“I saw her! She was on the balcony looking down at me…” The panic in Perla’s voice convinced me she had indeed seen one of our “roommates.” I had not told her about any of our houseguests - ever - and certainly not about her. I never wanted to scare Perla unnecessarily.

I was also a bit unsettled, knowing that “she” had manifested in physical form; until now, we had only heard her. Were we about to enter the next scene in some horror movie? Was “she” going to start making regular appearances? I wasn’t sure I was ready to take on this level of stress.

The hollow, oh-so-assertive footsteps across our century-old oak floorboards have been commonplace in the home over the last decade. “Hello?” I’ve shouted many times. “Who’s there? Joe, are you upstairs?” The feeling of being watched has raised the hairs on my arms more times than I can count, and even the skeptics in my life have come to realize I am not crazy or delusional. Stratton House was indeed… HAUNTED!?

Although the activity came in waves earlier in our tenure, the phantom footsteps and wispy apparitions have become accepted occurrences for us at Stratton House. I have come to find an uneasy comfort with our “roommates.”

Comfort or not, one episode truly rattled me. It occurred when the alarm company called me at work. The dispatcher said someone was in our home. The sensors on my phone showed the path of the intruder: from our kitchen exterior door, through the dining room, and out the front door. I was helpless, being so far away. All the sensors were going crazy. Motion detectors and alarmed doors were tripping in sequence.

The ride from our shop in Bloomfield Hills to our home in Grosse Pointe is a solid 45-minute drive. That drive left me in an agitated and helpless state. The police were dispatched, and I arrived home to a skeptical police duo. They claimed no one was in my house. I showed them the sensors and joked, “What was it - a ghost?” In my heart, I knew who it was. Little did I know, our “guests” were just gearing up for more tricks.

We are all familiar with the stereotypical personalities our brothers in blue often exude. They did not disappoint. They looked at me like I was crazy, and my frantic drive home felt unnecessary.

Now, we coexist and even find comfort in the fact that our unseen tenants are as attached to the home as we are. Even Joe - once a skeptic who had had a few experiences but never publicly acknowledged our “roommates” - doesn’t flinch at stray sounds from upstairs anymore.

I believe the deep love and passion some of us have for our homes does not fade once we depart this realm. This intense love imprints on the physical location. I like to believe our “guests” were checking to ensure we would be good stewards.

At Stratton House - the former home of Mary Chase Stratton and her husband, Buck, two powerhouses of design and architecture in early Detroit - this impassioned attachment seems deeply rooted. Mary, with her Pewabic pottery, and Buck, with his architectural prowess, created an opus to their love when building their home - a place many of us have since come to call home.

Their attachment was real, and their forced decision to move out during the Depression only seemed to intensify the energies that linger in the woodwork. Their ten-year residency was brief compared to the next family, which lived in the home for multiple generations. At times, I feel the original tenants’ presence in the halls, but not as strongly as the next family’s attachment to the house.

It is with this next family that I feel we have had the most experiences with apparitions and footsteps. The intense love affair the matriarch had with the home is apparent in the stewardship and maintenance she carried out during her nearly eighty-year tenure. Mrs. M’s father purchased the home from the Strattons; she and her husband later took it over. She was raised in the home and then raised her own family there. Her immersion in the home’s ethos over decades solidified her grasp on these walls - even in the afterlife.

It is her benevolent steps, I believe, that we hear. It is her I catch glimpses of moving through the rooms.

In the first few months of living at Stratton House, we had a friend helping us keep things tidy. One morning, I had left for work, and apparently, she had not realized I’d gone. A few hours later, she called me in a panic: “I heard you walking around upstairs… I’m now in the middle of the street! I left the house! You weren’t upstairs! Who was upstairs?!”

I knew we had a “roommate” or two, but I never wanted to frighten her. She is a superstitious soul, and I didn’t want to add undue stress while she was helping me. Fast-forward several months, and our “roommate” showed herself to her.

“She” was on the balcony, staring down at our Perla when she appeared. Without knowing any details of the prior owners or their appearances, Perla described to me an older lady with a silvery-grey bun. We both felt the chills of all chills run across our bodies.

I had become accustomed to footsteps, but I was not comfortable with a physical manifestation. We were entering a whole new chapter with our roommate(s). Was “she” happy with us - or troubled with her new tenants? Did “she” feel safe showing herself to Perla, or was “she” upset that Perla was using Lysol instead of Murphy’s Oil Soap on the tiled floors? The poltergeist games had begun, whether we liked it or not.

More recently, a chapter unfolded when “skeptical Joe” proclaimed his sighting of a full-bodied apparition in our kitchen doorway. I jokingly dismissed him because of his skeptical mind. But he was insistent and convincing. Apparently, someone wanted to make him believe.

I enjoyed this episode, though the hairs on my arms and neck stood on end. I quickly exited the kitchen to carry on with my chores, but I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling.

Ten years in now, and daily life at Stratton House is quiet for the most part. Routines have been established, and no walls have been torn down. I hope our roommates have found comfort, knowing that we mean no harm and love the property as much as they do.

The visits are not menacing, although they can be disconcerting; most assuredly, they are not feared. People may find it odd, but I find it comforting to know we share the same love for our home as our “roommates.” I wouldn’t mind joining their ranks when my time comes.

I look forward to a time when all of us - the “Stratton Crew”- will have a little fun tormenting the next people who move in, taking every chance to startle and scare anyone attempting to change our beloved home. No Formica or engineered products allowed in remodeling on our watch! I’m practicing my best “BOO” and stomping now!