The tiny, broken-down house stood at the end of the unilluminated block. The electricity was out and the sooty black windows were shattered. The dark, brown door stood locked and unopened for decades. Cobwebs seemed to be forming near the corners of the house and the old house was collecting dust. The ancient wooden rocking chair squeaked as the whistling wind moved it back and forth. This house was part of a Revolutionary War battleground. Women had been in this house caring for wounded soldiers or helping the ones fight in battle. But there’s a legend that says a woman was hung in this very house because the British thought that she was an American spy. But of course that is only a story. It had been said that if a person was to stand at the front of the house, you could catch a glimpse of an old woman sitting on the rocking chair with her knitting needles, sewing an American flag quilt. But now we are back in 1983 Stoney Brook, New York. The clock has almost struck 12…


“Wow guys, it is really cold!” A girl with a burgundy sweatshirt that said Harvard on it said. “Yea let’s go home and get some hot chocolate!” replied her friend with a high ponytail and fur boots. The other friend with a light wash denim jacket shivered in the frigid cold air and shoved her blue hands into the pockets of her navy sweatpants. It’s night and the three best friends were on their way back from the movies. “Wait you guys…I have never seen this house before.” High Ponytail observed. “I’ve heard stories about this house but I don’t believe in ghosts.” The other friend said as she stopped in front of the old, foggy house. “Ummm, it looks alittle creepy. Can we just forget about this and go home?” The girl with the boots said nervously. “ Let’s go inside!” The third friend whispered excitedly. “Are you out of your MIND? What if the story is true?” The girl with the burgundy sweatshirt replied with fear. “Are you scared?” The third friend asked with a smirk. “NO! It’s just late and I’m cold!” The other friend replied defensively. “Come on guys lets just go! Ghosts don’t exist. They’re just myths!’ Scoffed the friend with the high ponytail.


A few minutes later the three friends walked up the creaky steps. The door smelled like dust and fertilizer. The golden brass doorknob was coated with dirt. “Are you sure we should do this? I mean I’ve heard scary stories about this house.” The Harvard girl said with terror. “Hell yea we should! Come on!” High ponytail whispered. She slipped her hand under her army green North Face fleece and placed it gently on the dirty doorknob. High Ponytail swung the door open. The inside of the house was too dark to see anything. The three girls locked hands and squeezed them tightly as they stepped into the house. “Hello? Hellooooo? Anyone home?” Harvard said. Silence followed. Harvard tried again. More silence. The dilapidated floor groaned within every step that the girls took. “What the hell was that?” the third friend whispered as she whipped her glossy blond hair over her shoulder. “Calm down, it was just the floor.” Harvard replied as she continued to search the grande-size mansion. The jade evergreen trees rustled in the wind like shuffling paper. “Who Who Who!” Big eyed owls were gurgling on the skinny branches outside the cruddy, glassless, cobweb encrusted windows. All of a sudden, there was a gust of hot, searing air that enveloped the trio. “Where did that warm air just come from?” Harvard pondered aloud. “Don’t worry, it came from outside. The windows are open.” The third girl said. “Yea but it’s the middle of November! THERE IS NO HOT AIR IN NOVEMBER!” Harvard shot back. The girls look at each in panic. Their colored spheres all widened in angst. They interlocked their hands in fright and scanned the shadowy ancient home.


Dark silhouettes kissed the peeling wallpaper on the wall. They also landed on old, gold framed paintings on the wall. “Hey guys come check these paintings out.” High Ponytail yelled to her friends as she stepped closer to the wall. Her friends followed quietly behind her and stared. Their eyes fell upon a painting of an eighteenth century man and woman standing with two dogs inside some kind of manor or house. “Look guys! The painting! It’s from 1770.” Harvard said. She pointed to a small area that was teared at the right hand corner of the painting. “Wow this is an OLD house!” The third girl giggled softly into her palm. “Uh guys? Come see this. It’s seriously freaky!” Denim jacket uttered from across the room. She was kneeling on the dirty floor and inspecting a large mahogany chest. “What is it?” The other girls muttered in unison. A burnt piece of tawny-colored paper, a pocket knife, a long piece of rope and some other useless yet probably sentimental treasures were spilled all over the floor. “Wow! Look at all these stuff! It’s probably worth hundreds now.” Denim’s face lit up at the thought. “Uh NO! It looks too valuable. This house, those paintings and these treasures belong to someone. Someone from the past. By the looks of things, the people who lived here must have been very wealthy. The appearance of the chandeliers are still in tact.” Harvard snapped as she analyzed the house again. The other girls ignored her and kept looking through the chest. High Ponytail was eyeing the piece paper for sometime. “Hey guys look at this.”


She finally spoke up and snatched the paper from the floor. “It’s a letter- from some guy named... John Williamson. To someone else named Annette Williamson.” Denim jacket read from the top of the letter. “Whose that?” Denim said sarcastically. “Let me see that!” Harvard plucked the old paper from her stupid friend’s hands and read the letter aloud. “ ‘To my dearest Annette, please don’t go through with this...this is not your doing nor is this your fault. They have nothing on you and they have no right to slash your pride or make your body throb with the guilt of spying. Escape with me and I’ll make you safe again. You can escape the pain that they may force upon you and get away...far, far away from this God forsaken place that they call Heaven. Your life can be risked and your body does not have to be hanged by the rope of Death. Come, come with me. Sincerely, yours, John.’” Everyone’s mouthes were agape. The girls glared at each other in pure shock and agitation. “OH. MY. GOD! OH MY GOD!!!” Harvard screamed. “This girl... Annette! She was hung!” She realized. “But by who? And whose ‘they’ that this guy-John was his name, keeps referring to?” Fur Boots asked. She took the letter and pointed to the several “theys” to whom the man was making references to. “Well, the letter dates back to September 24, 1771. It’s during the American Revolution so maybe it’s the British? Maybe the girl-Annette, was an American spy. And she was hung because the British captured her.” Denim wondered aloud. “That is utterly ludicrous! That never could have happened.” Harvard scoffed. “It’s not ridiculous because it’s true- LOOK!” Fur Boots’ manicured finger shot at another piece of paper that was lying on the filthy brown table...almost like magic.


It seemed to be an exile slip. It was a proclamation of Annette’s execution. It turns that she really was hung by rope in her bedroom, which was just right upstairs. “Uh where did that paper come from? And those candles? Those weren’t there when we got here!” Harvard’s body was shaking from hysteria and fright. Her face turned pale and she felt her blood become ice cold. “IT WAS A GHOST!” High Ponytail cried. “FOR THE HUNDREDTH TIME, GHOSTS DON’T EXIST!” Denim insisted again. “Guys, let’s focus! The paper is an exile slip. It describes how and why she was killed. I was right! She was an American spy and WAS killed by the British. She WAS hung by rope-IN HER OWN BEDROOM!” She scanned the slip and her eyes widened in disbelief. “THE ROPE!” All three girls yelled together when they understood why the piece of hard string was dangling from the box. Harvard ran to the chest and grabbed the braided cord of fibers. “So are you saying that Annette’s Ghost is still roams the grounds?” Harvard asked curiously. “Could be. I mean like I don’t believe in ghosts, the dead or spirits or any of that other creepy stuff. But the stuff on the table wasn’t there before and the hot air from when we came in.” Denim replied. “Its possible, I guess. Has anyone seen my bag?” Harvard asked while oblivious to the ghost topic that they were taking about. “Uh you mean the one that’s hanging in mid air?” High Ponytail’s voice was shaking like an earthquake as she pointed in horror to the inanimate object that was legitimately hanging in the midst of the unsanitary and eerie air. The bag drooped to the floor and the ripped curtains began to sway back and forth even though no wind was upon them. The candles oscillated and the chandelier rocked back and forth. Still there was no wind. So who was moving it? Was there really a spirit among the girls? “I AM STILL HERE.” A random voice boomed. “AND I AM A SPIRIT, STILL LIVING, WITHOUT BODY BUT WITH A SOUL AND I WILL STAY HERE FOREVERMORE.” The peculiar voice came from close by. Suddenly, an outline of a beautiful woman appeared in front of the girls. The girls stood shocked once more and gawked at the ghost. “Are-are you Annette?” Harvard spoke up. “Yes, Yes I am. I was killed by the British but my spirit still lives. I maintain a permanent residence here. I was hung by a piece of rope in my very bedroom. But don’t worry, I’m not going hurt you.” Annette sat on the table with a small, pleasant smile. She seemed to be a friendly ghost, but the trio of girls still felt amazed yet numbed with incredulity. “Well it was nice to meet you, but we gotta go. Okay bye!” Harvard mumbled quickly as she clasped both of her friends’ wrists and marched out of the historical and well, haunted house. Annette grinned to herself and watched the girls go. She shook her head and crossed her “ghostly” pale arms across her colorful dress and gazed into the indigo blue night sky. And so our story ends here. The spirit of Annette still wanders The Country House. Go there and look for her and she’ll definitely be there...waiting for you.