One of the most amazing houses I ever lived in as a child was on a little farm road called Birch Lane that was dappled with beautiful greenery down the entire stretch and almost made you feel as though you were heading into a secret world.

The home was old and drafty and we didn’t stay there very long; just long enough to unpack and repack the boxes that followed me throughout my childhood. The house was another thing as well: Big! I remember running from room to room trying to see how fast I get around the main floor; flying upstairs (not literally, but almost) to do the same on the floors above. It was a wonderful old place.

As it turned out, the three of us were not the only residence of the place, though we were almost certainly the only legal tenants. In our brief stay there I encounter many different beings, some I would call ghosts and others would fall into that unknown category I have haphazardly tossed together over the years.

One in particular I became quite familiar with and by the time I left I might have even said we were friends, in a way. His name was Henry and he definitely fell into that unknown bracket. I couldn’t exactly call him a ghost, because he had no recollection of ever being a person. Now, while one can’t assume that this means he didn’t at one time have a life, it is important to note that I specified person, not living. From Henry’s description the term alien might have been more appropriate, though he certainly didn’t appear to be a little green man, to use the cliché.

Henry claimed he had come from the stone in the house, not attached to it as many paranormal stories go, but actually of the stone. On this point he was very clear. Henry also claimed that the stone had not come from the earth, but that shards of it had come from places too far to imagine and had too long ago to remember landed here in fragments so small they had become part of the earth.

I can tell you at the time I believed him. Years later I didn’t. These days after everything I have seen, I just can’t be sure. I think Henry believed his own story and that was good enough for me at the time. I really only know one thing; there is so much we do not understand that I don’t feel comfortable dismissing stories that seem strange simply because they don’t fit into a traditional idea of what a paranormal being should be like. Think of how preposterous that is after all…of course then again so is the very idea of the supernatural to so many. Last time I checked the numbers were somewhere around 45% of the world’s population believing that such things even exist! I am losing track here, forgive me.

One of Henry’s favorite pastimes was compiling stones into what he called “marches.” I have done a bit of digging on this and found the word march linked to many different things: from hammer to boundary to the etymology of the month itself which is linked to the Roman god Mars. So as to why he named his stone piles this, I do not know, nor do I know that it was relevant.

Henry’s marches would appear all over the house and in the yard; often in small piles of rocks no larger than dimes and on a few occasion boulders too large to be carried even by a strong man, though thankfully those were always outside.

It was around this time that I think both of my parents truly began, perhaps not to believe, but to become more comfortable with the idea that I could see, hear and sense strange things. I told them the rock piles were okay, and because Henry always cleaned up his creations within a day of constructing them, the inconvenience was often minimal, so my parents didn’t inquire much further than that. Of course these days I have given them much more detailed accounts (my but some people become inquisitive with age!) but back then I believe they were both so busy that anything short of life threatening didn’t make the agenda for taking out time to understand.

I was the only one who ever really went into the attic, which was where Henry liked to be most often. Up there he built and rebuilt many of his marches and on a few occasion I even helped out. There was another ghost in the attic, or perhaps the only ghost, but that one was far less friendly. When the other one was present, I never did get a name, it was more of a scary paranormal experience because it always appeared to be upset. When Henry was around however, his presence seemed to either keep  away or at least keep it from being known to me.

The same was true around the rest of the house. Though Henry was just about as friendly as I could have hoped for, he seemed to drive off other beings in the house. I remember asking him why, but I don’t think I understood his explanation. Over my head at that age I suppose, or perhaps any age given the circumstances.

I spoke with Henry often while we lived in that place. He often asked about simple things while I would pummel him with larger universal questions that I didn’t even understand myself. I wish I had written it down, but when asking similar questions today I am only a little more enlightened or well informed, so perhaps it’s just as well.

Now as to some things you may be wondering about, I will try to answer the questions I have most often received when remembering this tale to others:

• Did I see Henry: Yes and no. His form was always a bit wobbly. I might have said he did look human at the time, blurry, but person shaped. Today I believe I would have to say I think he tried to look human, perhaps even for my benefit.
• Could I hear Henry: Most often not with my ears, but on occasion he would speak out loud. My parents were each witnesses to this, on more than one occasion, but we did not really speak of it then. They both remember hearing the voice, though not the exact words, to this day.
• When Henry made his marches did I or anyone else see the stones move? Yes. I did see what essentially looked like foggy images lifting rocks. On one occasion my mother also witnessed Henry putting a final stone in place in the kitchen.
• Do I have any pictures of Henry: No. My family did photograph some of the stone piles at the time and I debated about whether or not to place those here, but in truth they are not particularly interesting nor do they give any validity to this story for anyone who wasn’t present at the time. It isn’t as if I have video of Henry putting his creations together, now that would really be something!

I believe that covers the basics. When we moved away I asked Henry to visit me. He said he would try, but I never saw him outside of that house. I returned years later to that place as an adult, but the house was gone. The road was no longer a sleepy entrance to another world either. It was quite sad and I found no whisper of Henry or his marches. I also did a bit of research about the house and found nothing about Henry and only one old account of the home being reputed to be haunted.

The experience helped me to come to terms with the  idea: that even a concept as difficult to believe in at times as ghosts can be, there is so much more to the paranormal than that. I doubt I’ll ever even see the tip of the iceberg, but it sure is interesting to think about how far that might very well go.

Goodbye for now, another end.
Until a time we meet again.

-Seline