On Ghosts.

I can't claim to be Halloween's number one fan.  I am, say what you will, a Thanksgiving/Christmas girl through and through.  When Jim and I started to get serious about each other, I immediately disclosed my feelings that I would someday be a "day after Halloween decorator" (because those kinds of disclosures are telling and necessary).  You know the people I'm talking about.  You do.  I'm the girl who watches White Christmas at least 15 times before the season's end and has Nat King Cole on repeat from Thanksgiving until almost Valentine's Day.  It's heartwarming and nostalgic and all kinds of cheese (my favorite thing). 

But...I'm not going to talk about holiday cheer, or holiday cheese for that matter.  I really am going to talk about ghosts; my least favorite thing.  I am a slight Phasmophobic.  I think it's related to a lot of factors...fear of the unknown, or unseen...early exposure to too many bad movies about hauntings and rings and such....the 1950's radio shows my Dad would force upon us on long, late summer night drives from Canyon Camp to Chillicothe.  Throw all that together with an easily beguiled girl, and you've got one well-fueled phobia.  But, regardless of its origins, my fear is there.  So why (you might be asking yourself) would I want to write about them??  Every Halloween I'm forced to confront my fear, or at least sort of confront it.  I can pretty well avoid the spirit world 11 months, 3 weeks, and 6 days a year, but on that last day of October, and especially now that I'm marrying a horror movie enthusiast, I usually have at least one encounter of the 3rd kind.  Or sixth kind.  Or whatever.  This year, though...this year.....well.  Read for yourself.

I started my day at work…a normal Monday, except for the dreary rainfall and the office buzz about costumes and candy and all things Halloween. The day passed, the rain passed, and eventually I made my way home. We had gone all out for Halloween this year; threw a party, put up cob webs and a graveyard, hung a dead guy from our porch, splattered fake blood (red finger paint) on our doors (not our best idea)…even left our rotting pumpkins out to complete the effect. The green light bulb which had been swapped for our normal porch light, cast an eerie, fuzzy glow over the props, making our scene complete. (I always did love a good set). After venturing out for our own trick or treating, we retreated to our base, and sat ready for the witches, and goblins, and superheroes that might come. And OH, did they ever! In groups of ten and more, faces painted, masks secured, having long abandoned their swords and wands to the care of their vigilant mothers so they could better hold the growing weight of their candy bags and pillow sacks. I decided to wait out the rush on the front steps, rather than maintain a revolving door. As the night deepened, the costumes weakened, my bowl emptied, and it seemed only the straggling teenagers were left, I decided to head inside. I tidied up my kitchen, did a little laundry, turned away the last and latest trick or treaters with ‘I’m sorry, we’re out of candy’ and ‘yes, you may have a cup of water, and isn’t it getting past your curfew??’, before finally extinguishing my lantern (which hung from an outdoor post) and turning off all other lights for bed. And just as I turned to go to my bedroom….one last knock. Frowning, and pausing in my steps, I turned, surprised and annoyed at this person who would have the nerve to approach a completely dark house and ask for candy. Peeking out the blinds, I couldn’t see anyone, so I assumed some teenagers thought they were being funny, and turned to leave again. Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap, in rapid succession. Not a slow knock, but an urgent one. A knock that said, answer now, I’m panicked. Thinking of my own baby, and what I would want a neighbor to do if he were in trouble, I rushed to the door and flung it open without even looking. I won’t say there was no one there…I couldn’t see anyone on my now darkened street.  But I felt it. I felt it the way you feel a hair on your arm, or a bug on your leg. Like my Mother’s icy hand in winter on my back. And then, catching my breath, I froze. Just stood there on my front steps with a quickened pulse and paralyzed legs. My lantern had been relit. I was sure, sure, MORE THAN SURE, that I blew it out. Even watched the smoke as it curled to the sky. So I did what any sane person would do; I blew it out again, and rushed inside, locking the door behind me. Then I turned on every last damn light in that house.




Halloween 2011?? It got me good.