This isn't about proving there is such a thing as the paranormal. In order to enjoy reading this you have to buy into the concept a bit and not argue with the idea. If you plan on reading any further just humor the idea that ghosts exist.
I grew up in a Victorian home in Janesville, Wisconsin (pictured above). Construction of the house started in 1884, on top of the original Wisconsin state fairgrounds, by a successful banker named, Claremont S. Jackman. Needless to say, when my parents bought the house over 100 years later it had had more than a few tenants with at least one dying in the house.
The house has survived storms, blizzards and even a fire. It has been home to single families, been a bed and breakfast, and been rented as individual rooms for extended stays. I can't imagine all the things that house has seen inside of it. Of all those people to have walked through its doors there is at least one who decided to never leave.
My parents are firm believers that the house isn't haunted, but my younger brother and I have accepted it as a fact that the house is home to some kind of presence. I have had my toe pulled in the middle of the night, covers pulled off me as I'm falling asleep and have seen a plate split itself in half while sitting at the dinner table. My brother, as child, even picked out Mr. Jackman from a photo saying he lived in the house with us. He had never been told about Mr. Jackman nor had he ever been shown a picture of Mr. Jackman prior, but apparently, he would see him around our house occasionally.
When I was a kid there were certain rooms I wouldn't go into after dark. I would feel a sense of distress whenever I would go into them, almost like the air was thicker and it made it harder to breath. There was definitely a sense of presence, like you weren't the only one in there. I'm not sure what has kept Mr. Jackman in the house all these years, but by the time I was a teenager I learned to accept it and not be bothered by it.
The creaky steps in the hallways late at night no longer scared me after a while. I've read about ghosts that terrorize the living who share the same space as them. Fortunately, that isn't the case for the house I grew up in. For the most part, Mr. Jackman keeps to himself and never makes himself noticed. He's kind of like living with a roommate that works night shifts. You hear him around the house, but he's mostly respectful of your space and you rarely bump into each other.
Now that I'm older, staying at my parents' house really doesn't bother me. I've had one or two run ins with Mr. Jackman since I've moved out but now they just remind me that I'm home. In retrospect, growing up with a ghost is almost reassuring. To me there is validation to some kind of soul that is larger than life as we know it. I hope that Mr. Jackman isn't tormented with his existence among the living and that he finds whatever he's been looking for the last hundred-some years. If he wants to hang around though I don't mind. We're cool.
