Jess Breitling - The Cottage: A True Haunted House Story

THE COTTAGE

A True Haunted House Story

By

Jess Breitling

Copyright 2017 by

Jess Breitling

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Because Im pretty sure you had something to do withthis.

CONTENTS

The Cottage

Ive heard it said that places arenthaunted, people are haunted.

In twenty-five years together, my husbandand I have only lived in two houses where paranormal phenomenaseemed to occur, and we moved to the second one right after leavingthe first. Those two homes were nearly a hundred miles apart, andas different from one another as could be.

So, was it the houses that were haunted, orwas it us? I guess well never know, but this is the story of thefirst of those two residences.

In the winter of 1999, we moved into a smallcottage tucked in the mountains of Southern California. We werefamiliar with the neighborhood, especially my husband because hisaunt had lived just down the road from that cottage his wholelife.

In contrast, Id spent my entire lifein the area without knowing the tiny community even existed untilthe first time my husband took me there. I fell in love with theneighborhood instantly, and decided right then that if I ever gotthe chance, I wanted to live there. I wanted our daughter Kelsey,then just a baby, to attend the tiny school at the end of the lanemy husbands aunt lived on.

Five years later we got that chance, and wetook it.

The cottage was one of three homes on a halfacre lot, all of which were owned by a local family who lived a fewmiles away. It was approximately eighty years old when we movedinto it, and we were told it had been originally built as a dryinghouse for the larger, main house next door. On the opposite sideof the main house was another small home, which the ownersmentioned had been built to provide living quarters for the peoplewho worked for the first family who lived in the big houseseveral decades earlier.

My husband, Gabe, and I, always guessed thatthe cottages early function explained its architecture. If onewere to stand facing the front of the cottage, they would see thatone half of it was nothing more than a simple clapboard structure,while the other half had been constructed of smooth, round, riverrock. Harvested from the local creek just up the road, mostlikely.

The covered porch was small; its floorwarped and creaky. The front door opened directly into anelongated, rectangular living room. We divided the space withstrategically-placed furniture. The front portion housed couchesand a television while the back section transformed into ourbedroom at night, thanks to a sofa-bed and dresser which pretendedto be living room furniture during the day. It was weird (though Ipreferred to think of it as eclectic), but there were a lot ofwindows in that space and the views were nice. All thingsconsidered, it wasnt so bad.

The rest of the cottage was a strange littlemaze. There was a doorway in the living room. Through that doorway,youd find yourself in a tiny, square hallway with one tiny,wood-paneled bedroom to the left, and another open doorway to theright, which led into the kitchen.

The kitchen was one of the smallest Iveever seen. It had a roof that slanted so low on one side that ourrefrigerator couldnt even be pushed all the way back to the wall.There were windows on both sides, one of which afforded a view ofthe porch. There was barely room enough for a tiny table and threechairs. The shelves and cabinets above and alongside the sink wereobviously handmade, and you could walk the entire length of thatkitchen in half a dozen strides.

At the end of the kitchen was a door. Notjust an open entryway to another room, but an actual door whichcould be shut and latched. Its metal doorknobs were original to thehouse, and there was an old-time keyhole above them. Decadesearlier, it had served as the front door. Obvious, because it ledinto the portion of the cottage constructed of river rock, whichwas all that stood of the drying house before the clapboard-coveredrooms were added half a century later.

Through that door at the far end of thekitchen, were two steps down into a very small bedroom, which wouldbecome Kelseys. Like the kitchen, it had windows on both sides ofit. I loved that about it because it meant we could often catch anamazing breeze and keep the air in there clean and fresh.

The varied history and resulting layout ofthe cottage also meant, unfortunately, that the back door of thehouse was actually located in Kelseys bedroom. By the time wemoved in, the back door probably hadnt been opened in twenty yearsor more.

We cleared some brush and vines away fromthe outside, and double-checked to make sure we could get it openin case of emergency. It was a bit of a struggle, but finally itpulled free of the jam. It had the same kind of antique knobs asthe other door, with the same old-time keyhole above, which we hadno key for. The owners said theyd never had a key for it, either.Instead, a sliding barrel lock had been installed. By the looks ofit, probably around the year I was born.

There was yet, a third door in Kelseysbedroom. Through that door were another two steps down, where onewould find themselves in the tiny cave of a bathroom. Thesurprisingly well-crafted built-ins were its only redeemingquality.

Everything seemed fine when we first movedin. We had no reason to believe the cottage was unusual in any way.Not only had we never had any paranormal experiences inside anyhome wed lived in before, but Gabes cousin and her two sons hadlived in the very same house a few years earlier and nevermentioned any strange occurrences.

However, a few weeks later as we continuedto settle in, an odd thing began to happen with our daughter,Kelsey, who was nearly seven at the time.

As Gabe and I sat in the living room side ofour front room, talking on the sofa one evening, Kelsey appeared inthe doorway.

What, mommy? She asked.

Confused, Gabe and I turned to her.

Hey, punkin, I said. What do you mean,what? Kelsey was a mellow, very sweet little girl. And it wasobvious she thought her Daddy and I were just being a couple ofjokesters. She grinned at us and rolled her eyes as if to let usknow she knew we were playing tricks.

Momm-eeee, she said, her grin still quitetoothless from all the baby teeth shed lost that winter. Standingat the doorway of the hall in her nightgown and slippers, shewaited patiently to find out why shed been summoned to the livingroom.

I smiled back at her, genuinely puzzled.Shed been alone in her bedroom, playing with her beloved toyhorses. She obviously hadnt wanted to leave them, and was anxiousto find out what we wanted so she could get back to playing.

Whats up, Kelsey? Did you think someonecalled you in here? I asked. She looked a bit puzzled, though hergrin didnt fade. I think she was trying to determine if myquestion was a serious one. Gabe was often silly with her, so I cansee why she was uncertain.

Mommyyou called me. Just now. I heardyou. So that was it; she thought shed heard me call her.

No, honey. I guess you thought you heard myvoice, but I didnt call you. Maybe you just heard me and Daddytalking?

The grin disappeared from Kelseys facethen. She frowned.

I heard you, Mommy, she said quietly. Yousaid, Kelsey, come here. I heard you right outside my door.

Gabe and I looked at each other. We couldtell she really believed shed heard me.

My years as a mother have taught me manythings; one of which is to not waste energy arguing with asix-year-old. We ended up offering her some ice cream for dessertto change the subject, and the matter was forgotten for thenight.