Does The Queen have ghosts?

Not anymore!

Our son was just five years old when we moved into the old, haunted-looking house that would eventually become The Queen. Almost immediately, he announced that the house was haunted. As far as he was concerned, living in a haunted house was the coolest thing ever. And as an only child, it gave him the perfect scapegoat every time I discovered a tub of ice cream left melting on the kitchen table or found the attic door standing mysteriously ajar.

Whispers from the past echo in the shadows of this Victorian beauty.

He and his friends even communed with the spirit using a Ouija board. The planchette spelled out his name: Harry. According to the board, Harry had traveled there long ago to visit his sister, who worked as a live-in servant in the house. Tragically, Harry passed away during his visit, leaving his lost soul trapped between worlds.

It all seemed like innocent childhood imagination—until the night I heard a terrifying crash from my son’s bedroom.

I bolted across the hallway and burst through his door. There he was, cowering under his blankets, shouting, “Harry did it, Mommy! Harry did it!”

Lying squarely across his bed, right on top of his covers, was his heavy bookcase. Fortunately, he wasn’t hurt, but the chilling sight left me breathless. Was Harry actually real?

Years passed, our son grew up and left home, and we never heard a peep from Harry again.

Until…

One day, I was across the street visiting a neighbor who had always insisted her own home was haunted by two female ghosts. But that afternoon, she confided that she suspected a male spirit had recently moved in. She had begun smelling rich coffee brewing in the morning—even though no one in her house drank coffee—and the sharp, medicinal tang of liniment lingering in the parlor, a balm none of them owned.

We were standing together in her dimly lit hallway when the realization struck me. I looked at her and suggested, “Maybe Harry moved across the street?”

The moment the words left my mouth, a loud, guttural belch echoed through the hallway—the deep, rasping burp only an old man could make.

Goosebumps erupted across our arms. Standing in the heavy silence, I whispered, “It’s Harry. He just wants me to know he’s here.”

*For more eerie tales and fascinating local lore, explore the historical walking tours offered by Local Historia.