I once walked in on a conversation about a woman who was afraid to go into a house said to be haunted.
“Ha!” I scoffed, no doubt charming all. “I wouldn’t be afraid! I’D stay in a haunted house ANYTIME.”
This, as you should know from the movies, is exactly the kind of thing you should never say. You don’t want to provoke the universe, kids, because -- trust me -- it hears you.
Within a year, I met a family who lived in a cool old farmhouse with a big barn. They were boarding my goats for awhile, so I’d pitch in with various chores from time to time. I’d muck the barn, no problem. Babysit, no problem. Take the kids on hikes with the goats, no problem.
Then -- you can see this coming -- they went on vacation. Asked me to house sit.
No problem, I said.
They had a huge, beautiful backyard, with a swimming pool surrounded by fruit trees and a soaring view. Have a party if you want while we’re gone, they said, no problem.
Cool, I said.
So on the first day, a perfect summer day, I had a beautiful party in that beautiful setting. Friends, and friends of friends, were everywhere -- grilling, swimming, relaxing. One couple even brought their pet birds, setting their cage up in a pear tree to eat the fruit. Everyone seemed perfectly content.
Until dusk came on, that is. Assuming you’re reasonably law-abiding, I doubt you’ve ever seen a party clear out as suddenly and completely as this one -- INSTANT exodus. Everyone there suddenly remembered something urgent they had to do, apparently anyplace else. And no, I hadn’t managed to somehow offend the entire crowd -- they’d been too spread out for a feat like that, even with my deft antisocial skills.
As if parties after dark were suddenly outlawed, they just left. Left the food, the grill, the pool, the private country setting with the spectacular view. Poof, party birds and all.
I stood there alone in a kitchen full of food wondering at the strange turn of . . . event. Had they seemed almost . . . scared? How could that be? I put the food away and in no time, it was dark.
When I went to bed that night, I found myself spontaneously adding to my usual routine. First, I used a nightlight. Second, I said prayers at the bedside, in a way I hadn’t since I was little.
And third, I didn’t sleep. Not for three whole nights.
Instead I kept watch as the bedroom door unlatched itself again and again -- no matter how firmly I closed it -- then swayed as if in a breeze. But there was no breeze. And the door was snug against thick carpeting. Yet sway it did. For three whole, sleepless nights. I went to work every morning as tired as I could be.
One evening, I sat reading. From the basement, right below my chair, came an impossibly loud crash. Yet there was no shaking, my chair didn’t move. I somehow understood it couldn’t have been real -- nothing in something even the size of that entire house could have made a sound as loud as what I’d just heard.
Now, I shook bodily for some time, but I knew enough -- again from the movies: DON’T GO INTO THE BASEMENT. I didn’t care what the family might find down there when they got back. I knew it'd happened but ignored the whole thing.
By the fourth night and after, I slept. There seemed some kind of acceptance, a mutual peace. Maybe it was all the prayers. Maybe “they” just got used to me.
When the family came home, with a nice little gift for my services, the mother asked me, “So, ah, did you have any, ah, spirit activity?”
I stared at her. “Whyyy . . . ?”
“Oh, ha ha, didn’t we mention the house is haunted? We told you that, right?” She and her husband blinked at each other. ("Is she buying it?") “Oh, I was sure we did. . . .”
I was sure you DIDN’T.
Then, for twenty minutes, they cheerily related a long series of ghostly encounters from their years in that house. All the ghosts were peaceable, they said, even rocking the baby sometimes at night.
And thus the universe turned the tables on me and my little boast. Fair enough.
And as for the couple, I did get them back. It wasn’t deliberate -- they hadn’t told me not everyone was in on the state of things at their address.
On our next goat hike, I was curious. I asked their kids, “So, how do you like living in a haunted house?”
“WHAT?” they said, suddenly bug-eyed.
“Ha!” I scoffed, no doubt charming all. “I wouldn’t be afraid! I’D stay in a haunted house ANYTIME.”
This, as you should know from the movies, is exactly the kind of thing you should never say. You don’t want to provoke the universe, kids, because -- trust me -- it hears you.
Within a year, I met a family who lived in a cool old farmhouse with a big barn. They were boarding my goats for awhile, so I’d pitch in with various chores from time to time. I’d muck the barn, no problem. Babysit, no problem. Take the kids on hikes with the goats, no problem.
Then -- you can see this coming -- they went on vacation. Asked me to house sit.
No problem, I said.
They had a huge, beautiful backyard, with a swimming pool surrounded by fruit trees and a soaring view. Have a party if you want while we’re gone, they said, no problem.
Cool, I said.
So on the first day, a perfect summer day, I had a beautiful party in that beautiful setting. Friends, and friends of friends, were everywhere -- grilling, swimming, relaxing. One couple even brought their pet birds, setting their cage up in a pear tree to eat the fruit. Everyone seemed perfectly content.
Until dusk came on, that is. Assuming you’re reasonably law-abiding, I doubt you’ve ever seen a party clear out as suddenly and completely as this one -- INSTANT exodus. Everyone there suddenly remembered something urgent they had to do, apparently anyplace else. And no, I hadn’t managed to somehow offend the entire crowd -- they’d been too spread out for a feat like that, even with my deft antisocial skills.
As if parties after dark were suddenly outlawed, they just left. Left the food, the grill, the pool, the private country setting with the spectacular view. Poof, party birds and all.
I stood there alone in a kitchen full of food wondering at the strange turn of . . . event. Had they seemed almost . . . scared? How could that be? I put the food away and in no time, it was dark.
When I went to bed that night, I found myself spontaneously adding to my usual routine. First, I used a nightlight. Second, I said prayers at the bedside, in a way I hadn’t since I was little.
And third, I didn’t sleep. Not for three whole nights.
Instead I kept watch as the bedroom door unlatched itself again and again -- no matter how firmly I closed it -- then swayed as if in a breeze. But there was no breeze. And the door was snug against thick carpeting. Yet sway it did. For three whole, sleepless nights. I went to work every morning as tired as I could be.
One evening, I sat reading. From the basement, right below my chair, came an impossibly loud crash. Yet there was no shaking, my chair didn’t move. I somehow understood it couldn’t have been real -- nothing in something even the size of that entire house could have made a sound as loud as what I’d just heard.
Now, I shook bodily for some time, but I knew enough -- again from the movies: DON’T GO INTO THE BASEMENT. I didn’t care what the family might find down there when they got back. I knew it'd happened but ignored the whole thing.
By the fourth night and after, I slept. There seemed some kind of acceptance, a mutual peace. Maybe it was all the prayers. Maybe “they” just got used to me.
When the family came home, with a nice little gift for my services, the mother asked me, “So, ah, did you have any, ah, spirit activity?”
I stared at her. “Whyyy . . . ?”
“Oh, ha ha, didn’t we mention the house is haunted? We told you that, right?” She and her husband blinked at each other. ("Is she buying it?") “Oh, I was sure we did. . . .”
I was sure you DIDN’T.
Then, for twenty minutes, they cheerily related a long series of ghostly encounters from their years in that house. All the ghosts were peaceable, they said, even rocking the baby sometimes at night.
And thus the universe turned the tables on me and my little boast. Fair enough.
And as for the couple, I did get them back. It wasn’t deliberate -- they hadn’t told me not everyone was in on the state of things at their address.
On our next goat hike, I was curious. I asked their kids, “So, how do you like living in a haunted house?”
“WHAT?” they said, suddenly bug-eyed.
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