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I believe in ghosts.
Some may consider me flaky, perhaps because they've never seen one...
I was 5 years old when I saw my first ghost. My family had recently relocated from Michigan to Oklahoma. We lived in a small rental house where I shared a bedroom with my older sister. It was night and we were fast asleep in our twin beds with our new bulldog puppy, Kitty, in a crate on the floor beside us.
Suddenly, I woke to the sound of Kitty barking. I looked around the room and gasped. Moving slowly towards us was a the figure of a young woman, her hair tied back in a pony tail. Her form was gray and shadowy without distinct features, as if she might evaporate at any moment. She sat on the end of my sister's bed, facing our puppy. Not a sound could be heard save that of Kitty barking. As I pulled the covers over my head, my sister whispered, "Do you see that?" "Yes," I uttered, barely able to breathe. I cowered beneath my blanket.
A few moments later, Kitty stopped barking. Hesitantly, I peaked out from the covers. The woman was no longer in our bedroom, but through a window that looked out towards the back yard, I saw her form glide into the darkness.
The next morning I told my Mom about the ghost. She said I must have dreamed it; of course ghosts aren't real, are they?
Later, as a young adult, I had a more personal supernatural sighting. I had moved to New York City with my husband. We had been married for several years, and I was totally miserable. Though my husband was controlling and abusive, I was incapable of gathering the emotional strength to leave. I had become a shadowy, featureless ghost of a woman myself. Everyone (especially me) had given up hope that I would be able to muster the courage to leave.
I'd been frightened to make the move; I thought, I can barely function in small town Oklahoma. How in the world will I survive New York? In fact, the move turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. Somehow, the energy of the city gave me hope; it resurrected me. Secretly I began to consider leaving, though I was still petrified.
One night I had an intense dream. In the dream, I came upon my husband in a subway station. He was sitting on a bench down the platform. I saw a man behind him and I knew this man had ill intent. Yet I did not shout to warn my husband; instead I watched as the man slit his throat. Just then, the train pulled up. The doors opened. I thought, "I have no idea where this train will take me." Then I boarded it.
The next morning, the dream weighed heavily as I readied myself for work. I walked down Christopher Street to the subway station. At that early hour, there were very few people on the street. On the opposite side of the street, a man approached. He seemed familiar. As we passed one another, I stared in disbelief. There was my Dad! It was definately Dad. He stared right at me with the same wide, goofy grin he always donned for silly photos. No one else in the world had that same dumb grin (although my sister Suzie can do a damn good imitation.) But it couldn't be; Dad had died in London six years before. Seconds later when I turned to look again at the passing figure, to assure myself that it could not possibly be Dad, he had vanished. I stood agape on an empty street. After I got over the shock, I realized that Dad had made an appearance to support me. Though he'd not been around often as we were growing up, down deep I always knew he believed in me and that he had my back.
The next day I left husband.
My next ghost was another shadowy apparition, a tiny old lady who followed me around the sanctuary of the massive and crumbling Christian Science Church that I cleaned. I would be vacuuming and glimpse her out of the corner of my eye, but of course when I turned, she was gone. I was usually alone in that dank old building, and it was beautiful. After each storm, the roof would leak and and flood the place. Especially at those times, it could get pretty creepy in there, but I liked the job anyway; I have a particular fondness for decrepit ruins. Sometimes workmen who were attempting to patch up the place, would tell me they felt a presence as they worked, and they couldn't wait to get out of there. But I felt that this spirit was harmless and just wanted the company.
Some may consider me flaky, perhaps because they've never seen one...
I was 5 years old when I saw my first ghost. My family had recently relocated from Michigan to Oklahoma. We lived in a small rental house where I shared a bedroom with my older sister. It was night and we were fast asleep in our twin beds with our new bulldog puppy, Kitty, in a crate on the floor beside us.
Suddenly, I woke to the sound of Kitty barking. I looked around the room and gasped. Moving slowly towards us was a the figure of a young woman, her hair tied back in a pony tail. Her form was gray and shadowy without distinct features, as if she might evaporate at any moment. She sat on the end of my sister's bed, facing our puppy. Not a sound could be heard save that of Kitty barking. As I pulled the covers over my head, my sister whispered, "Do you see that?" "Yes," I uttered, barely able to breathe. I cowered beneath my blanket.
A few moments later, Kitty stopped barking. Hesitantly, I peaked out from the covers. The woman was no longer in our bedroom, but through a window that looked out towards the back yard, I saw her form glide into the darkness.
The next morning I told my Mom about the ghost. She said I must have dreamed it; of course ghosts aren't real, are they?
Later, as a young adult, I had a more personal supernatural sighting. I had moved to New York City with my husband. We had been married for several years, and I was totally miserable. Though my husband was controlling and abusive, I was incapable of gathering the emotional strength to leave. I had become a shadowy, featureless ghost of a woman myself. Everyone (especially me) had given up hope that I would be able to muster the courage to leave.
I'd been frightened to make the move; I thought, I can barely function in small town Oklahoma. How in the world will I survive New York? In fact, the move turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. Somehow, the energy of the city gave me hope; it resurrected me. Secretly I began to consider leaving, though I was still petrified.
One night I had an intense dream. In the dream, I came upon my husband in a subway station. He was sitting on a bench down the platform. I saw a man behind him and I knew this man had ill intent. Yet I did not shout to warn my husband; instead I watched as the man slit his throat. Just then, the train pulled up. The doors opened. I thought, "I have no idea where this train will take me." Then I boarded it.
The next morning, the dream weighed heavily as I readied myself for work. I walked down Christopher Street to the subway station. At that early hour, there were very few people on the street. On the opposite side of the street, a man approached. He seemed familiar. As we passed one another, I stared in disbelief. There was my Dad! It was definately Dad. He stared right at me with the same wide, goofy grin he always donned for silly photos. No one else in the world had that same dumb grin (although my sister Suzie can do a damn good imitation.) But it couldn't be; Dad had died in London six years before. Seconds later when I turned to look again at the passing figure, to assure myself that it could not possibly be Dad, he had vanished. I stood agape on an empty street. After I got over the shock, I realized that Dad had made an appearance to support me. Though he'd not been around often as we were growing up, down deep I always knew he believed in me and that he had my back.
The next day I left husband.
My next ghost was another shadowy apparition, a tiny old lady who followed me around the sanctuary of the massive and crumbling Christian Science Church that I cleaned. I would be vacuuming and glimpse her out of the corner of my eye, but of course when I turned, she was gone. I was usually alone in that dank old building, and it was beautiful. After each storm, the roof would leak and and flood the place. Especially at those times, it could get pretty creepy in there, but I liked the job anyway; I have a particular fondness for decrepit ruins. Sometimes workmen who were attempting to patch up the place, would tell me they felt a presence as they worked, and they couldn't wait to get out of there. But I felt that this spirit was harmless and just wanted the company.
As I think back to the days of the old lady ghost, I realize that, at the time I saw her, I was going through a very difficult time. We had placed my Mom in an Alzheimer's care facility after we were no longer able to care for her at home. During the last few years of caring for her, she was much like the "old lady ghost"--a ghost of her former self, she "shadowed" us (followed us everywhere--a common behavior for Alzheimer's patients.)
Once, the ghost of my cat crawled under the covers to cuddle with me. A few weeks before, she died from some undiagnosed illness, and I was alone in my apartment, sick, afraid, in the grips of alcoholism, contemplating suicide. A giant face of the Devil glowed sneeringly on my wall, telling me to jump out of my fourth floor window...
Oh, and on my fifth sobriety birthday, I met Jesus. But He's not really a ghost, is he? Anyway, you probably think I'm flaky now, too, so I'll save that story for another day.
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