(This story is based on a paranormal experience that my late mother had many years ago!) 

 

 

Many years ago, a strange thing happened in the town of Monaca, PA. My grandmother, after years of hard work and sacrifice, purchased a house on the heights. It was a modest house, but quite welcoming and comfortable. In the early days of my mother’s youth, it was her sanctuary away from her own home on Atlantic Avenue at the bottom of the hill. Monaca, in those days, was a bustling town where families spent the summer afternoons at the pool and children played in the streets in front of their homes. On the heights, there just seemed to be a bit more freedom for the children. The streets and alleys were a bit wider, the air was fresher, and the wind blew around the heights like an ill-tempered storm that always hung around but never delivered any cool rain. 

 

My grandmother’s life was

completely Monaca. Even when she worked and acquired vacation time, she never

left her house; the most important thing in her life was her five children. All

of her time was spent with them and her three dogs. 

 

Years earlier, my grandfather and her had immigrated from Bavaria, Germany. At first, it seemed

like heaven, America was a new and fascinating place, especially in Beaver

County, PA, because of all the industry that guarded the two rivers in front of

the town and offered a comfortable living for anyone seeking opportunity and

expansion.  My grandfather was highly skilled (it was said of him) at

acquiring job offers that he wished to secure. His target, of course, being the

Phoenix Glass Plant. My grandmother told her of his long, hot days of being a

glass blower in the plant; at the time in Beaver County, this was quite a

respectable profession to be in possession of. She also told her stories

of his time of blowing glass into fascinating shapes and miraculous colours. It

seemed like a perfect job in a quiet town. This is how events, full of their

own comings and goings, flourished for a while. They continued to raise

children, work, and make plans for a prosperous future. Then, tragedy struck my

grandmother. 

 

 

One evening, after a long

shift in the mill, my grandfather literally stumbled into his house and

complaining of fatigue and difficulty breathing. Rightfully thinking of the

demands that his job required of him, my grandmother did not believe, at first,

that this was of a serious condition; perhaps, he just needed rest and some

good food. Like most grandmothers of the time, who came from the ‘old country’,

her suggestions on things were a panacea for all of life’s troubles, for a

brief time, this seemed to be the case. However, my grandfather’s condition

grew worse. My grandmother had finally sent for the doctor and, after an

extensive examination, he concluded that my grandfather had contracted

tuberculosis. Afterwards, my grandfather was forced to put himself in a

sanitarium for the remainder of his days; he would never return home. All that

is known is that he died peacefully in his sleep on Halloween.

 

With raising five children

alone, there was little time for my grandmother to mourn. After laying my

grandfather to rest, she went to work in Phoenix Glass and took a job on the

packaging line. There was no welfare system in those days for young single

mothers: she had to earn her own living with no compensation for her losses. In

spite of facing unimaginable hardships, depression, loneliness, and

uncertainty, a new wave of blessings and challenges rolled in. Eventually, my

grandmother bought her own house, retired from Phoenix Glass, and raised all of

her children alone. She never remarried. She lived alone for the rest of her

life. 

 

As the years and time of her

life aged, she grew old and graceful and full of wisdom. As her retirement

crown was being polished, she accepted it with a welcoming smile and sense of

accomplishment. Her children were grown, and her house was paid for. She had

journeyed a long way and suffered unimaginable hardships to arrive at this

splendid destination. She would never again have such a proud moment in her

life such as this. Death had come knocking at her door. This time, it was for

her. Grandma Schrum died at Rochester Hospital on April 21st, 1955. She was 77

years young. Her house and all its contents were equally distributed among

her children; it was put up for sale 6 months later. However, something strange

happened inside the house while my grandmother lay dying in a hospital bed; to

be more precise, the exact time of her death.

 

Many years after she had

passed, my mother related this strange and creepy episode about the clocks in

her house. It turns out that my grandmother had quite a fixation with clocks of

many sorts; she even had a giant, old grandfather clock that resided in her

living room for many years; she also had various styles of cuckoo clocks that,

according to my family, were brought over from the black forest in Germany. As

it turns out, my mother and a few of her sisters were ordered by my other

elders in the family to go inside her house and fetch a few personal items that

the family wished to distribute to other members. When they arrived inside the

house, it was quiet and frozen. The only sound you could hear were the songs of

birds in the trees outside in her pear trees that stood in the backyard. The

stillness and pulsating anticipation of strangeness was powerful throughout the

house. Something was, indeed, strange. There was no ticking, no bells or chimes

to indicate the hour of the day; there was no sense of supervision, there was

no power or command. Everything lay beneath stone, as they described it. Eerie

and creepy. Silence and Superstition breathed in the air of the house. Nothing

was alive, not even the presumed hallucinations of my grandmother’s spirit

sifting through the dark and swollen corners of their eyes while they were

inside. But there was an indication that grandma had been in touch with her

house one final time just before she passed. They took notice of the clocks!

12:32 P.M., according to 3 cuckoo clocks in various rooms; 12:32 P.M.,

according to the giant grandfather clock now hunched over in the living room.

12:32 P.M., said the clock that hung on the wall in the kitchen above the sink.

12:32 P.M., claimed the mantle clock on her nightstand in her bedroom. Nothing

strange in this? My mother attempted to convince herself that it was just a

fascinating coincidence: however, her sisters didn’t share this view. They were

convinced that my grandmother had a say in the matter.

 

When they arrived home, they

asked another member of the family what time my grandmother had passed? She

said she couldn’t be sure but was certain it was sometime in the afternoon.

They all went in search of the death certificate that they had received, and,

when they looked at it, they looked away and all at each other. The certificate had this time recorded: Time of death, 12:32 P.M.! 

 

 

 

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