William Castle

It was a lovely spring afternoon. My wife, Ellen and I were driving among the picturesque towns of Southern France—the  Luberon Valley to be more precise.

What a day it was.  Sun was shining brightly; you could smell summer in the air. I had been in Europe promoting my films but I finally was able to slip away with the love of my life and meander through the astonishing countryside.

As with my wife, it was love at first sight.  Provence had me by the throat and it wouldn’t let go.

Villages atop mountainsides. Colorful markets in every village. Tree lined streets that ended in fields of lavender.

And that’s when I saw it.  My next home.  I just didn’t think it would be the place where I would spend eternity.  Perhaps it is not.  Perhaps I am only here until????

At the time I had thought the house looked haunted and it called out to me.  I bought it the next day.  Yes, Ellen thought I was mad but I pretended that I thought the house would make a great promotion for my next haunted house—millions of keys made, one lucky movie-goer would win a haunted house.  What I never told anyone was that I wanted that haunted house with its dilapidated violet shutters, broken down front porch, massive wooden door, and old limestone fireplace all for myself.  My own abode.  A place where I could regroup, recharge, refresh my own demented mind. An unusual haven in which to have an artist’s date with destiny.

I played with evil themes in the films I made and I ended up between worlds.  At least that is what I think. Perhaps there is another explanation. Perhaps you don’t want me dead.

Encased by old limestone and rotten wooden floorboards I pace the nights away. I can still build a roaring fire as the Mistral winds shake the leaded glass window panes.  I can still climb up steep but rickety stairs and sleep in a bed with starched white coverlets. They never seem to soil. Cobwebs build and dust collects but I have always enjoyed this kind of ambiance.

And I work.  I write.  I communicate with the other side.

I took years before anyone stepped into my world.

My world. How strange. How lonely.

Come visit me. Please.

I will throw a log on the fire and we can talk. I don’t think I would hurt you.  But I have never been a ghost before.

So, come in and say hello…if you dare.  I live on top of the hill, in a haunted house in Gordes, France.

WC