During the German invasion of Belgium in May 1940 the garden was turned into a field hospital. At least one dead German soldier was buried in that narrow corridor to the right of the house. At least that’s how the rumors would have it.

Not a rumor is that my father killed himself in that house. One of the later owners also killed himself there a few years later.

I doubt the people who bought that house for 12 times the price my mum paid for it back in the early 90s know anything about that.

I never liked living there. In fact, moving there was the first time I experienced a feeling of dread. It’s also the first time I remember worrying about losing my father. I don’t know. I don’t actually believe in curses, but something always felt off there. Probably had nothing to do with the house itself. Maybe the period in which we moved there was also the period I slowly started realizing things weren’t going to be ok and I associated that feeling with the house.

We had some good times there as well. I wasn’t depressed 100 percent of the time. Nor was my father. Just a general atmosphere of doom I take with me everywhere I go. And do not wish to pass on to my son.