The History of a Place

My faith and my own experiences have taught me that creating places of enduring value isn't always limited to what we can touch or measure. Sometimes the unseen history of a place needs healing before a new chapter can begin.

Let me tell you about Heathcote.

Heathcote was one of the most beautiful homes I've ever had the privilege of caring for, and it changed the way I care for houses forever.

Built in 1908, Heathcote sits quietly above Sydney Harbour in Hunters Hill, one of Sydney's oldest and most historically significant suburbs. With its sandstone boathouse, private beach and century-old gardens, it felt as though it belonged to another era.

When we bought the house, we deliberately resisted the temptation to renovate straight away. Instead, we gave it a decorative refresh and moved in with our three daughters. I've always preferred to live in a property before changing it. I like to think every house reveals itself in its own time. You learn things by living in a home that you could never discover from plans or drawings.

Not long after we moved in, the previous owners gave me a photo album documenting the history of the house.

Inside were some photographs of the families who had called Heathcote home over more than a century.

One photograph caught my eye.

A young woman sat quietly on the front verandah steps. She wore a high-collared white blouse buttoned to her neck, a long dark skirt and her hair was loosely gathered into a bun. There was something about her that stayed with me.

Her story explained why.

Heathcote had been built by her father as a wedding gift. She and her husband lived there together only briefly before war took him overseas. He never returned.

She never remarried.

Instead, she spent the rest of her life in the house he had left behind.

One of Heathcote's most beautiful features was a stained-glass window in the front sitting room. It was incredibly unique, an upside-down heart, which I was told was commissioned by her after her husband’s death as a permanent reminder of the love she had lost.

I found myself wondering about her often.

Not because I was looking for ghosts.

Simply because her story was woven into the house itself.

Our family filled Heathcote with life. Three energetic daughters, friends constantly visiting, birthday parties, music, laughter and all the beautiful chaos that comes with raising a young family.

Yet despite all of that life, I felt a little uneasy there.

It wasn't dramatic.

Just a quiet feeling that something wasn't quite right.

The strangest part was our ensuite bathroom.

I'd walk in with a clear idea for its renovation, tape measure in hand, only to leave feeling strangely clouded. Every time I tried to design the space, my thinking seemed to stop. I couldn't make decisions. I couldn't move the room forward.

Historically, our bathroom had been the kitchen of the home.

Around the same time, our eldest daughter began waking in the middle of the night, terrified that someone was in her room. Our dog refused to go in there. Even our aquarium, full of healthy goldfish that had lived happily for years, began losing fish one after another.

I know many people would explain these events differently.

I can only tell you what happened.

I met up with a school mum for morning tea in Hunters Hill.

She had recently moved into one of the suburb's grand old harbour homes and shared that she had been experiencing nightly visitations. She had sought help from Caterina, a woman widely known as Australia's leading ghost whisperer. Through prayer and the guidance of angels, Caterina helps lost spirits move on.

This caught my attention immediately.

I admitted that we had also been struggling to make sense of what we were experiencing at Heathcote.

Not long afterwards, I called Caterina.

I remember feeling very nervous as I made the appointment.

The night before she arrived, our daughter had one of her worst nights yet. She was inconsolable and eventually climbed into bed with us.

When Caterina walked through the front door the following morning, the first thing she asked was,

"How was last night?"

Before I had answered, she smiled gently.

"They always know I'm coming."

I hadn't told her anything about the history of the house.

Nothing about the young widow. Nothing about the photograph. Nothing about our daughter. Nothing about the bathroom.

She simply asked if she could begin.

For the next few hours I worked quietly downstairs while she moved through the house.

What I remember most wasn't what I heard.

It was what I felt.

It was a beautiful sunny day, yet the house grew colder and colder as the morning passed. By the time Caterina finished, Heathcote felt almost like a refrigerator. It remains one of the strangest physical sensations I have ever experienced.

When we finally sat down together, she began describing what she had encountered.

She spoke of a deeply saddened young woman wearing a high-collared white blouse, a long dark skirt and her hair gathered loosely into a bun. She was trapped in my bathroom.

I knew immediately who she was describing. She described her exactly as she appeared in the old photograph.

She had helped her move on.

She also spoke about a very angry man connected to what had become our eldest daughter's bedroom. She believed his presence had created such negativity that other spirits had also become attached to the house.

The conversation left me stunned.

Years earlier, our architect had shared a story with me about that very room. Decades before we owned Heathcote, he had been involved in a proposal to redevelop the property. The proposal was rejected when the council heritage listed the property. I was told the developer fought the decision for years before later dying, broke and seriously ill, in what had become that room. My architect told me he would never let one of his own children sleep there.

At the time, ever practical, I dismissed it.

We had three daughters and only three bedrooms. We simply carried on.

I have never felt the need to fully understand what happened that day at Heathcote.

I can only tell you what changed afterwards.

Our daughter never again woke terrified that someone was in her room.

Our dog happily wandered back in and would curl up beside her while she played.

The house felt lighter.

The air felt clearer somehow. Calmer.

And, almost overnight, the bathroom that had seemed impossible to resolve finally revealed exactly what it wanted to become.

For the first time since moving in, Heathcote felt completely at peace.

It was ready for its next chapter.

And, as it turned out, so were we.