The Portal in the Farmhouse
By: Erica Bouska
Kelly and James married in 1995. After moving into a house in a small town in Iowa, a haunt in their home left them reeling. All the names in this story have been changed.
A year after we married, James and I moved into the old Kenny Farm just outside the 150-person town we grew up in. A close friend of ours, Anne, stayed with us while she finished up her final semester at the local college. Anne had had a rough go with life, but she was a good soul. While she lived with us, Anne had a spirit attached to her, a little boy she called her guardian spirit.
After Anne moved out, I told James’ younger brother and his friends about her guardian spirit. I thought nothing of it—sharing stories was what we did—but I should’ve known better than to hand the information over to 18-year-olds looking for a thrill during winter break.
They were home from college for winter break, and our house was often a hang-out spot for their group of friends. James and I both worked with my sister and brother-in-law at their restaurant, an hour from our house. We got back around eight one night and found the usual cars outside. In a small town, you know who drives what.
When we stepped inside, I could tell the house felt… off. Our living room, typically plagued by the guys lounging around on the couches, only held Jim.
“Where are the other guys at?”
“They’re upstairs in Anne’s room.” He looked unsettled. “With a ouija board.”
I’d made it very clear I never wanted one of those in our house.
Jim hadn’t wanted anything to do with it. The rest of the guys were trying to talk to the guardian spirit to find out who he was and why he’d attached to her. Cold curled in my stomach. Every one of those boys knew that using an ouija board opened a portal.
Not wanting to interrupt and make it worse or confront what might be up there, we waited in the living room. The whole time I just prayed, hoping that nothing would happen and the boys would walk away to look for another way to cause trouble. A half-hour into our vigil, Theresa, a friend of my sister’s, stopped by.
“Where’s everybody at? I saw all the cars outside.”
She was a year younger than the guys and another frequent guest at our house. We explained the situation with the house’s strange presence looming over us.
She scoffed.
“I don’t believe in all that. It’s a load of crap.”
As a wedding gift, James and I had received a 27-inch shelf. It was solid wood. We didn’t want to worry about it moving, so we hung it on a wall stud with a two-and-a-half-inch-long nail.
Before Theresa had finished her sentence, the shelf flew two feet off the wall at her.
The strange presence in the house turned dark.
She started apologizing, as white as a sheet. At the same time, the four other boys came thundering down the stairs.
They were hyper, excited about what had happened. They had been successful. Whatever it was had told them that they needed to take a drive to see real paranormal activity. Three of them were already grabbing their shoes and keys, so high on the thrill. They were rushing out to the cold winter night. But the fourth, Grant, was utterly terrified.
I don’t know what he thought was going to happen when he put his hands on that cursed object, but apparently, he wasn’t expecting the horror that held him inches from a panic attack. James and I were religion teachers at the time, and I slipped him a crucifix and a bottle of holy water, which he smuggled into his overcoat.
The other three, still recklessly eager, loaded into the car. We waited in trepidation for their return. 45 minutes later, they came back, no metaphysical presence to be found on the open gravel roads. I couldn’t even be relieved.
The boys started to rag on the whole experience, making fun of the thing they’d communicated with and blowing it off like nothing could ever touch the immortality of their youth.
That’s when I felt the house shift. It had felt off all night, but now it felt creepy and heavy and… wet. Like humidity was being pumped into our home. The cold in my stomach started to roil.
Within a few minutes, Grant came clean about bringing the holy water and cross with him, and the guys immediately began to rail on him, saying he’d ruined the fun and needed to lighten up.
The house got worse. Now it was like a weight pressing in on me, and I could feel the panic, the fear corroding my skin.
I didn’t know anything about demons or ghosts or whatever it was. I was just a 24-year-old economics major with a resolute trust in God. But I knew we had to get rid of it, so I clung to what I knew best: my faith. James and I took our wedding Bible and went upstairs.
It was so cold. It was always cold in Anne’s room, but this was something else. Even though it was winter and the farmhouse had been around since 1890, it wasn’t a natural chill. It was gnawing, grating along my bones. You could tell something was wrong. That was not Anne’s guardian spirit.
We stood outside her room, and I started reading.
“Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”
Anger, fierce intense rage, began radiating from the room.
“You don’t belong here.” I said it over and over like it would increase its conviction.
The only thing that changed was the surging energy on the other side of that door. I can only describe it as static electricity racing around the hallway, playing with the hair on our arms.
I switched to reciting the “Our Father,” not knowing what I was doing besides trying to get it to just go, to leave us alone. Halfway through the second Our Father, a streamlined wind raced out of Anne’s room pushing my hair back and launching through us before surging for the window.
And just like that, it was gone. The guardian spirit, whatever took his place, all of it was gone.