A Real Ghost Story

I grew up in a small town that had been settled early on by a bunch of religious pioneer types. The homes were all old, the people around me openly believed in angels, and weird stuff was often seen in the skies above us due to the local government testing facilities nearby.
All of this contributed to a rather annoying existence for someone who just wanted to get a peaceful night’s sleep without having to explain the logic of a bump in the night to a grown adult.
According to my parents, our humble home was most definitely haunted. And they both had very different views on what this meant. My mom thought it prudent to get to know the ghosts. Dad’s perspective was to run terrified when one of my little sisters became possessed, telling me often, “YOU deal with it. I’ll be in the shed with the dogs.”
I’m the oldest of four daughters. Two of my little sisters definitely had problems with the ghosts. The other mostly kept to herself.
My youngest sister had a habit of sleepwalking and talking to things that weren’t there. Sometimes in languages none of us spoke. And my parents usually couldn’t wake her up. So they’d call in the big guns: Me.
Why me? I have no earthly idea. But for some reason I could get my sister back to bed rather safely. I also managed to “make them go away”. Probably because…well…you know…
Ghosts aren’t real.
My other sister had big waking issues with the nonexistent ghosts. She was convinced they were out to kill her. Sometimes I wasn’t even allowed to leave the house because she’d lock herself in the bathroom with a knife. You’d think my parents would just break down the door so I could go have a life with my friends. But there are reasonably only so many doors you can breakdown and/or remove permanently before things get ridiculous. (That number is five, if you’re wondering.)
Slumber parties were always hard. I never knew if I’d have to go home in the middle of the night because my sister was “acting strange again”.
Once I got pulled out of bed by my dad. My youngest sister was lying in the kitchen, rolling on the ground. She was hissing like an animal. Speaking non words and screaming. Her eyes were closed. Mom was already looking at me with hope, like my cynical teenage ass could fix this. Dad was out the door.
I remember just petting her head — I mean she was acting like an animal. Telling her she was sleeping and having a bad dream. Could she walk and sleep? Well, obviously she could. She’d made it to the kitchen. But she was too heavy to carry back to bed. We managed to guide her back to her room, and she went to sleep quietly.
Mom would sometimes talk to a “young girl” she claimed haunted the living room. She said she was Native American and missed her family, so she liked spending time with ours. She even spent time saying good bye to her when my parents would eventually sell the place and move to the city. I believe they both wept.

I felt a bit left out of the ghost business. I felt no evil or kind presences. I saw no strange shadows in the corners. My family had even started giving names to the ghosts, since they were each so unique and easy to identify: Fred, Roy, something feminine with an L.
I had a mouse family who lived under the floorboards of my bed. And an old dog named Flash who slept outside my window and snored like the Devil himself.
I decided to take things into my own hands one day by consulting my friend’s Ouija board at her house after school. But I’m still 110% certain she was pushing that big triangle thing across the letters. When I told my dad later what I’d done, he grounded me for trying to open a portal to something evil.
I swear to you, I wish this wasn’t my childhood.
But I have to tell you something weird. I have my own children now. Both my parents died long ago, and my kids don’t really remember them. They never heard the ghost stories.
One day my daughter came home from staying the night at her best friend’s house. She starts telling me how her friend’s family loves having her stay over because it’s the only time the ghosts they have in their home don’t bother them at night.
That’s right.
My daughter has inherited the ghost-busting skills.
But I did promise a Real Ghost Story. So I’ll tell you one. It’s the only one I have, and I actually noted it in a journal I kept when I was younger (this was before the internet and blogging).

I was up in the middle of the night because I’d dropped my pillow on the floor. When I went to pick it up, I looked over at my sister’s side of the room and noticed “the ghost” by her side of the bed. Typical ghost behavior: bright, white light. Long robes. Ancient face. Staring at my sister, yet slowly turning in a circle at the side of her bed.
I remember feeling frozen — like, all the blood in my body had turned ice cold and I literally couldn’t move. I couldn’t look away. I was helpless.
Eventually it went away. Which was good, since I’d lost my voice and my sister wouldn’t wake up. I’d say it was all some sort of dream, but I remember it so vividly, and I did write it down in my book.
But I still don’t believe in ghosts.
