Yahara Journal 2021

A Brief Account of Booker House Cameron G. Schneberger Before Booker House belonged to my aunt, it was a school for rich girls with blue eyes. Before it was a school for rich girls with blue eyes, it was a place where Union soldiers cleaned their guns.

Before it was a place where Union soldiers cleaned their guns, it was a farmhouse owned by the Booker family.

I stayed at Booker House for a week with my cousin. I was 11.

It was a lavish place for a child accustomed to Midwest frugalness.

It was a bonafide mansion infested with chandeliers, taxidermied foxes, and a small cleaning staff who lived on the premises. My aunt’s collection of exotic chickens orbited the house, and her hoard of marble-colored greyhounds migrated noiselessly from room to room, pausing for nobody’s hand.

On the third night, my cousin and I shared a bed. The sound of a low groan enveloped Booker House that night. I don’t remember how long it lasted. The groan slowly crescendoed into a guttural shriek. I’d say it was only 10 minutes, but my cousin claims it lasted all night. It terrified us. We shared a bed for the rest of our stay.

I remember I ate yogurt for breakfast the next morning. I also remember interrogating my aunt about the cause of the sound. She offered no explanation aside from the undeniable fact that old houses produce all manner of sounds.

Fourteen years and two husbands later, my aunt graced me with a reminder of her existence and asked me to lunch. I was in college at the time. She drove me to a diner in rural Michigan that served frog legs. Booker House had long been sold in favor of a slightly smaller house that was allegedly much less work.

“That place was haunted anyway,” she said, dipping a frog leg in ranch dressing.

“You know that moaning sound? Never knew when it was going to happen. One of my dogs ran away because of it. Never got used to it.”

36