The House My Father Built




I believe now, and me, the girl of nine believed God was real. At seven, eight or nine, really not sure of my age, experienced God alone under East Texas sky back in the 1950’s despite the fact the family had no belief systems guiding it. I also experienced many other odd encounters. The family home seemed to have “a portal or doorway,” as I called it then trying to explain it through many years. My bedroom became, at night, became such a place where, when everyone else slept in the home peacefully, my room was a dark room filled with supernatural energy.  And beings who were very tall and wearing long monk robes that covered their faces, who also had, oblong hood covered heads, who also, stood like giants, moved from in and out her closet, no matter if the doors were open or closed. I laid paralyzed nightly as they worked doing something. The paralysis was possibly fear induced or of alien induction.  I was seven, eight, nine, ten or so when the visits came almost nightly for what seemed to be a long time then and perhaps only a month; however, looking behind measuring from adult thoughts. The family  moved when I entered Jr. High. Then, I slept for the first time after many years. The night fears of tall beings left though chronic insomnia followed me until even now.


I went off to college,  moved away, married and had two children. My mother and father moved back to that home, I refused to sleep in that room when I returned home for visits and gladly took any other room. However, my two children stayed in that room when we visited.

I always rationalized, “Surely, that was my imagination, and my children will be okay sleeping in that room. They will be together, so … “ Creepy, paranoid thoughts that really were just crazy childhood imaginations were the basis for this tall delusions, I taught myself to believe.

Twenty-eighth years passed when I finally told the story to the family. My daughter was there listening. “Mom, did they look like…?”

“Wait, don’t tell me, but draw what you saw and I will too.”

Sure enough, we drew the same drawing of the beings.

My daughter told the story how one of the robed beings was in charge of maintaining her in the bedroom as she was always awake, like me. The being looked into her eyes to tell her things. Though “you can’t see its face, it was evil and threatened her. It told her horrible tales about her baby brother who laid next to her.  It spoke of her brothers future, if…” He then showed her a visual picture of how they were going to burry her brother. He was two years younger. They were very young. He was three, maybe, making her five and a half. She was very brave. She never told the story until later after her grandmother died. The mother and daughter compared notes and pictures of what they witnessed in that room. It was exactly the same drawings and descriptions.

Since I was a child fifty-nine years ago living in the house my father built. She chose to live far away from the house in East Texas, however, resent necessity brought me back to live in the same house. “The beings aren’t there anymore. The house has rested from that activity, though other paranormal experiences have occured.”

I will continue the stories of The Home My Father Built one small chapter at a time.

Thank you for reading,


I’m moving away from the home my father built. It is summer 2013, August.
The lights danced in the backyard and caught my attention. So, I took the cell phone and begain capturing a small fraction of the dancing lights that played on the trees. It is sunset. The large light was taken with the setting sun behind me. I’m facing East.



Thanking all lovely thoughts today

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.