking man standing there waving.

It was so real and sad that I am fighting not to cry now. We moved when I was 9 years old. I am now 29 years old. It shouldn't still effect me this way.

I don't know if this has to do with "Ray" or not. One week after we moved out my dad went back to the house (he was employed for the landlord and still did the upkeep after we moved), the furnace was left on so as not to have the pipes freeze. Someone had turned it off. The pipes froze and exploded, flooding the house. After we moved the house sat empty for two years it gave everyone who looked at it the creeps and nobody would rent it. I would very much like to go back there one day and see if "Ray" is still there.

I don't know if it is still a rental or not. But even after all these years it still feels like it is my home. At least in my heart. If you hear of anyone else that has been in this house please let me know.

Most of us have "homes" that in one way or another will always be our "home" regardless of how long it's been since we've lived there or who might be living there now. For this author, "Ray" may still be there maybe even looking after a new child.

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