Ghost stories

Thanks to everyone who sent get-well-soon wishes last week when I wrote about the flu. I think I am well now, no more fever or cold but still an intermittent cough.  This does not mean I feel well.  I still drag around, feel heavy and sad, like my heart is tired of beating.

I have been staying home trying to find something to give me joy. I tried to make jewelry,  that did not work. I tried a jigsaw puzzle, nothing. So I read from my Kindle, a gift from a cherished friend. The Kindle is like a book. You order an ebook from amazon.com and receive it in minutes.

I no longer read the classics. I like to just choose on the basis of titles. That’s how I came across The Cavanaugh House. The title sounded sophisticated enough. I never imagined it would be a ghost story. But it was not scary because the ghost was the main character’s mother who, the police said, had committed suicide.  Apparently she was murdered by one of the policemen. The daughter unveils the murder and everyone is happy in the end. I could not put down my Kindle. It was a good story.

Then I decided to read Windwood Farm. This is the story of a painter who likes to paint historical houses in America before the houses are torn down and the property turned into a subdivision. She gets a commission to paint Windwood Farm, which, she discovers, is haunted by the daughter of the original owner and her lover.  She writes of strange shrill noises as I deal with the strange shrill noises the wind makes in my apartment, the rumbling counterpoint when the wind changes velocity and I am totally freaked. This book genuinely terrified me. I had to stop reading it at night, read a sillier book to calm me down, but when I woke up each morning I had to continue reading it until I finished the story.

Why have I chosen two ghost stories? I don’t know. Is it a sign? I am afraid of ghosts and yet I have lived in haunted houses. The last one I remember was in White Plains. I remember I left my children to go to Vigan one Holy Week and when I came back they had made friends with our neighbors across the street who told them the house was haunted. 

I remembered that on some nights I would hear a door open and slam against a wall, then heavy footsteps climbed the stairs, entered the bathroom in the hall. Then there would be flushing, opening of the door and footsteps descending. I always thought it was our maid, always meant to talk to her about making so much noise in the middle of the night, always forgetting to.

So I invited the parish priest to bless the house and have lunch with us. I met him at the gate and told him why I had invited him to bless the house. He told me he was not an exorcist and was afraid of ghosts. 

I remember that was a Sunday. The children stayed home for lunch but decided to go with their father after lunch. At around four o’clock I was alone at home with the maids. I was sitting at the dining table reading the newspapers when suddenly a loud crash rocked the house. There was the sound of breaking glass. Maids ran out screaming leaving me alone inside. I was so afraid but I knew I was the master of the house so I better show some authority.

I walked out of the house after the maids, put my hands on my hips and asked, “What are you screaming about?  You better go back in.  I will follow you.”  Then I saw our neighbor, Ted, standing outside his house. I crossed the street and asked him if he would come with me. I heard the sound of breaking glass, I explained. Please come with me to check. 

He looked at me as if trying to figure out if I was telling the truth or just planning to seduce him. “No, please,” I said, “I promise.”  As if that made any sense. He came with me anyway.

I expected to enter my dressing room and find the mirror fallen and broken and all my perfume bottles shattered. Nothing was broken or cracked or damaged. There had just been the sound and vibrations of breaking glass but nothing had broken. The sound and the tremor that shook the house must have come from another world. It was pretty weird.

Now I am a wise 70-year-old woman living alone. I have taught myself to live alone and most of the time I enjoy it. But I will not read any more ghost stories. They bring back memories that still scare me to death.

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