Henry Deaver Is Sick Of These Gotdamn Ghosts.

*As always, I do not own the home. This is fictional and any resemblance to nouns - past and present - is purely coincidental and accidental. This is a joke. Buy this house.*

Wiscasset, Me was initially settled in 1660, though it was abandoned until around 1730 (CROATOAN). The house was finished 10 years later and was inhabited by a pastor, his wife, 3.7 children, and a fuckton of farm animals. The pastor, we'll call him Rufus because time decided that his name doesn't matter because he was a rat bastard, built a church on his land so that his congregation would have to come to him. Rufus was that guy. If psychology wasn't considered witchcraft in those days, he would have been diagnosed with co-occurring Narcissistic and Antisocial Personality disorders. Point of fact, one woman had the ovaries to tell him full stop what a tool he was and she was summarily dipped into the sea like a Dairy Queen Dipped Cone.

As such, errybody kept their mouths shut most of the time whenever Rufus was around and even when he wasn't because that asshole had supersonic hearing. He was probably a minion of Satan if we're being honest. Anyway, here's Wonderwall.

He and his wife, Deliverance, whose name was correctly retained by Time because Time just felt really badly for her and decided she mattered enough to be fully recollected, did not choose to marry Rufus. She was actually forced into this life thanks to money, some goats, and several donkeys (as was the way) and she was hella pissed about it. Historians described her reaction as thus, 'Gotdamn motherfucking bullshit is what this is, I swearest to God. Certainly this is a jest of the highest order.' It was not. Poor Deliverance, whose name would eventually prove to be so ironic.

Begrudgingly, Deliverance married him in the church on the property and suddenly, as if by magic, found herself pregnant and still hella pissed. She popped out 3.7 children - Henry, Elizabeth, Josiah, and Thirza - the latter being the .7 of their brood (whatever that fucking means). Rufus did not care a lick about any of them aside from their blind obedience; however, he did choose Deliverance and her spicy attitude came with her and was passed along to their children as a cosmic fuck you to Rufus' controlling ways. Ain't nobody feeling badly for Rufus but Rufus.

This house was more war zone under the guise of God than home. God, not incredibly happy that this guy (this fucking guy) was using His name and Word as a justification for abusing his family, decided he'd had enough. Deliverance also decided around the same time that she had reached her limit. Both of them separately set in motion a series of events that led to poor Rufus' ultimate demise, though not by anyone's hand. More on that in a mo.

Deliverance had been dabbling here and there in witchcraft because she knew it would piss him off and, well, if she got the Great Dip... this would all be over and she'd be in Heaven so fuck it. Wait. Before you get all up in arms about the 3.7 kids, she had made arrangements for them, should something happen to her, to be secreted away in the middle of the night and taken to her eccentric aunt in Salem, Mass.

Ol' girl is a heroine, no lie. She preferred minor inconveniences to anything painful or horrific, so her spells primarily spoiled the milk, withered the plants, prevented fires from staying lit, shrunk Rufus' clothing, etc. Honestly, Deliverance was a good-hearted woman who just enjoyed cussing, loved God, and wanted to be married to a man who knew her worth and wouldn't abuse her, which is apparently asking a lot even by today's standards.

God, doing His thing to help out, sent some germs into the township that shockingly only affected Rufus. He contracted Yellow Fever, Malaria, and Smallpox. Bad luck, chuck. The kitchen above remained cold and no fires burned throughout the entirety of Rufus' illness per Deliverance's minor inconveniences. No doctors were sent for his care because no one really wanted to get involved. People had a tendency to go missing in terrible ways whenever Rufus was involved, whether they were helping him or not, so everyone just whistled and looked around at the sky a lot.

Eventually, Rufus died of natural causes and was interred in an unmarked grave somewhere in the woods, but the old bastard found his way back to the house. Deliverance, who had maybe about 6 months of peace, found her house haunted by this asshole, which was legit the last damn straw. She sent the children to Salem and proceeded to lock herself inside the above room with the thought of exorcising his spirit or to die trying. Sadly, the latter occurred. The townsfolk, hearing the loud banging and strange words coming from Deliverance's home, barged in one evening carrying pitchforks and torches. They found the poor woman in the secret room covered in moss and feathers.

Since it was the 1700s after all, Deliverance was tried as a witch and given the Great Dip, but she was good with it. Her last words were documented as, 'smash the patriarchy! It was worth the moss and feathers! Thank you, Jesus! I've been delivered! See what i did there with my name? Lolz. Delivered. Deliverance. I'm funny.'

She does not haunt this house as her spirit is chilling in peace on a cloud in the sky in Heaven, having been delivered away from that bastard for good. Rufus is stuck here in a strange sort of limbo, which is Hell for him because no one sees him but he sees everyone so his desire for attention and praise are never met. He also cannot hurt people/animals or set fire to things so he's having a really bad go of it. Serves him right. This particular consequence was a gift from God. He cursed Rufus to this fate for crimes against humanity and for using His name and Word to be an abusive, misogynistic dickhead.

By my research, their children went on to become champions for the people in honor of their mom who endured excessive torment at the hands of Rufus the Rat Bastard throughout her fairly short life. They also disowned their father. Byeeeeee, beeitch.

*once again, I neither own this house nor have stock in its purchase. Any resemblance to nouns is purely coincidental and accidental. Also, the cultural references made belong to their respective creators and not me. Thank you to them for their art. Buy this house.*

... wow. This story damn near writes itself. Like, seriously. I feel like I'm being possessed by the house as I type this because holy crow is this house sentient. Just look at it. Loooook.

anyway, it was built in 1880 in the town of Orrington, ME. Funny story, the town was originally supposed to be named Orangetown but they named it phonetically. The Old English phonetics for Orange was Orring and there you have it. From the jump, this poor house was a proverbial typo. Throughout the years, it hosted many families - some good, some decent, some high as gas - and saw many life events occur within and pass through its walls. No one, though, ever asked the house how it felt about all this movement.

For instance, a barn shed thing was erected in the back/side yard without asking House if that was the preferred position. Over time, House began growing more and more resentful until it finally snapped on the last owners. Legend has it that a hole opened up and sucked the family into another dimension... or they just moved quickly in the night while House was focused on the meth lab in the shed. Since then, House has remained devoid of people other than a few squatters, some people looking for places to get high af, and teenagers.

Above is a picture of the kitchen, which heavily resembles the kitchen from a scene in Sinister 2 (TM). I saw it and was like, 'woah, some shit went down in that kitchen,' and then doused my laptop with Holy water and smoke from some Palo Santo. I considered bringing in the Church but thought I ought wait just in case my measures were enough to stave off residual haunting. I mean, it felt like the right thing to do considering House is hainted by resentment and ire.

Aren't we all, though? Truly, cannot we all relate to House? Fucking people. smdh.

House is particularly not fond of people coming inside and tattooing horrible artwork on its walls. Well, except for the Gravity Falls fan in the lower right corner (that person was permitted to squat without incident). House has grown cultured in its long life and developed an appreciation for snarky humor and pop culture. I digress.

I would like to direct your attention back to the kitchen since the most gruesome event occurred here. This is not at all Sinister 2 (TM), I stg. According to lore, the family living here on or around 1953 were preparing for dinner one evening. The mom had made some gelatinous tuna/hot dog bundt cake with mashed potate icing. The family, after having been served this abomination, noticed a shift in the atmosphere. They were genuinely perplexed by the sudden change but even more so by the tentacled monstrosity emerging from the icebox. House, who was so deeply offended by the bundt cake horror, contacted the Eldritch Horrors (TM) and requested they come pick up their drunk ass bundt cake friend.

Unfortunately, the tentacles also took the family since tentacles don't have eyes and it was grabbing at whatever hoping to catch the bundt cake before it revealed its true nature. The Eldritch Horror truly felt marginally bad because it never considered the family as being of particular interest or threat but these things happen, especially during a retrograde.

*this is all fictional and not historically accurate past the research I did on the town and what is provided by Zillow. In other words, issa joke. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental and accidental. Buy the house.*

... def not haunted by the ghost of an angsty blueberry farmer whose wife left him for a cranberry farmer one county over and to the left.

Gregway née Gregoire, originally from some little known region in France and whose name was changed upon immigration to the United States because we don't speak that French here, built this house in late 1850. I'm only assuming it was later in the year because ol' Gregway liked to do things fashionably late. He was one of those people. I digress.

Gregway built this house and then found himself a bride named Cora. Gregway, Cora, and their house lived marginally peacefully in Cherryfield, Washington, County (oh, the irony) for several years. I mean, they had spats and whatnot, primarily over Cora's penchant for cranberry juice and silks and spices from Morocco. You kind of have to feel for Greg because that shit was expensive even back then. Well, I don't know about the cranberry juice. Bogs are a dime a dozen up there and so was Cora. She was a dime piece. Lort.

They once hosted balls in the ballroom below (please note the wooden ceiling as it is fantastic) so that Cora could show off her spicy silks and Gregway could show off Cora in her spicy silks. This was a toxic relationship, no bones about it. All the same, Cora met a cranberry farmer at a ball one evening who piqued her interest. Guy (pronounced Gee) owned several bogs in the county over and to the left. He also had a large collection of porcelain knick-knacks for reasons no one fully understood but accepted politely in public and not so politely behind closed doors. Judgers.

Gee and Cora ultimately struck up a friendship that morphed into a full blown affair. They assumed no one knew about it about as much as meth heads assume we don't know they're tweaking. That is to say, the entirety of the two counties were aware including Gregway. He was reluctant to divorce Dime-Piece Cora because he'd invested so much money into spicy silks so he turned to drink instead and built himself a right good bar in the attic (pictured below).

Gregway spent many nights alone drinking at his bar, occasionally hosting some of Cherryfield's mediocre occupants. The finest were too beside themselves to drink middle shelf whiskey and some bathtub gin with him and, yes, I said bathtub gin. Greg was ahead of his time. Cora had basically moved into the home of Gee by this point. Gregway hung a painting of dogs playing cards (waaaay ahead of his time) over the bar and cried at night in his John Collins. This went on for about a year before Gregway was served with divorce papers and a fuckton of shame because divorcing was way frowned upon back then.

Shortly after, a drinking buddy of Gregway's came by to, well, drink and found him having met his expiry date in the attic pictured above (that door, though. Gorg). He was so distraught that he forgot immediately how Gregway died but was documented as muttering something to the effect of, 'horror, blood, blueberries.' Cora was merely told he'd signed the papers and not that he had passed. I don't know why, no one told me.

Nowadays, ol' Greg paces the grounds of the house he built with his blueberry money and constantly asks inhabitants if they want a shot, which tends to either terrify them or prompt them to do shots with a ghost. No judgement here because it's 2022. Do your thing Ghostly Gregway. :shots shots shots: