Jenn Carpenter - Haunted Lansing

Published by Haunted America

A Division of The History Press

Charleston, SC

www.historypress.net

Copyright 2018 by Jennifer Carpenter

All rights reserved

Cover photography courtesy of Erica Cooper.

First published 2018

e-book edition 2018

ISBN 978.1.43966.517.6

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018942433

print edition ISBN 978.1.46714.047.8

Notice: The information in this book is true and complete to the best of our knowledge. It is offered without guarantee on the part of the author or The History Press. The author and The History Press disclaim all liability in connection with the use of this book.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever without prior written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For my parents, who have always encouraged my weirdness and creativity. Mom, thanks for reading me my very first book (and the thousand after that). Dad, thank you for telling me my very first ghost story (and the thousand after that).

CONTENTS

PREFACE

Do you remember your very first ghost story? The one that kept you up at night for weeks? That sticks with you even now, years later? I remember mine. I was seven, maybe eight years old, out running errands with my father. We were at a shop just down the street from our home in Lansing, waiting on the salesman to ring us up. I was an antsy child, always pacing, fidgeting and getting into things. I was watching out the stores giant windows as cars passed by, but my proximity to the front door made my father uncomfortable. This was the 1980s, after all, when child abductions were rampant in the Midwest. He ordered me to stay by his side, which I did for a time. But I just couldnt stand still. To avoid being hollered at again, I wandered in the opposite direction, toward the back of the building and the staircase that led to the second floor. Id been in that particular store dozens of times but never upstairs. What was up there? Hopefully something more exciting than waterbed parts. (1980s, remember?)

The stairs were covered in a layer of dust and looked like they hadnt been traversed in years. The white paint was scarred and chipped, the rubber grips peeling up at the corners. The higher the stairs went, the less the sunlight beaming through the stores front windows reached them. The top steps were so dark, I couldnt see where they ended. My little heart was pounding as I began to nervously twirl my ponytail with one hand and gripped the railing with the other. I took one step, then another. The store seemed a world away now, and I could barely hear the murmur of voices in the background. My third step echoed up the stairs, and I wondered if anyone heard it. I could see that there was a door at the top of the stairs, closed and probably locked. But what, or who, was on the other side of it? I had to find out. As I took another step, I thought I heard a noise from behind the doorthe quiet, soft lilt of a womans voice. Except there were no women in the store. Just the waterbed salesman, my dad and me. Even as far away from them as I was, I would have heard it if someone else entered the building. The door chime was obnoxiously loud. I looked behind me and saw that I was halfway up the stairs. No turning back now. I balled my clammy hands into fists and took a deep breath, but before I could take another step, a strong hand wrapped around my elbow.

What are you doing? my father scolded me as he pulled me back down the stairs. You dont want to go up there. I didnt say a word as he led me past the rows of waterbeds and out the front door. He held my hand tightly as we walked to the car, warning me about how I couldnt go wandering off whenever I felt like it. I dont remember much of what he said, just that I had to run to keep pace with him, and that the cars upholstery burned the backs of my legs as I slid across the bench seat of our powder-blue Buick LeSabre. I knew he was upset with me and it would be best to just be quiet on the ride home, but I was never one to hold my tongue when I had a question. We would be home in less than five minutes, and once we got there, Dad would be busy working on his bed and I would lose my chance. The time was now.

Why? I asked him, my voice squeaking a bit.

Why, what? he grumbled, pinching an unlit cigarette between his lips as he cranked his window down.

Why dont I want to go up there? He glanced over at me just briefly as he pulled the red-hot lighter from the dash and pressed it to his cigarette.

Because somebody died up there, he whispered, as though he was letting me in on some big secret. My thoughts immediately turned to the clerk at the waterbed store. He seemed too boring to be a murderer.

Somebody died up there?

My father smiled as he nodded. When I was right about your age. That waterbed store used to be a liquor store, and the man who owned it lived upstairs with his wife. Well, one day, he came home and found herfound out that she had a boyfriend. And he got really, really mad. So he killed her.

He killed her?

Shot her dead. He made a gun out of his thumb and forefinger. Bang! And then you know what he did? I shook my head, my eyes wide. He reopened his store the very next day. Can you believe it? I couldnt. It was the worst thing Id ever heard and, arguably, not the type of story a father should tell his little girl. But I was fascinated.

Is she still up there? I asked.

My father laughed. No, this was a long time ago. Shes buried in a cemetery somewhere, Im sure. I didnt believe him. I couldnt stop thinking about the noise Id heard when I was going up the stairs, the sound of a womans voice.

Whats up there now? I asked as we pulled into our driveway.

He shrugged. Probably just waterbeds and whatnot. He got out of the car, then came around to my side to open my door for me. I wanted to tell him what Id heard, to ask him if he thought maybe the womans ghost was still there, upstairs all alone. But he had things to do, and I was already freaked out enough. So I didnt ask. Instead, I let my imagination run wild. And for the next few years, anytime I had a creative writing assignment at school, I wrote about the ghost of the woman that lived above the store where she was killed. You know, typical eight-year-old fodder.

My love of the macabre was born on that hot summer afternoon, driving down Pleasant Grove Road with my father. To this day, whenever I drive past that building (which is now a barbershop), I look toward the upstairs windows, wondering if Ill see her looking back at me. Ive heard countless ghost stories about the Lansing area since then, but Ill never forget my very first.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A book like this doesnt happen without A TON of assistance and support, and I have so many people to thank. First and foremost, my husband Dax, and our boys, Austin, Ethan, Chris, and Nick, for holding down the fort while I spent countless nights at my desk, banging my head against my keyboard. Thank you guys, and I love you. To Erica Cooper of Erica Jo Photography, thank you so much for the beautiful photos and for accompanying me on so many research and recon adventuresit made things so much more interesting. Thank you to all of my friends and family members who helped with feedback, proofreading, research and suggestions. You guys rock! To all of my friends in the paranormal community: Gary Gierke of the Michigan Area Paranormal Society, Medium Cat Ryan, Mark Briones of Marter Paranormal Research Team, Christine Peaphon of Mid-Michigan Paranormal Researchers, Motor City Medium Rebecca Smuk and Keith Daniel of Michigan State Paranormal InvestigationsI truly could not have done this without your help and insight, thank you all. To the wonderful organizations that assisted me with researchBarbara Loyer with the Turner Dodge House and Heritage Center, Heidi Butler with the Capital Area District Library/Forest Parke Library and Archives, Julie Kimmer with the Courthouse Square Association and Kelen Gailey with the Dansville Michigan Historical Societyyour commitment to preserving and sharing history is greatly appreciated. It truly takes a village, and I would be lost without mine.