I’ll start by saying that I’m not the ghost hunting type. I like horror movies and scary stories just fine, but by no means am I a Zack Bagans ghost adventurer. Call me a skeptic, or a realist, or even just a man with common sense. I don’t believe in spooky caspers or Oujia Board summoned demons. I’m willing to admit now that I was partially wrong. . Ok, I was very wrong.
Let’s start with a short history lesson. I promise it’ll be short. The town of West Elm Park is nothing more than a very small blip in the middle of the mitten state. My family owned some land and a nice little cottage there. It was our summer destination every year, and I loved it. Picture any kind of summer vacation movie and that’s what I grew up with. We were right on a lake. We had the boats, the skis, the tubing, beach volleyball, you name it. Being that my parents didn’t make a lot of money this was extra special. They worked so hard so us kids could have one amazing week out of the year to enjoy.
The town came into existence because of the location. West Elm is centrally located in Michigan, close enough to four of the five great lakes. Mr. Albert Stroh decided to found a cement company there. Albert and his brother Robert were most well-known for creating Strohs brewery in Detroit, Michigan in the early 1900’s. It’s still a somewhat popular beer brand today, probably more widely available in the Midwest. Strohs was one of the only breweries that started in Michigan. Now I’m sure it’s owned by some multi-national massive beer company.
Stroh thought that developing a cement mine and company would be a great idea, being that he could ship cement to all areas of the state. He foresaw that the horse and buggy era was coming to a close thanks to the model T. And we needed to make traveling a little easier on these steel ponies. Dirt and mud roads weren’t going to work. Cement was going to be the savior of the American transport system. He was actually ahead of his time with this thought, as asphalt concrete would become the norm for our roadway system. The only problem was that the men Mr. Stroh picked to run his new company hundreds of miles away from his location in Detroit were not good. The company sank. This was all this town had, and the effects of this failure caused the once hustling and vibrant area to turn into an absolute ghost town. I guess looking back I can now and feel the pain in the air of this little town. There were many hard times after the concrete company left. People tried to make it, many did not.
The “Murder House,” represents the struggle of West Elm Park. I’m sure every town has one of these legendary haunted houses. Growing up seeing this home across the lake from our cottage didn’t mean much to me. Of course, it was the spooky house that me and my brothers would dare each other to go into, even though none of us ever had the nuts to do it. But I didn’t… “Feel” the house. You know? Like I said, I was a skeptic. I only watched ghosts on tv for entertainment, not because I thought it was real.
Fast forward some 20 years and I’m a full-grown man. Chest hair and everything. Me and my brothers sold the cottage after our parents split and left us with instructions to sell. Even split, three ways, and we never saw the place again. I haven’t even seen my parents again. My mom used to contact me from Florida every so often but that stopped a couple months back. Our dad went the other way, up north to the border of the US and Canada. Us brothers all received the same email from mom and dad, stating that they needed the place sold, and if all possible to never go back there. “Let the place burn,” is what they said. Well, that’s pretty freakin dramatic for these people. My parents are hard-working blue-collar types. Not ones to throw away an investment and speak of it like it was a pile of trash. I had so many great memories there, why would they want it gone so fast?
So, like I said, we did. And we never saw the place again. Something called me though. I couldn’t get over how abrupt my parents left, and how they wanted that house gone so bad. I haven’t spoken to them for weeks, let alone seen them. The Murder house flashed in my mind. I was pulled to it like strongman pulling a semi-truck. I had a lot of questions about that place. Did it somehow get to my parents? What, am I crazy? Why the hell am I even thinking about this place right now. It was just an abandoned house like most of the places up there in West Elm. Luckily, I had some time off coming, and I’m an amateur writer in my spare time, so why not take one last trip and really dive into this place. What’s the worst that could happen I thought.
About 8am I’m sitting at a little diner right of I-75. It’s the last place to get some fresh hot food and coffee before I make the drive to West Elm. Imagine any diner with the two lonely gas pumps out front in the middle of the desert. No desert in the Midwest, but you get the idea. The 70’s style linoleum and the little stools by the bar were a welcome sight. We always stopped at this place before making the last few miles trip to the cottage. As the career waitress named Flo came to take my order, I decided to take a shot and ask if she has heard anything about a “Murder House,” in West Elm park. I was studying her face waiting for any kind of reaction. I think she squinted ever so briefly, but just gave me a silent shake of the head and asked what I’d be having today. The breakfast special was 2 eggs and choice of 2 links, patties, or bacon.
That’s when a burly man three seats down bored into my head. I wasn’t looking at him and I didn’t notice anyone when I entered the diner. When Flo walked away, I had that feeling that someone was staring at me. I turned to my right and locked eyes with a guy whose name I’m sure is Ralph. He wore work boots, tight old man jeans, a plaid shirt with one of those puffy vests over it. Do these truck drivers get issued this uniform? “I’m not a truck driver,” he said. It took me a second to understand what the hell that meant. I didn’t say that he was, at least not out loud. “I’m sorry?” is all that I could muster out.
“I live here.” All my life. I’m not just stopping in to fuel up on caffeine and pie before I go on my next 1000-mile haul. I know the place you’re talking about. It’s not called the murder house though, as I’m sure you know. It’s not called anything. No one knows about the history, at least not the bigger media types. I was floored. Yea, it was a creepy house, but did it have an actual history? “Name’s Ralph,” as he moved up to me and extended a hand that looked like 5 pounds of ground beef. Holding back giggly tears as I correctly predicted his name, I accepted the standard human greeting.
“What are you, a buzz feed blogger, facebook writer, twit tat insta whatever something?” He kind of cracked a smile, which made me loosen up. Ralph didn’t look as old as I thought. Maybe late 50’s, so he must not be completely out of touch with the new tech world. “No, just wanted to settle some things,” I said. I then briefly went over my ties to the area and selling our childhood cottage. “If you’re going to go there, be careful.” “I don’t know who, or what lived there, but I do know there’s nothing good about that place,” he said.
Ralph continued.. “I lived in West Elm Park, right on the edge of town, just a few miles away from that place on Elm Street.” Wait, the house is on Elm Street? Ok that’s not a great start, a morbid coincidence maybe, but the “murder house,” literally shares the same street name as the nightmare killer Freddy Krueger. I can hear the children’s nursery rhyme as we speak. 1, 2, ..
I decided to ask the most important question I could. “So, what makes it haunted? Is this some kind of axe murder thing like lizzie Borden, where a factual crime happened that inspires people to feel uneasy when they’re in that home, or is this a paranormal kind of tongue in cheek legend among this small area of the United States?”
Ralph looked at the ground. It felt like he’s been wanting to get this story out to someone for quite some time. “You smoke?” he asked. I didn’t. “You mind if we go out so I can burn one?” I took him up on his offer. It was a real nice clear day, almost 70 degrees already and getting humid. Not bad for an early June morning. We walked a few feet away from the diner. I took in the area, an area that I’ve been through for the better part of my childhood. The constant hum of the freeway, the smell of the friers coming from the diner, the wide-open landscape was soothing. Ralph packed a new pack of smokes, tore the cellophane, and lit a cigarette.
“As a boy we had an Iranian housekeeper, “he said. “She was nice, but odd to us being that she was from such a foreign place, and her accent was heavy. Barely spoke English.” One day we were walking towards the lake. We never really went there, that was more of a tourist camping area. We didn’t even know who lived there for a week or a month at a time. My sister and I were throwing some kind of ball around, not paying attention to where we were at, being led by the housekeeper. Next thing I know my nose hit the rather bulbous behind of this Iranian lady. I had tears in my eyes, about to look up to her with a bewildered state of mind, when I realized, she had come to a dead stop. Therefore my nose was struck by her butt, you see. I wasn’t paying attention of course and ran my silly ass right into her, well, ass. “I see him,” she said.
Um.. See who? “He’s hanging meat. There are scared girls inside. “Now I wasn’t concerned about my hurt nose. My sister and I froze, staring at the house. She went on. “I can see the man, wearing an apron, butchering something.. There is blood all over. Hanging meat.”
After a moment she grabbed us and hurried back to our home. I threw that memory away for a long time. Until I ran into an old story about that home on Elm St. Apparently, it was where the butcher lived and worked during the cement company fall and rise.
Ralph finished his smoke and tossed it into the gravel parking lot. I stood there waiting for the next part. “And?” I said. “What, that’s it.” He said. So this is what you’re basing the murder house on? Did you go there and see anything, or feel any thing? “I wouldn’t dare, my friend. That was enough for me. “ Disappointed, but relieved, I thanked him and went on my way. If that’s the worst thing this town has about the murder house, then there must not be much to this.
I watched Ralph drive off and made my journey towards the lake. I was back in West Elm Park, on my way to the other side of the water I grew up around. I was headed to Elm Street, which I just learned was real. It was getting late now. I don’t care. At this point I’m going to go over to this house, see if I can even get in, and maybe grab a few pictures. Let’s put this to bed.
Let me set the scene of 1313 Elm St. Just kidding, the street address was something like 50012. But sure, enough it was on Elm St. The Victorian style home was larger than I remember. I never got up this close. I didn’t get some sick feeling when I saw the place. It was a typical abandoned place. Grass overgrown, white fence looking gray and tattered. The windows were hard to see into. Taking a second, I looked around. No one. Dusk was complete. It wasn’t pitch black only because the moon and stars were so bright. There are no streetlights out here. I clicked my streamlight on and made my way up the 5 or so steps to the front door. It was already open.
“Hello?” a faint voice said. My eyes were still adjusting to the dark. I was still in what you might call a mud room. I was confused and now, scared. That’s when I saw them. Im sure they were humans. Girls maybe, not sure if they were older than 20. It was still too hard to see. The inescapable putrid smell of meat hit me. Trying not to throw up, I accidentally dropped my streamlight. It stayed on but rolled too far away from me. Composing myself, I dug my phone out and tapped the flashlight option on. Scanning, I didn’t see anything. “HELP!” I was almost face to face with a pale little girl. Startled and maybe soiled I flew backward, falling on my ass. Staring at this girl with disbelief I saw her slowly turn her head to her left, towards the inside of the home. I got the feeling that the butcher was coming. I did not want to meet anyone else in this hell home. I dove out the same way I came in. Barely making it to the front lawn of Elm St., I ran to my car. Once I got in, I broke out into that nervous laugh you get when you just went through a huge jump scare at the movie theatre.
I was also genuinely laughing that I had this idea to look through the “murder house,” of my nightmares, and I only made it like 10 feet inside. How freaking funny. And you even thought you saw little girls in there, and you ran from “the butcher.” That’s rich, I must say. At this moment my phone vibrates, scaring the rest of the you know what out of me. I check who’s calling. It was my… mom?
Uh… hello?
“You didn’t go inside that house did you?”