Do you believe in ghosts?
I know, the question is so cliché, it’s like a left-over’s left-over.
But still, do you believe in ghost?
Too Many Movies
Has the popularity of paranormal movies, books and TV series induced us into a blasé indifference? I bet everyone has one story to tell, a story that’s buried deep, never shared, because who would believe it?
It is said some individuals are more “sensitive” than others. I was deemed one of the unlucky. I was told to open up my senses, to give in, to let the otherworld in.
No way! It was too scary. Already, in my tweens, I’d had too many episodes of strong déjà-vu. It was freaky.
At thirteen, my grand-father died.
Léopold Dubois, Grand-Father Extraordinaire
He was the best male influence in my childhood, a great father to my mother, an extraordinaire grand-father to me. I remember walking to church with him, my hand in his. I cherished these walks. They were the price to sit through the catholic service, quiet and obedient.
He was sick with cancer. No one told me anything, but I knew it was bad because my grand-mother came to sleep at our apartment. It didn’t make sense to me, that she’d come to our small home when she had a much bigger house.
I wanted to go see him at the hospital, but my mother said I couldn’t. It was against the rules. No one under fifteen. I resented the hospital.
When he passed, our lives forever changed.
When the Kingpin Falls
The death of my grand-father, not even a year after his retirement, rippled through my family. It was unexpected. Sudden. From my thirteen years old point of view, it was clear the adults around me had no plan B. No plan C either.
In the end, it was decided my grand-mother wouldn’t renew her tenant’s lease. She would move into the bachelor portion of her house while my mother, father, brother and myself would move into the bigger side.
My father made some modifications to the house, which had only 2 bedrooms, one upstairs, one in the basement. He transformed the garage into a bedroom so there would be 2 bedrooms upstairs.
The smaller one became my brother’s. My parents occupied the newly transformed garage. Which left the basement bedroom to me.
That bedroom had been my grand-parent’s. I protested. No way was I going to sleep in my grand-father’s bedroom.
For two years I shared my grand-mother’s room in her bachelor. Until my father decided it was enough. He teared apart the room and redid it to my liking. At fifteen, I went down to live in the bedroom in the basement.
Familiar Noises
My grand-father loved to fiddle with stuff in his workroom. He’d worked for hours, then would come upstairs for dinner. He wore leather sandals, never tied. The metallic clips would click with each footstep.
Those were his familiar noises. Thump, the workroom door would close. Click-click, click-click, click-click. He would walk across the basement to the staircase.
Alone in the living room upstairs, reading a book, I would hear the workroom’s door close. Thump. I’d put my book down, ears wide open. Click-click, click-click. I’d wait, heart going 100 in a 30 zone. The footsteps would stop at the bottom of the staircase. They never came up. And I never investigated. I’d stay frozen in the living room, waiting until my heart calmed down. And I’d tell myself I was imagining those noises.
Years later, my mother and I shared a chilling conversation. She told me she used to hear her father leave his workroom and walk through the basement. Before then, I’d never told anyone about my grand-father familiar noises.
The Nightmares
The nightmares started when I was sixteen. What were they? I have no idea. I can’t remember. It’s probably better that way.
I’d wake up drenched in sweat, heart racing, eyes searching the dark. At first, I put it on account of school, of being nervous about grades.
I remembered we had a earthquake that year. Earthquakes in Montreal are rare. One morning, I woke at 5 am because my bed was shaking. Earthquake, I thought. Cool. I went back to sleep like a typical teenager.
My life was in shamble at that time. Though I was good in school, I ran a little wild at night. My relationship with my father had deteriorated and I tried to be away from home as much as possible.
We always had cats. Often, the cat would jump on my bed during the night and sleep in the crook of my bent knees. But in the days leading to THE nightmare, I felt the cat jump on my bed, felt his weight as he landed beside me. I lifted my head to look at him. There was no cat on my bed. The first time, I thought I’d had just dreamt, dreamt that I was falling down a step.
It happened again. By the third time, I was thoroughly freaking out.
Then THE nightmare happened.
Please stop by tomorrow at Romance & Beyond, where Part II of this blog will be posted.
Wow–great stuff. I’ve never had a paranormal experience, but lots of folks I trust intimately, who are far more perspicacious, have.
It’s not something I usually talk about. First, I don’t want anyone to think I’m fibbing, but on the other hand, when I share something personal, people share back. And it was quite an experience. Hope you stop by Romance & Beyond tomorrow!
No way does this come across as a fib. Love this and will check out the next episode.
What?? Tune in tomorrow?? Wicked cliffhanger-er!
I will be back. And to answer your first question — yes, yes I do believe. Maybe we can explore this topic when you are in town, compare stories, exchange experiences, share back.
We really should! As long as it’s a well lighted, well populated place.
Yes! Like NOT the lodge near Margie’s place…
Oh my. I know how you feel about sharing paranormal experiences. Many people cannot suspend their disbelief. If it doesn’t happen to them, they don’t believe it can happen to anyone or they believe you’ve imagined or misinterpreted.
Who knows what was behind the things you heard, but I would never doubt you heard them. A ghost could possibly be lingering energy from a person. Who knows for sure? We try to interpret with what knowledge we have, but I have no doubt there’s much more to a person than biology.
Yes, I believe, and I can’t wait to read your post tomorrow on Romance and Beyond!
Thanks Sharon. I knew you’d understand exactly how I felt about sharing my ghost story.
And yes, I think my grand-father lingered in the house, the house he built himself, to make sure everyone was ok. And I believe he tried to contact us in some way but he felt our fear and he didn’t quite know how to make himself known.
I loved him so much. It was such a tragedy he died so early in my youth.
Hi Carole, I do believe in ghosts because I met one. Didn’t “see” her, just felt her. I talked about it on my blog, http:sandrazbruney.blogspot.com if you want to click on Friday, Oct. 28, 2011. The strange thing is, I wasn’t scared, but annoyed! She was a very pushy ghost.
I will check back tomorrow to read the rest of the story.
Sandy
Thanks Sandy. I will go read your ghost story.
I am clairsentient as well–feel things, not see them.
I don’t read or watch anything about ghosts or anything scary. I am way to subseptable.
I hope you’ll read the end of my story, Ella. I can’t guarantee it won’t affect you though.
We live close to Placerville, CA, which was established more or less during the 1849 gold rush era and named Old Hangtown. The town has a lot of ghosts, one of which lived in the art gallery where I worked. It was actually constructed over a creek and originally was known as the Corner Saloon. When we knew the upstairs was empty, I could hear heavy footsteps walking over my head and doors slamming. I would come in and find paintings crooked and identification papers on the floor. One day my boss was on the opposite side of the room and a four foot ceramic vase was tossed against the wall and broke in six pieces and it scratched the mahogany table’s legs. It was the only time he became violent. The Cary House Hotel across the street has two ghosts, one of which wouldn’t let me on the elevator. The Hangman Bar had a man dressed all in black with a top hat that would go in and out of the ladies bathroom.
Then there was my Dad. He died four months before our daughter died of cancer. He would never have believed in ghosts. But the hair on the back of my neck stood on end one night while I was putting a card table away. I turned and he was standing next to the chair at the dining room table where he sat, he was all black, sparkling lights where his face was. He was there just long enough for me to see him. I know in my heart he came back to let me know he would be waiting for Kellie when she died. It did a lot to relieve me of my anxiety.
So, am I a believer. Absolutely.
Hi Paisley,
Chills ran down my arms when I read your comment. I’m sure you were scared but at the same time, you knew his intentions were good.
Carole, I never knew this about you. Chilling. You can bet I’ll be back for part two, three… however many it takes to get the rest of this story!
When our Bailey passed, I heard her come up the stairs in the early morning. When she needed to be let out, her pant grew heavy, I knew the tone well. I even swung my legs over the bed more than once, ready to meet her at my bedroom door, but she never came that far, her climb stopped mid-staircase. I wonder if this is because near the end, she couldn’t climb the stairs anymore. Or perhaps, she only wanted to wake me, to let me know she was still around. Once I was reminded, she didn’t need to keep climbing.
No, not the same as a grandfather. But Bailey was part of our family. And not the only one to send me a message of love after her death.
Oooh, I got tears. How terrible and how sweet, all at the same time. It must have make your heart hurt each time you heard her.