The farmhouse on 7th line had sat undisturbed by us for almost a year until last night. It had weathered the rainy spring, the searing hot summer, half of a frostbite inducing winter, and remained sitting steadfast at the end of the long, bumpy driveway leading up to it. Everything looked the same, the smashed windows, the overgrown weeds, the rotted porch, the bed frame just visible inside an upstairs room, which amazingly still had an intact window. The intact window that had briefly held the face of a man last April.
During our blogging hiatus, we had the good fortune to meet some local fellow house hunters. As a group, we explored an old insulbrick farmhouse along Highway 3, a Monestary by the lake, and even made a return visit to the “house full of memories”, which is a story in itself. Last night, three of us decided to brave a return trip to 7th Line. My accomplice, myself, and a fellow hunter. Soon, word spread of the planned trip, and three more were in for the adventure. We took two vehicles, plenty of Maglites, some protective measures, and as much courage as we could muster up.
When we pulled in the driveway, the full moon was illuminating just the outline of the large brick house. There were no lights, no cars, no bicycles, no signs of life whatsoever. The accomplice and I figured there would be no happenings this time, as there were last time we attempted to enter the house. Surely whoever, whatever, was there had moved on. The cold was enough to make your fingers hurt within a minute or two, and freeze the inside of your nose with each breath. How could anyone bear to stay in a drafty old brick house with no apparent hydro or running water?
We walked cautiously up to the house, making our way up the formed concrete back steps. The back door wasn’t wired or locked shut, although a rusted padlock was hanging nearby, doing nothing. I stayed outside, on the edge of the porch, with my 6-D cell Maglite held on my shoulder. The rest of the group made their way inside, and I kept watch just outside the door. I watched and listened as everyone stepped forward, carefully, through the front entryway and ventured slowly in to the kitchen. It wasn’t long before there were strained whispers and footsteps shuffling backwards towards the door. I asked, what the hell was going on? I couldn’t hear much since I was outside…
Only a moment later, everyone was making a hasty exit and moving towards the vehicles. Apparently, once people had made their way to the decimated kitchen, a racket started right above them on the second floor. Creaking of metal bedsprings, thumping, and eventually, clearly defined footsteps. Someone said they could hear breathing, heavy breaths… another said they swore they could hear a low whispering. As we left the place, and headed up the driveway, we moved our flashlights over all the windows. The Accomplice caught a movement in an upstairs window, but that was all. We saw nothing more.
Who, or what, is living in the 7th Line farmhouse? A house littered with raccoon feces, mould, broken glass and fallen plaster? Where there is never a light on, no sign of electricity, no evidence of a mode of transportation, all the way at the end of a lonely country road. Unfortunatley, we have never made it past that kitchen area to see the rest of the house, and unless the current tenant decides to move away, we may never get any farther.