Have you ever walked by a house and just known, deep down inside that it was wrong? Have you ever felt that twist in your stomach which told you something bad had happened there? Did you ever see someone in a window, when you knew someone wasn’t really there? Heard about sounds inside of walls? Old servant passages still used by the dead? Secret doors from one room to another?
Of the oubliette, that “little place of forgetting”, so popular in castles and keeps of old Europe? Did you ever stay away from a house because you knew, just knew that you’d come to a bad end?
That’s what 125 Berkley Street is to me.
A bad beginning and a bad ending.
The house has terrified me since I was a boy, and with good reason. There’s something wrong with it. A feeling you can’t quite place your finger on. That crawling sensation up your spine that raises the hackles on your neck. A place where you see and hear things you absolutely know aren’t there.
Come on in for a tour, visit for a while. Have a cup of coffee and hope the original owners don’t stop in.
They’ve been dead for a long, long time.
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