A real haunted house?

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Thursday, October 29, 1998

BY KAREN SAMPLES
The Cincinnati Enquirer

June Blank, left, and her daughter, Teri Gurren (reflected in mirror), believe their Erlanger home is haunted. (Patrick Reddy photo) | ZOOM |

ERLANGER -- Years ago, Officer Greg Sandel arrived at 3517 Jacqueline Drive with his heart somewhere in his throat.

He had seen a lot in his line of work -- tears, blood, the countless ways people hurt themselves and one another.

But this . . . this was beyond comprehension.

With the coroner and commonwealth attorney at his side, Officer Sandel stepped into the garage. He groped behind some furniture. His hand found a garbage bag. He pulled it out and sat down on the floor. Twelve years later, he recalls the moment vividly. The bag was green. He could feel the weight at the bottom.

He opened it, and there she was: a baby girl, full term, with umbilical cord attached.

She looked so perfect that she might have been a doll.

The baby's mother, 32-year-old Brenda Stith, pleaded guilty to second-degree manslaughter and received five years in prison. After first denying her pregnancy, she told police, she had given birth into the toilet and hidden the baby in the garage. Doctors couldn't determine how the infant died -- only that she was born alive.

Ms. Stith already had two children. The three of them lived with her parents on Jacqueline Drive. She hadn't wanted them to know about this pregnancy.

Today, Brenda Stith is free and living in another state. Her parents have moved to Florida. Greg Sandel is Erlanger's police chief. And a new family lives at 3517 Jacqueline.

The family is convinced the house is haunted.

"I have never been afraid of bathrooms," said Teri Gurren, 47. "And I hate that bathroom."

Ms. Gurren is a nurse. She bought the home two years ago and lives there with her mother, her three sons and a brother.

The previous owners had lived there several years. Before that, Ms. Stith's parents occupied the house.

Ms. Gurren says nobody mentioned the baby's death when she bought the place. Her son Jonathan, 16, heard the story from kids in the neighborhood, and her mother, June Blank, did some research at the police department.

That was after the weirdness started, though.

First, Ms. Gurren had trouble sleeping and switched bedrooms with her mother. Then Ms. Blank, reading in bed late at night, felt one corner of the mattress shifting under her feet.

Nothing there. Nothing under the bed, either. She checked twice. Another bedroom door swings open occasionally. In the living room, a light in the fish aquarium clicks on by itself. And late at night, Ms. Blank sometimes hears a strange sound, as if a child's blocks were being knocked to the ground, restacked and knocked down again.

"I've always believed in ghosts," she said. "I've always believed that life is going on in different levels around us."

This doesn't mean she likes all those levels, of course. Ms. Blank hasn't been getting much sleep lately. This haunting stuff is a drag.

I know, I know. You're thinking: Wait a minute. What ghost plays with the light in a fish tank? Aren't they supposed to rattle chains and blow out candles?

Ms. Blank and her clan know it sounds strange. But they don't care.

"I think it's grossly unfair that somebody didn't tell me, because I never would have bought this house," Ms. Gurren said. It's an attractive place, though. The floors are oak. The bathroom has mauve-and-green wallpaper.

Ms. Blank's bedroom is gussied up with lace curtains, a flowered comforter, stuffed polar bears, an Abraham Lincoln bust and numerous Santa Claus figurines.

Ms. Blank is 68. She reads the newspaper every day, loves The Waltons, gets holy cards in the mail from missionary orders seeking donations. On her nightstand are rosary beads and a picture of Jesus.

"I don't have very many religious things," Ms. Blank said. "I think it's kind of tacky."

Sitting on her bed, she tells me about her other suspicion: that the ghost has been fooling with her VCR.

She just got the contraption last year. Like millions of other Americans, she has no idea what to do with it, other than push "play." So, she asks, how come the VCR's clock jumped back on its own this fall, to reflect the time change? Last spring, her daughter had to set it by hand.

From the doorway, Ms. Blank's son listens with an amused expression. William Blank is 30, lives in the house and doesn't believe in ghosts.

"I don't think a ghost is going to change the time," he tells his mother.

Then he does his ghost impression: "Damnit, lady, change it! It's 2 o'clock, not 3!"

In a situation like this, you've got to admire a guy with a sense of humor.

Mr. Blank sleeps on a pull-out bed in the living room. Ms. Gurren and her mother also sleep on the first floor.

Jonathan, Daniel, 21, and Rob, 27, have their rooms in the basement. I met Daniel the other day. His mother, Ms. Gurren, calls him "my special guy."

He is indeed that.

Daniel has the mind of a 2-year-old, his mother says. He cannot speak. He wears diapers. All day, he entertains himself by scrunching up a plastic bag.

Ms. Blank says he went to school until he turned 19. Now he has nothing to do but stay at home.

When I visit his room in the basement, Daniel moves his hands as if signing words. But I cannot understand. I am not sure whether he is laughing or crying.

In the end, this is what takes my breath away. Not the notion of a literal haunting, but the reality of a figurative one.

In this house are two children who will never grow up. One died. The other is trapped in his own mind, but loved.

Life exists on many levels around us, Mrs. Blank says.

Why not believe?

Karen Samples is The Enquirer's Kentucky columnist. Her column appears on Sundays and Thursdays in The Kentucky Enquirer. She can be reached at 578-5584 or email her at ksamples@enquirer.com

SAMPLES ARCHIVE