True Haunting

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

It was July 25th, 1970, when I saw the real estate advertisement for a two-flat apartment building on the near-north side of Chicago. A "two-flat" is an apartment building with two separate residences. It was offered as an heir estate, which (to me) meant that they were liquidating the property and would be more flexible on the price and terms. It was also my 24th birthday and a Sunday, but I would skip any celebration and I would soon be on my way to appraise this property, for my wife and I were desperate to find a new place to call home.

The reason for my desperation was my wife, Marsha, was seven months pregnant, and we had been given an ultimatum to move by our landlady, the kindly Mrs. Newaski, who was a wonderful old woman that owned our apartment building. She was not so kind, however, when she coldly informed me that she didn't want kids in her apartments. This was a common attitude of landlords during this period of history. It was a time when landlords could dictate most anything and be within their rights. I will never forget driving to her home in a near suburb to pay the rent for the month of June. It was at that time that I happily announced the fact that I was about to become a new father. Instead of the expected congratulations, Mrs. Newaski, the dear old Polish lady, stared at me and flatly stated, "So you'll be moving out soon?" I understood perfectly what she meant. In her own way, she was stating that no children were allowed. My drive home was not very pleasant.

Looking for a new apartment was difficult and near impossible. As I scanned the classified section week after week, the best apartments clearly advertised for no children. This was absolutely legal in its day. We had been married three years, but had saved very little money, so purchasing a house would be near impossible, as a conventional mortgage required a 20% down payment. I was earning a meager salary as a computer programmer in the second year of my career. Computers were new at that time, and few companies could afford one. So I was fortunate to even have a job in my chosen field. Automation was not the lucrative field that it would become in a just a few more years with the explosion of new technology.

Yes, these were the "old" days, when a fax machine was the latest ground-breaking office tool, and people were beginning to talk about a new device called "calculators". We still had typewriters, comptometers, and cash registers that had numbered levers as keys. Secretaries still had to know short hand, because there were no hand held tape recorders-only bulky dictating machines. We used lots of carbon paper for copies, and record keeping was mostly done manually in various handwritten methods.

"Heir estate" clearly meant that someone had died, and the building was being liquidated by their heirs. I would proceed to go and take a look on my own, as Marsha didn't feel well and was suffering from symptoms of her pregnancy. She was barely five feet tall and already was as big as beach ball, with two more months yet to go. She was also still working as a keypunch operator. Keypunching was an early form of data entry. She typed data- little holes-into cards that were then fed to giant accounting machines, or to the original huge computers. This was long before video monitors, or "CRT's," became common in the workplace. Marsha was working 50 hours a week and was trying to continue right up to the last weeks of her pregnancy. She certainly was entitled to rest on this day. I had no qualms about making a commitment on my own, should the opportunity develop.

I called the real estate company and was told the building was having an open house and that I could proceed directly to the address. I kissed my wife goodbye and was off on my adventure. We lived on the far northwest side of Chicago, which meant that I had a 20 minute drive to the inner-city. I was somewhat familiar with the area, for at one time in my childhood, my family lived a half mile from the Campbell Street address. I knew it was within a short distance of the Catholic Church.

This neighborhood was just southeast of Logan Square, which was (then) primarily a Polish area of the city. As I drove through Logan Square, it brought back the memories of the trips I had taken with my Grandmother, who would shop at the various ethnic stores on Milwaukee Avenue. These were some of my fondest early-childhood memories.

The drive also brought back other childhood memories not so pleasant. I had grown up in Chicago, primarily in the inner-city. My mother and father were separated for most of their marriage; thus, I was shuttled between the two of them, living here and there throughout the city. Yes, I knew exactly where I was going. My destination was once a German/Polish neighborhood, and was now changing over to a racial mixing pot. This didn't bother me, but I worried about how Marsha would accept it. Marsha had grown up in Tulsa, Oklahoma; a clean, spacious modern City-quite different from Chicago, and this big city frightened her. As I drove, I knew that if I could acquire this building for a very small down payment, I would make it viable, one way or another.

I viewed it as a mere stepping stone. We could live there for five or six years and then move up to a better neighborhood or a nicer suburb. My plan was that if we could rent out one apartment, it would help pay the mortgage and we could live a much easier life, financially. In five or six years we would develop equity, and possibly the building would appreciate in value. Then we could add to our savings and allow the property to take us to the next level. This was the optimism I was armed with as I drove. I was prepared for anything. If the building needed work, I could fix it up. As I drove past the old Church, I soon made the turn onto Campbell Street.

Just a short distance from the Church was the Campbell Street apartment building. It was just down from the corner. On the corner was a frame two story building with a store front. Years before, it was common for every neighborhood to have a corner store where you could get a gallon of milk, morning paper, and a loaf of bread, plus the kids could buy candy. Those years had clearly passed. Quick and convenient stores had put the little mom & pop shops out of business. This one was deserted and boarded up.

A few doors down was a three story apartment building. Expensive in its day, it was a large, well kept brown brick structure. Wedged between these two buildings was the Campbell Street two-flat. Even on this sunny July day, the building looked gloomy. I attributed that to its dirty gray color, combined with the fact that it sat in the shade of a huge Elm tree that was positioned between the sidewalk and the street. It was also dwarfed by the larger brick three story.

It was a dirty, plain, old building. The architecture resembled something simple; it was as if it had been designed by a child. A tall rectangular box; functional, but not fancy. Had I known the term in that day, I would have described it as "Amish" in design. It was straight up and down, a few windows on each floor, and certainly nothing to brag about. It sat on cinder blocks, with a seven-step walk up to the first floor porch, which was a small, 5x6 ft area. Sitting on the steps was the real estate agent. He appeared as though he had lost the lottery, and earned this dismal field duty. Red faced and...