My own restless spirit often has me awake in that particular darkness that falls directly between morning and night. Some folks call this the witching hour, and I agree there are nights that it can seem spooky. But here in the comfort of my home, with a cup of tea and a plate of buttered toast, I feel safe thinking about things that go bump in the night and reminiscing about some of those that move around in broad daylight.
Scary stories have always enticed me. Not the blood and gore stuff, but a tingling thriller with a ghost or other paranormal characters can hold my attention. When I was a kid, we told campfire stories year-round; sometimes at camp, sometimes in a dark playroom, or at a sleepover where the less skilled storytellers might hold a light up their chin to try to look scary. There must have been dozens of Ouija board sessions and games of light as a feather, stiff as a board, as well as sadly attempted seances. But nothing ever chilled or delighted me quite like my personal encounters with ghosts and other beings.
The author’s childhood home, taken in 1997 [S. Barker]
My mother’s Great Grampa LaPorte came to live with us for a time when I was young. He was in his late eighties, a first-generation American born to Italian immigrant parents. I know now that he spoke and understood English, but for some reason chose to function as though he had little command of the English language. Maybe he was depressed, or hard of hearing, or thought a language barrier might create a peace barrier in a house filled with seven children.
To my child eyes, Grampa dressed quite nicely. He often wore a cardigan over his button-up shirts, and he wiped his shoes clean every day. It delighted me that he dunked biscotti in his black coffee; seeing that is probably the reason I started dunking my toast in hot chocolate when I was a little bit older. He always had a handkerchief with him, and I remember my mom teaching me how to iron and fold those the way he liked them.
Mostly, though, I remember his quiet presence in the gold wing-backed chair in the living room, where he would mark the passage of a child sailing by with a slight wave of his right hand.
Grampa allowed me to accompany him on walks along the old railroad tracks behind our house. He liked to hunt mushrooms, and he would pick one and show it to me, pointing out the shape and details with slightly trembling hands. Then he would look at me as if asking if I understood, and I would nod. He always watched what I put into the little bag.
If I had picked something wrong, he would gently block my hand with his, move it away from the bag and down towards the ground and squeeze a bit while shaking his head. The message was clear. Let go.
Sometimes we went looking for blackberries, and those walks took us across a small, out-of-service trestle. I would cling to his hand as we crossed because I was afraid of heights. The only memory I have of hearing his voice was during one of those crossings when he showed me how to deliberately place my feet, counting each step. I can still hear him now, nearly 50 years later. “One. Two. Three. Eh?” Then he raised our hands between us and gently squeezed mine, asking the question by smiling and raising his eyebrows. Let go? And I did.
My family did not discuss topics like illness or death, so I had only a hazy understanding that something was wrong when Grampa became ill. I have a clear memory of my father and oldest brother carrying him down the stairs to take him to the hospital, and that image frightened me. My parents did tell me that he died, but I was not allowed to attend his funeral service, which I understood to be where people went to say goodbye. That sudden disconnect and lack of closure made me feel immeasurably sad.
That sorrow began to diminish when, a few nights after he died in October of 1974, I saw my Grampa LaPorte for what I thought would be the last time. I was 8 years old, and his was the first ghost I saw that I realized in the moment actually was a ghost. I understood that much about death, at least – that it was not his physical presence that I encountered in the middle of the night when I went downstairs to get a drink of water.
Grampa LaPorte’s bedroom was at the top of the stairs, and when I stepped into the hallway I saw that his door, closed since he was taken to the hospital, was open. The light was on, and there was an indentation on the bed as though someone had been sitting on the edge of it. I remember thinking maybe he had come back to look at his things, or to get a handkerchief, and continued on my way.
His wingback chair sat next to the doorway between the living room and dining room. On that night I saw him sitting in his chair, as he so often did, arms resting on the arm pieces. Something about the way he looked seemed different, but I was not frightened.
When I walked past him, I said, “Hi Grampa,” and he raised his right hand in the usual way that he waved hello.
When I came back through, he was gone. And when I got to the top of the stairs, the light was off and the door to his room was once again closed.
His was the first death I experienced or was aware of. I did not really understand what was happening; I just knew that his gentle presence was gone from my life. I have always believed that he visited that night to let me know that he was okay and that I could still say hello from time to time, but that it was also okay for me to let go.
The author and her cousin behind the house, about 1970 [S. Barker]
Before Grampa came to live with us, I had friends who I played with that my mother called my imaginary friends. They usually stayed outside our house, and most of them were older people dressed in clothes I thought were funny. I did not understand why my mother and other people did not see them, but I did not let that bother me.
I recall that some of them went away after that last visit from Grampa LaPorte, and it took a little while for me to realize that the ones who kept coming around looked like he did the night of that visit. Finally realizing that they were ghosts, I wanted to ask questions about where they came from but none of those ghosts ever spoke to me even though we had tea parties and played together. They appeared less frequently as I grew older, and by the time we moved out of that house when I was 14 years old I hardly ever saw them.
In 2009 a construction company was digging up an old oil tank behind the elementary school I attended as a child. During the dig, they unearthed a headstone, a partial headstone, and some human bones. At that time a local historian confirmed that the site had been a community cemetery between 1841 and 1875. In 1913 a local civic group wanted to clear the lot to convert what had become an overgrown area into a park.
Relatives of the people buried in the community cemetery were given an opportunity to have those bodies moved to other cemeteries. Many were moved, but others, either unclaimed or whose families could not afford to move them, were “laid under.” This meant the bodies were buried more deeply and the headstones turned down on top of the bodies.
That former community cemetery sat on land that was no further than one hundred yards away in a straight line from my childhood home. I am certain the discovery of that cemetery provided the answers to where so many of my “imaginary” friends came from. There are definitely some goosebumps in that thought.
Ghosts do not usually visit the way they did back then, but they do still come. It seems these days they show up more often than ever before. I have never quite figured out why they choose to appear to me, or why the people I really want to see seldom show themselves. I do my best to help those who seem to need it. While most of them are harmless, some can be frightening.
I have learned, over time, that I cannot deal with whatever it is that goes bump in the night unless I am willing to look. I have also learned to look twice at whatever appears unexpectedly in the light of day.
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