Old House Stories

There is something irresistibly inviting about an old house. Maybe it is the well-worn doorknobs, the faded paint, or the feeling that Grandma might open the door at any moment; possibly with cookies or maybe even with a warning not to go upstairs.

Years ago, that curiosity led us into the upstairs of an old two-storey farmhouse my sister was renting. At first, the layout seemed ordinary enough. Two bedrooms with a small landing between them, just large enough for a tiny chair and table, or, perhaps, for someone to sit quietly and listen to visitors wonder where the whispering was coming from. Each bedroom had an interesting ceiling withcut corners that gave it a hexagonal shape. Interesting, certainly, but not alarming. Then we opened the closet doors.

What looked like a small closet was merely the opening act. Behind each closet was a small secret room, concealed by a flat, nearly invisible door. We were delighted. Here were two hidden chambers tucked into the house as casually as spare towels. We inspected them with the seriousness of detectives and the excitement of kids. We imagined them as reading nooks, hideouts, treasure rooms, a place to hide presents or places where the house might keep a few stories entirely to itself.

Years later, my sister moved into another turn-of-the-century two-storey house. We wondered whether it might be an Eaton’s or Sears catalogue house, but despite our amateur sleuthing, we never found a stamp on the inside wood. The house kept that secret. What it did reveal was spectacular. Dense, beautifully grained trim around the windows and doors, rich with age; a stairwell lined with sculpted handrails and balusters; and newel posts grand enough to deserve their own introductions. (I could hardly wait to help decorate for Christmas) Even the entrance to the sunroom looked framed like a work of art.

My mother-in-law’s wartime house had its own trick. Upstairs were two bedrooms, and beside the dresser in the one room was a flat door set into the wall. You could pass it every day without noticing it which is exactly the sort of thing a secret door counts on. Open it, and you stepped into an attic that ran the entire length of the upper floor. The roof pitch was steep, so every expedition came with one important rule; do not bump your head. There were no windows, but there was a light switch, along with boxes of old photographs and family keepsakes. It was part archive, part mystery, and almost certainly an excellent hiding place when the children were young.

Old houses may creak, hide doors, and refuse to explain themselves but that is precisely why they are so hard to resist.

Next summer, my sister and I plan to visit the Magrath Mansion in Edmonton built in 1912, as well as the Lougheed House/Mansion in Calgary built in 1891. We are going to have an exciting summer touring these old sites.(references: Magrath Mansion website, (Concordia University) and Lougheed House National and Provincial Historic Site