“Every time we go to the house, there is something new.”
—BEN ENO
It was a sunny, November afternoon just after Halloween. I was sitting across the kitchen table from Donna Randall Fillie, the keeper of the diary that is central to this investigation. Her stories—well, really the fascinating snippets from her life—simply enthralled me. They report and document the seemingly unworldly, or perhaps multi-worldly, events that she has witnessed in her life while occupying the historic farmhouse. She thoughtfully reflected on the diary entries as we dug into her experiences with one from the summer of 1972:
I lie awake in the sweltering heat, so not typical for the Connecticut countryside where our old farmhouse stands. How can he sleep [her husband] in this ungodly heat, I think to myself, resentful of his quiet, even breathing.
Up under the eaves in the back bedroom we freeze throughout the long winters, then suffer in pools of sweat through the short, but unpredictable weather of the summers.
Restless, I swing my bare legs over the side of the large antique bed, remembering for a moment that it once belonged to my grandparents. They had a long and happy marriage, raised a family, and lived most of their years in that same house. This bed was a gift to my grandmother at the time they bought their first farm. Those mental ramblings distract me for only a moment and my mind returns to feeling the relentless heat. I slide down onto the floor and make my way around the foot of the bed, ducking, without thinking, under the beam, which supports the slanted ceiling. Maybe the bed in the spare room will offer some comfort or at least dry sheets and more ventilation. In the black quiet I lay down, hiking my flimsy nightgown up to my hips.
Suddenly my eyes flip open. My breathing becomes deliberately short and quiet. There is a hand on the back of my left thigh, seductively rubbing up and down. It is not a physical hand, no feeling of flesh against flesh or the distinguishable massaging of individual fingers, but, nonetheless, a hand-shaped area of pressure. It begins to move, slowly rubbing up and down, back and forth. My skin begins to crawl. Kicking my legs wildly in the frightening discomfort of the moment, I bolt back into my bedroom, waking my sleeping husband. Hysterical as I am, I try to explain what has just occurred.
The events—the encounters—that Donna and Bob have experienced are something more than the typical ghost stories encountered around campfires or, for that matter, even those offered in professional reports or exposés. They do not conform to the more typical single entity encounter. In their lives, a wide variety of paranormal themes have being playing out, repeatedly, across many decades and during generations before them. Five generations of the family have lived in the house currently owned by Donna and Bob.
“And why is it you continue to stay here?” I asked.
Donna shrugged her shoulders. “I honestly don’t know! Understand that I am not afraid; this is my home. It’s all I know. Throughout everything we’ve seen and heard here in our house, our ties remain strong and unwavering.”
The extraordinary old New England farmhouse was built in 1793 and has been home to six generations of the Randall family; Donna and her family have been there for more than 60 of those years. It is extraordinary in size and stark simplicity, in service and security. It is extraordinary in that it was constructed at the point of a paranormal flap where time and dimensions, life forms and realms, flow together seam-lessly; where visitation between and among them occurs more by chance than by plan, more as unexpected bumps in the night than the meeting of well-defined visions.
Figure 1-1. The farmhouse in 1935. The paranormal was a regular occurrence even then. Photo used by permission of Donna Fillie.
Figure 1-2. Donna on the family land in 1964. Photo used by permission of Donna Fillie.
Figure 1-3. The old barn, which sits on land that still has active paranormal activity. Photo used by permission of Donna Fillie.
It is less a haunted house than a path side inn where entities from across time and space and multiple dimensions converge and lodge on their ways toward their individually unique destinations. Donna’s family had the nearly exclusive opportunity to engage these essences, witness their endless forms, and become familiar with their obsessions and patterns, their persistence, and, often, their capricious nature.
Within these pages I will share with you their experiences down through the generations, what we believe we have learned, and their own reactions to “them,” which range from delight to irritation to exasperation, but rarely fear. Some they recognize; most they do not. But each of them has presented a wonder-filled possibility for the family to gain a glimpse into the elusive and confounding realm of paranormal phenomena.
This house is Donna’s home, and like most homes, it has typically been a comfortable, safe, and serene oasis away from the trials and tribulations of the world outside. Unlike most homes, they have always had co-inhabitants who, it appears, also claim the house as their home. Donna grew up learning to be pleased and proud to share.
Donna is not inclined to argue or debate the point. She knows what she has experienced and is content that knowledge is sufficient beyond any arguments others have proposed. There are visitors. She has seen them, been touched by them, been sung to by them. She has seen unsupported orbs in the house with the naked eye, objects move with nothing propelling them, and time slips, and photographed them and recorded the noises and voices of invisible entities. As she explained, they can be very persistent and, in her very human way, she has often had to explain to “them” that it is time for them to shut up and let the family get some sleep.
Few people outside of the family are aware of the situation here, but the ones who have ventured closely into their lives have been changed forever by their experiences.
To the casual observer passing by on his way through the lush green meadows of rural Connecticut, the large, old house is one of the finest examples of authentic Americana that New England has to offer. Listed in the National Archives, it adheres to the stark lack of detail, which is the hallmark of most structures built in 1793. First serving as a general store, it was added on to in the 1880s. It still sits proudly on a low knoll, protected by the mountains at the rear and overlooking the fields and meadows in the valley below.
When Donna was born in 1950, she was brought to this very house straight from the hospital. Waiting for her were a host of family members, all of whom lived in the house at the time. With 13 rooms and an apartment in the basement, there was room to house a large number of people. At that time they included her parents, her sister, Diane, her great grandparents, grandparents, and her aunt Nonie. Life was wonderful at the house with large, beautifully decorated Christmas trees during the winter holidays, picnics and lawn parties filled with laughter during the summers, and regularly demonstrated feelings of love regardless of the season. Among all of that there lurked the constant presence of more than a few unwanted otherworldly prowlers that all too often disrupted their lives.
As a child, it was common for Donna to see and hear a wide array of nighttime apparitions. Hallways echoed with the sounds of footsteps, and the voices of uncountable spirits could be heard engaged in unintelligible chatter or quietly chanting or singing hymns that droned on into the night.
As children, Diane and Donna rarely had the luxury of a full night’s sleep because they would be awakened by their parents, if not by the these puzzling visitors, making sure they were still safe in their room. When their parents would hear the hushed voices of the invisible presences, it would initiate the familiar ritual of checking the house and making sure the children were safe in their beds.
Donna’s aunt married in 1958 and moved out of the house. In 1962, her grandfather died, followed by her grandmother in 1966. Subsequent to that time, her sister, Diane, also lived in the house. At that time the disruptions by the nightly visitors markedly increased.
When invited to spend the night with childhood friends, Donna was surprised to find an absence of voices and footsteps and the droning melodies that had become such a constant and “normal”—if often irritating—part of her life experience. Their houses appeared to be “clear,” as she came to characterize them. She never discussed that aspect of life with her friends, partly because they didn’t bring it up and partly because she looked upon it as a relatively normal aspect of life. It was not until much later that Donna would come to realize how unique all of that was to her specific circumstances.
This diary follows the hauntings that have been present in my family house throughout my life, but specifically during the period from my late teenage years until 2003. I began this record as a means for personal amusement. Still, I strived to record each situation with as much accuracy as possible. During this period I got married and gave birth to two children. My daughter Michelle was the focus of special attention by these visitors during her childhood. It was more of a trying experience for her than I realized until one day she confided: “I really like to sleep at Charlene’s house, Mommy, because it’s clear.”
Although my family has been deeply affected by the situation in this house, it hasn’t been the source of severe mental trauma or psychological problems. What it has done, is to provide us the unique opportunity to peek into another dimension that few have experienced. We have acquired an understanding, of sorts, about what the future holds for us. Upon reflection, we understand that what we have witnessed would send the most stouthearted “outsider” running for their lives, screaming into the cold, dark night. Perhaps we were chosen to witness these events because of our basic level headed nature, our understanding of the world, or because we had no preconceived ideas about what a haunting should be. Whatever the reason, we shy away from the word “haunting,” and choose to believe that whatever is here, would, more than likely, rather be somewhere else. There is no panic. There is no ongoing terror. Typically, there is not even any anger—irritation, perhaps, but not anger. We witness no head twisting red-eyed monsters hiding under our beds (at least not yet!). We are content in the knowledge and understanding that we are not alone here in this unique place and time.
~
Author’s note: At various places throughout the diary, the reader will encounter passages that are set off in brackets [ ]. These represent commentary and are not part of the diary entry.
