Every investigator has a method.
You enter a space, collect your data, test your evidence, and build your case.
But at 1677 Round Top Road in Burrillville, Rhode Island — better known as The Conjuring House — nothing follows procedure.

From the outside, the farmhouse is quiet, draped in a colonial stillness. But those who have entered swear the silence has a pulse.

When our team arrived for the Mysteries Decoded documentary, the air was sharp with that distinct old-wood smell — and something else. Something watching.

I’d covered dozens of “haunted” sites before: abandoned prisons, derelict hospitals, forgotten cemeteries. But this one felt different.

This one felt awake.

Day 1: The Arrival

We landed in Rhode Island two days before the shoot.
Our goal was simple: document the truth behind one of America’s most infamous hauntings — the real house that inspired The Conjuring movie series.

Paranormal researcher Sarah Gray, a woman who’d spent decades chasing whispers in the dark, met us at the site.

“I’ve investigated hundreds of haunted locations,” Sarah said. “But this one… this one feels like it remembers you.”

The new owners, Corey and Jennifer Heinzen, greeted us at the door. Both paranormal investigators themselves, they had bought the property in 2019 — fully aware of its history.

The first thing we noticed? Cameras.
Sixteen of them, covering every room.

“We keep it rolling 24/7,” Corey explained. “Whatever’s here, it doesn’t like to be ignored.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. That night, as we reviewed footage, the first anomaly appeared — a softball rolling off a heater register and landing perfectly in the center of the floor.

No vibration. No breeze. No one in the room.

We tried to recreate it. We couldn’t.

And that was only the beginning.

Day 2: Shadows in the Hall

The farmhouse was built in 1736, four decades before America itself. It’s older than the nation — and some say, older than death.

The first family to settle there, the Arnolds, endured generations of tragedy: suicides, drownings, sudden illnesses. Locals claimed the land was “tainted.”

Centuries later, in 1971, the Perron family moved in — and their story became Hollywood legend.

Ten years of unexplained events: doors slamming, voices whispering from the walls, and one entity — a woman known only as Bathsheba — said to haunt the mother, Carolyn Perron.

Now, standing where that history unfolded, we understood why they left.

The floorboards groaned like they were breathing. The house seemed to listen.

At 11:42 p.m., a door in the master bedroom opened on its own — slow, deliberate.
Our infrared camera captured no drafts, no motion, nothing.
But our sound tech caught a faint whisper:

“Go.”

No one slept that night.

Day 3: Return of the Perrons

To separate myth from memory, we invited the original Perron family back to the farmhouse.

Andrea Perron, the eldest daughter, arrived with her father, Roger. They hadn’t set foot inside for decades.

“This house doesn’t forget,” Andrea said quietly as she crossed the threshold. “It remembers who you are.”

She told us about the first time she saw the “lady with the broken neck” — a ghostly figure in 18th-century lace who whispered, “This was my house before you came.”

Her mother, Carolyn, was later attacked in that same room. Andrea described it not as a haunting — but a possession of space.

“She didn’t want to share the house,” Andrea said. “She wanted to be mistress again.”

While Andrea spoke, the air temperature in the parlor dropped 10 degrees in seconds.
Our meters spiked.
Every audio channel crackled with static.

And then, clear as breath against the microphone:

“Leave her.”

Everyone froze.

That night, we split up to document separate wings of the house.
Sarah took the upstairs bedrooms. I stayed near the old barn, where one of the Arnolds — Mrs. John Arnold — reportedly hanged herself in 1797.

At exactly 3:08 a.m., my camera battery drained completely — all at once.
The only light came from Sarah’s flashlight upstairs.

Then came the sound.

A dragging noise — wood against wood — from the attic above.
We ran up, breathless, cameras shaking.

The attic door stood open.
Inside, a small antique hand scythe lay on the beam.

Sarah whispered, “That’s the one.”

According to Andrea Perron, the same weapon had once lifted itself and slashed her mother across the neck decades earlier.

As we watched, the blade trembled — then spun.
Three full rotations.

And stopped.

Sarah dropped her equipment. “We need to go.”

But before we could move, a woman’s voice filled the room.
Soft. Calm.
Almost kind.

“Seven dead soldiers… buried in the wall.”

The same words the Perron children had claimed to hear 40 years before.

Our recorders caught every syllable.

And then — silence.

Not peace. Not quiet.
Just absence.

By dawn, the house looked normal again. The fields glistened under a pale Rhode Island sunrise.

But the air still carried that hum — low, steady, unrelenting.

Corey Heinzen, the current owner, stood on the porch watching us pack.

“You get used to it,” he said. “You stop trying to explain. You just live with it.”

Later, reviewing our footage, the sound tech froze on one clip.
During Andrea Perron’s interview, a translucent silhouette moved behind her — a faint outline of a woman, head tilted to one side.

It wasn’t visible in person. Only on camera.

Maybe it was a glitch.
Maybe it wasn’t.

The Conjuring House remains open today — not as a museum, but as a living experiment. Paranormal investigators from around the world still come to test, record, and challenge what they can’t explain.

But for those who have spent a night there, one truth echoes louder than any EVP recording:

Some houses don’t want to be understood.
They just want to be remembered.

So, was it real? Or was it just power of suggestion — fear feeding on its own reflection?

Even after reviewing every clip, every data log, every whisper, one question still gnaws at me:

If ghosts are just memories that refuse to fade…
Then what happens when a house itself remembers you?