My little one-bedroom apartment was normal. The first floor of a normal two-family house on a normal street in a normal town. Built in the 1960s, this was a house without a long, troubled history. It had a nice backyard, central air, a washer/dryer and a ghost. And it was close to transportation.
From the day that I moved in, I always had a vague feeling that I was not alone. It was as a shift in the atmosphere. I felt someone was standing behind me, but I’d turn around and no one was there. A sense that someone was sitting next to me on the couch when I watched TV, but I was alone.
It became real when things started to go missing and then show up later. Like a brush or scarf or a wooden spoon, gone one day and then on the counter a few days later. At first, I shrugged it off to my disorganization.
I was convinced of a supernatural element when I tore apart the cupboard looking for the blender lid to no avail. One week later, it was right there on the shelf when I opened the cupboard. Creepy.
A good ghost story starts with a tortured soul. A lonely woman who committed suicide when her one true love got lost at sea. Or that poor sailor who got lost at sea and could not reunite with his one true love. Mine was not a good ghost story. It was not a lonely lost soul haunting my home. It was just some dude.
He started revealing his identity in small ways. I’ve heard tales of the scent of roses or lilacs preceding a ghostly visit. In my case it was Fritos and weed. (Not my weed. I swear, I never touch the stuff.) In the middle of the night, the TV would turn on by itself to Battlestar Galactica or The Family Guy. I began to suspect that my ghost was a little bit of a nerd.
Then there were the messages, which is what convinced that he was not only a dude, but an immature one at that. Simple one-word messages he would leave with the magnetic letters on my refrigerator. Words like “fart” and “wiener” would appear. And I swear I heard giggling every time.
After the “Klaatu barada nikto!” appeared on the fridge, it was time to investigate. I was not scared, but I needed to know what was happening under my roof.
On all those shows, the haunting victims seek out the local historian. Meh, that seemed like too much work. I just fired up Google and let my fingers do the investigating. A search of my address revealed names of previous tenants. My expert sleuthing narrowed down who my ghost to Bobby McGarvey. He was only one on the list who was dead.
I decided to go supernatural for the rest of my investigation. In the dusty attic of my parent’s attic, I found my old Ouija Board (made by Parker Brothers). Back in my living room, my 13-year old self was all a tingle at the thought of reliving my slumber party days. I lite a few candles, poured some wine, and got ready for some good, old-fashioned conjuring.
I did feel a little ridiculous sitting cross-legged on the floor, waiting chat with a ghost. I drummed my fingers on the planchette and thought about what to ask. I closed my eyes and said, “Is there someone here?” The planchette vibrated for a moment and slid to “Yes.”
“Is this Bobby?” I said.
Another slide to “Yes.”
“Bobby…can you tell me why are here?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me,” I pleaded.
The planchette vibrated and started moving across the board. B . . . O . . . O . . . B.
“Seriously?” I exhaled. “I’m trying to help over here.”
S . . . O. . . R. . . R. . . Y.
Letter-by-letter, I learned more about Bobby’ story. The words he spelled told me some of his story: weed, chips, Star Wars, D&D, and virgin (not totally unexpected). This was not a frightening ghost story, it was more of a pity story. My mental image of Bobby was of a young, pudgy guy with Doritos-stained Chewbacca t-shirt and thick glasses. He was not someone to fear, he was someone to protect.
I was afraid that he was stuck in a pot-head nerd Limbo, where after-life bullies were blocking him from the Pearly Gates. Can ghosts pants a guy? I wanted to help Bobby cross-over. But mostly, I wanted him out of my apartment. I think I was getting a contact high.
I was about to embark on a tradition that’s existed for centuries, maybe even a millennium. Farther Karras had nothing on me. I was going to exorcise the crap out of this bitch.
Did I have the faith and fortitude to go toe-to-toe with the other side? Will my battle with the supernatural break me?
Probably not.
But it’s going to make one hell of a story.
To be continued …
The Barb Wire 