My ramblings

A house named hell

Sit tight because it's story time. And everything I'm about to say is either true or almost certainly true.

So first some background information. My city used to be one of the biggest producers and exporters of dried fish in all of Norway. Many people's work included laying fish on rocky hills around the city, so that the fish could be dried, stacked and then exported to places like Portugal for a big profit. Big profit to the ones who owned the business of course, this is unregulated capitalism, the workers get next to nothing for their labour. Anyways, all of this required many workers, ideally as close as possible.

This is where the house comes in. The real name of the house was Losjmenstua, which doesn't have much of a good translation. You could call it the Livingroom of shelter, I guess. Anyways, this house is right next to where I live, so close that I would have been able to see it from the living room hadn't it been for all the trees. In modern times there is only ruins left of it. A few stone stairs where doors used to be, the remnants of two broken chimneys and the stones used in the foundation. The land itself is overgrown with grass and trees. But back when it was built in the 1800s, it was the home to up to a hundred people who all worked with drying fish. The house itself was owned by one of the rich families of the city. It was a very small building at the time, but they managed to have 100 people living there at any given moment.

I don't know much about things that happened during the early days of the house which would be known as hell. Most of what I know comes from my grandma, and she doesn't know much about it before my great-grandfather rented land nearby. But there are a few things we know. For example, we know that a young girl was murdered there sometime in the early 1900s, probably before world war 1. I don't know much about that murder, but fewer people began living there after that. Partly because of said murder, and partly because of more workers rights limiting how many people you could stuff in the same small house. Then sometime before world war 2, there was a fire in the house, but it survived.

During the war, most of the city was bombed flat to the ground by the Germans. This led to a massive lack of housing, and more people had to live in the house not yet known as hell. This also led to the house itself being expanded on, so that it could house more people. My great-grandfather buys a large piece of land next to the house, the war ends and my grandma is born, in that order. The years following the war, drying fish becomes less and less viable in the city, mostly due to other more industrial ways of doing it. Eventually no workers are left living in the house of many stories.

Shortly after the house loses its' purpose, the owner sells it to the city. They used it to house those who, how should I put, have some issues and can be a bit loud. Those sorts of people, as well as gypsies, since, well, it's the 50s and 60s. Gypsies were still treated as different at that time. Anyways, a house filled people who should have been in a mental hospital (not the gypsies, they were quite nice) you can see where things might go wrong.

There were several times they illegally brewed moonshine, fights could lead to the police being called and pranks were pulled left and right. For my grandma, this was prime time entertainment as she could lay down on a ledge overlooking the house and just watch. And amongst all of those who lived there, it is one who stands out. Partially because of his nickname, and partially how ironic that nickname ended up being. He was call Knivstikkar Nils (Knifestabbing Nils).

I don't why Nils got that nickname, he never actually seriously hurt someone, at least compared to what others in the same house did. Although, he drank a lot and was quickly angered. And one he got angry he could be very threatening, sometimes with a knife. One time his wife walked straight out after an argument and into the other apartment, waiting for Nils to calm down. He then stood on the stair up to his door with a knife and yelled that he had calmed down and that she could come in. His wife just yelled back at him "I'll get back in when you can walk in a straight line from the kitchen to the bedroom!" That didn't make him less angry to put it that way. My grandma of course, spying on the whole thing, found it hysterical.

But now, comes the event that made the house earn the nickname of hell. Because one day, during the 60s, someone went in to check on Knifestabbing Nils, because he had been unusually quiet. He was found face down, with several stab wounds in his back. Knifestabbing Nils had been stabbed. The police began an investigation, but they came up more or less empty. All they found out was that Nils was killed the night before he was found dead. Someone had broken in and stabbed in the back before leaving. They never found out who did it. I don't know if they closed the case or left it open afterwards, not that it matters today.

Now, here is the thing. My family has very strong suspicion of who did it. You see, before Nils was murdered, there was a gypsy family that also lived in the house. They were lovely people and the children would often visit my great grandma. On the day before the murder one of the kids talked with my great-grandma and they ended up talking about Knifestabbing Nils. She wondered if it wasn't a bit loud having him live right next door. The kid then replied with might count as confession of planned murder. He said "Oh yeah, he can be loud. But don't worry, soon we won't have to deal with him. My dad has prepared the knife!" So yeah, we're pretty sure that gypsy family stabbed Knifestabbing Nils. The police never interrogated my great grandma, so she never told them. Besides, the gypsies moved out shortly after the murder along with everyone else in the house. They said it was cursed and it got nicknamed Hell.

Hell stood empty for many years, slowly falling into disrepair. Then, one night during the 70s or 80s I think. Some teenagers broke into the house during a storm and decided to light themselves a fire to keep warm. The wooden oven was really rusty by this point. The teenager left without putting out the fire, some sparks started burning nearby furniture and Hell burned down to the ground. The following day my great grandma took a walk and felt like something was missing. First by the end of the walk did she realise that Hell had burned down. All that remained was the stone foundation, stone stairs and two chimneys which we had to topple so that they wouldn't fall on someone's head.

Years passed, the place got overgrown, the nearby well became a permanent puddle and I got born, in that order. Later on I used the place for a school assignment and the local kindergarten built a small shed they could take trips to and that is pretty much the story of the house named hell. Home for hundreds of people throughout its' time, a few crazy people, two murders and two fires. Despite all of that, it's not haunted. That would be my family's house, which I still live in, and our boathouse. Those are haunted, but that's a story for another time.