Cursed Land

I spent the first twelve years of my life in Utah, a place where hauntings weren’t just stories—they were part of everyday life. Believe it or not, the supernatural was almost expected. My aunt lived in a house that had once been a train station, though, by the time I knew it, the tracks had long since vanished. The strange, sprawling property sat on the edge of a park, its isolation only adding to its eerie presence. The house itself was an architectural oddity, a twisting maze of mismatched rooms and oddly placed bathrooms as if different hands had stitched it together over the years.

Curious about its past, I used to pore over records, trying to uncover whether any deaths or tragedies had ever been documented there. But the trail was frustratingly thin—just scattered mentions of renovations, sales, and ownership changes. Officially, there was no solid proof that the house had ever been a train station at all. The records only stretched so far, and from across the country, I could only dig so deep.

But history has a way of slipping through the cracks, especially the dark parts. Local rumors whispered that during the railroad’s construction, a violent and bloody clash had erupted on that very land, claiming the lives of Native Americans. There was no concrete proof—just a lingering story passed down like a warning. And yet, standing inside that house, feeling the weight of something unseen pressing in, I believed it.

That house wasn’t just haunted. It was cursed.

My own experiences were few but unsettling—strange music calling me toward dark, empty rooms, shadowy figures lurking just beyond my vision, and the sound of something scraping along the walls when no one was there. The air itself seemed thick with unease as if the walls had soaked up the suffering of something long forgotten.

I won’t tell my cousins’ stories, but they grew up with more than just ghostly whispers. Poltergeist activity was a part of their childhood, the kind of stuff that makes you question reality itself. And no matter what history books failed to confirm, I know one thing for certain—some places hold onto their past, and my aunt’s house was one of them.

Remembering my aunt’s home—and the fact that I’ve never encountered another place that felt quite like it—I can’t help but wonder just how many cursed places exist in the world. Are they scattered, hidden in plain sight, waiting for the right person to notice? Or are curses something we carry with us, woven into our bones, following us no matter where we go?

Maybe the land itself holds memories, whispering them to those who are willing—or unlucky enough—to listen. Or maybe, just maybe, some places aren’t cursed at all. Maybe we are.

I would love to hear your thoughts on cursed land, homes, and people. Please comment below or visit my Facebook page.