It is strange to me that now when I shower, I feel reborn. As a lifelong anxiety-addled, stressed-out shower avoider, I’ve hated showers for most of my life. I’d much rather have a bath. For the past year and a half, though, I’ve only had an old shower. Desperate to be renovated and looking like the showroom model of a geriatric display bathroom, it’s what we’ve got until the dominoes of renovation fall and call the green and pink washroom up to bat. There’s a seat in the shower, bars everywhere, and it’s very narrow. No one is a fall risk here.
Often when I do shower, and when the water is particularly hot and the scents particularly suitable, I am struck with an idea for something to write, and I tear out of it, desperate to empty my thoughts onto a page. Often, I do this naked.
Today, I put on clothes.
But nevertheless, that’s how I’ve ended up here.
And I have a ghost story to tell you.
I’d like to start this out by saying that for most of my life, I’ve just been scared of most things. Ghosts, ghouls, things that go bump in the night, traveling alone, everyone around me dying, everyone around me secretly hating me, things in the woods, making you mad, spiders, etc. For a long time, I avoided scary stories because I was scared of being scared of things later. Now I avoid gory things, but for the most part, I try not to let fear guide my decisions.
Over the past few years, I’ve been working on releasing my fears and getting in touch with my spiritual self. In the wake of that, I’ve reconnected to a higher power, my lineage of the Appalachian region, and my family. It’s been an interesting journey with twists and turns that have led me deep into grief and joy and being more of myself along the way. It’s a path I’ve been glad to be on.
The ghost story starts as many usually do, early in the morning. A few years ago, with no previous experience like the one I was about to have, I woke up with the uncanny understanding that my friend’s mom had passed away. She’d been sick for a while. Despite being close, I hadn’t talked to my friend in several weeks. I had no clue she was in her last decline, but I woke up and knew she was no longer in the world I was in.
So I waited by the phone for my friend to call. A few hours later, he did. She’d passed in the night. I was heartbroken for my friend, which took over most of the experience. In passing, I told my husband later that day, and we chalked it up to very grim luck. How could I have known?
The next occurrence didn’t happen for a while.
In June of 2021, I moved into my new home, devoid of any energies or spirits. Believe me, I made my friends check the house repeatedly, and despite buying it without ever seeing it, They assured me that it felt good. The vibes were perfect because there really weren’t any. We were free to make it our own. I’d bought the home from a woman, one half of a lovely couple who had lived there their whole lives. Her husband passed away in 2020 in the home, but their time here was happy. She sold me the house. We said a blessing over the place, saged it, burned some palo santo, and found some crystals she kept. We put them all over the house and in the garden. I have nothing but fondness for the previous owner. I feel really grateful that she and I could share a home. A bonus peculiarity: we also share a name.
Last October, in the middle of the night, I woke up. I knew the owner, the sweet rosy lady who had sold me this house, had passed away. It was a peaceful, easy feeling of knowing. It was the same as before; I just knew. I woke up, and I knew she wasn’t here anymore. Much in the way someone could wake up and know that they want cinnamon rolls for breakfast, I knew she was gone.
I googled it, but it, of course, wasn’t anywhere.
A few days later, we received what I assumed to be a bereavement card in the mail that was stamped “Sorry for your loss” on the front and addressed to her late husband. I remembered my feeling, so I googled it again. She had passed, and I had felt it. Laying in a bedroom that once belonged to her, her long life spent happily here. She had indeed passed on.
It’s happened other times, but those stories are too tender to tell. And plenty of people have passed without me waking up aware of it. It’s a funny thing that’s happened to me a handful of times. It’s neither unpleasant nor beneficial in any way. It just is. Occasionally it will come up in conversation, and it’s never not believed, which is its own comfort.
So what do I make of this? This is a ghost story – yes, but the only ghosts are the memories of the things lost. The only person haunted by this is me. There’s no real benefit; there’s no real torment. If I’m honest, I do fear that one day it might torment me, but I am grateful that today is not that day.
Just now, out of curiosity, I googled the obituary of the previous owner of my house. She died a year ago to the day, on the day I began writing this. This one’s for you, Tookey.
Best viewed during spooky time:
The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson
We Salted Nannie on The Bitter Southerner by Tom Maxwell
Jennifer’s Body always, but especially in the Fall.
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