![]() Our van’s engine was struggling up the sloped road of the hill leading to 1699 Belmont Street. ![]() These were the circumstances and pressures that were mounting as we took the exit off the freeway, peering through the fog at the town of Bellaire. “Ah, the Scooby Doo vibes have arrived,” I remember joking. The moon was full, but we couldn’t see too far out on the empty freeway. It was a bad idea, and the entire group was on edge as we approached Bellaire. One of us suggested a playlist of spooky music for the last hour of the drive. Instead, we were wired and tired, with the two drivers of the four-person trip, myself and my ghost-hunting partner Lee Williams, jittery on energy drinks and taking turns grasping the steering wheel with a white-knuckle grasp and nervously checking the tree-lined shoulder of the freeway for white-tail deer. on the sixth night of our road trip, with plenty of time for rest and relaxation in the four-bedroom home. ![]() If the schedule had worked out, we would have arrived just after 8 p.m. It was around midnight when we finally arrived at the Bellaire Demon House, and like most aspects of the road trip, we hadn’t planned it that way. As a paranormal investigator who, frankly, does not believe ghosts are real (mostly because I’ve yet to experience anything paranormal after years of attempts), this story was enough to pique my interest and make the house a stop on the two-week road trip from my home in Arizona, all the way to West Virginia.
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