Ghost Hunters

My brother is lucky enough to be married to the hot blonde:



And also? Contrary to what the commentators (if they can be called that) are trying to say with their horrid spelling, punctuation and grammar, it's actually NOT fake. It's 100% real, folks. 100% real.

Sometimes I'm kind of a dirty hippie.

My adored Kitty wrote this on her blog and so I was inspired to respond.

This past September I had the opportunity to fly to Washington State and spend a week with family I had not seen in a very very long time. Three of those days were spent in Olympia, WA, visiting my beloved cousin Angie, her husband Matt, their chihuahua Chip, and their 8 week old baby girl, Olivia.

Angie and Matt are probably some of the most seriously laid back, chilled out people I have ever met in my life. It is my ultimate goal to be as calm and easy going as they are. Angie is so laid back that when I arrived in Olympia, she handed me her new baby and did not ask for her back for the next three days unless Olivia needed the boob. I couldn't believe someone had trusted me with their infant. I was in heaven. I called it "New Mommy Fantasy Camp". All the good stuff without any of the waking-up-400-times-a-night stuff.

My first evening there, Angie let me put Olivia to bed. I was forewarned that Olivia would cry, long and hard, for a good while before finally zonking out. But not to worry! That is just her nightly routine. All I would need to do is bounce, coo, rub her back and let her cry. So, after her bedtime feeding and burping, after I changed her pants and once she started her nightly bawl, I started rocking and cooing. I was alone in the nursery with Olivia, and she was crying and crying and crying and crying. Screaming. It sounded like someone had just killed her puppy. Actually, it sounded worse. It was starting to make me nervous. I held her away from my body and looked into her little face, twisted with agony, and I didn't see a baby crying. I saw a person grieving. And it hit me, all of a sudden: Olivia is mourning her past.

I have always believed in reincarnation. Say what you will, but I've known too many little children who relate exquisitely detailed memories of lives lived long ago. Things beyond a toddlers imagination. I believe that when we are very small, we are still connected to our earlier existences and that as we grow and age, our minds become clouded with our current lives and everything else is pushed away. It would have to be because how could we function with the weight of our past lives on our shoulders?

As I looked into that tiny, beautiful, sorrowful face, my heart broke into a million little pieces. I pressed her to my bosom and held her there, sobbing with her, gasping with her, grieving with her. Until, at last, she heaved a sigh far too big for her tiny body and collapsed into a deep, sound sleep.

We endure so much in our lives. Even those of us who seem to have everything, who seem to be the golden children, we endure so much. Even in the easiest life there is heartbreak, humiliation, loss, distress. And the wonderful blessings that we have are worth our tears. The love that we've experienced, the joy we've known, all that is worth grieving once it's gone. And then, to start over from the beginning, not knowing what is ahead, not knowing what will happen next, even that is something to endure. And how wonderful it all is. Whether we are wallowing in shit and misery or dancing in a starry spotlight, at least we are alive.

Bump in the Night

I have always had a love/hate relationship with the supernatural. On the one hand, I'm COMPLETELY FASCINATED by the paranormal. And on the other hand? I'd rather eat a plate of steaming shit than have to face a real, honest-to-goodness ghost.

As a little kid, I often spent long weekends with my beloved Aunt Sue, who regularly communicated with the Great Beyond. (She also had weekly phone chats with Santa Claus, and I had her to thank for asking the Tooth Fairy to give me a raise - but those are other stories for other posts.) The two of us would stay up late together and watch Unsolved Mysteries, America's Most Wanted,  and other creepy weekend specials about ghosts, murderers, kidnappers, aliens and phantoms and then, like clockwork, every night at 11:45 she'd look over at me and say, "It's almost midnight. Doo yooou knoooow whaat thaaat meeeeans? Midnight is THE WITCHING HOUR! Quick! Off to bed before the witches come out!" And with my wee little heart thumping in my chest, I'd race off to her bedroom and dive under the covers for safety. And while I was at once terrified by the thought of what I might see once that clock struck 12, I was also thrilled by it.

When I planned Poompy's birthday trip to Gettysburg, I booked us two nights at a self-proclaimed "haunted" Bed & Breakfast. The Farnsworth House Inn was built in
1810, followed in 1833 by the brick structure that still stands today. The walls, floors and rafters are all original - one can only imagine what they've seen and heard in 175 years. During the battle of Gettysburg the house was owned by the Sweney family. The wife and daughter fled their home before the battle began, but Mr. Sweney chose to stay. He was basically forced to spend the three day battle hiding in his cellar because on the first day of battle, after Federal units retreated to Cemetery Hill, the 2 1/2 story brick house became a shelter and hide-out for Confederate sharpshooters. The house was strategically located very near Union lines and the garret window (photo of window from inside the garret below, right) offered a protected site for the Confederate sharpshooters as they maintained a deadly fire on the Union forces on Cemetery Hill. The side of the house (pictured above left) bears over 100 bullet scars from Union riflemen firing back at the Confederates.

When we checked into our room in Gettysburg, the first thing I noticed was a pretty little journal on the dresser. Curiosity got the best of me, so I opened it. Apparently, hotel staff leaves that little journal so guests have a place to write about their supernatural stories. There wasn't anything too scary written in it, mostly it was people who'd written to say that nothing weird happened while they were staying there, thank goodness. Though there were a couple of stories about groaning walls and bumps in the night - the kind of thing which, in my opinion, one should expect in a house with 175 year old walls and floors. Later, we found out that the room next to ours has "the most spirit activity in the whole house". But I wasn't going to let that bother me because at least it wasn't the room we were staying in. Just the room next-door. Despite my resolve, I did not sleep a wink. I laid awake ALL NIGHT LONG straining to hear strange noises while simultaneously trying not to hear anything at all. And I couldn't stand that I was wide awake and Poompy was fast asleep, so I kept elbowing him in the ribs, hoping that he might wake up and keep me company, but to no avail. All the hardest nudging in the world gave me nothing more than a muffled "hrrrgmf" or two. The next morning at breakfast, the guy staying in the room next-door tried to ask me if I'd heard strange footsteps in the hallway the night before, but I interrupted before he had a chance to get the question out and said, "that was probably just me and my husband coming in for the night!" I didn't want to think that he'd heard anything strange. I just couldn't handle it.

Our second night in Gettysburg we went on a Ghost Walk that promised to fill us with thrills and chills, a Ghost Walk led by phantoms in period dress, a Ghost Walk we would never forget. Well, it turned out to be the lamest Ghost Walk EVER. The guides, in their Rite-Aid brand pirate costumes, spoke to us, a group of 25 adults, as if we were kindergartners with IQ's below 40. When once I got a little behind the group because I'd stopped to take a photo of a dead bird, I was screeeeeamed at by the guide for falling out of line. (Yeah, I said "line". She made us stand in a line. Like kindergartners.) While our guide did provide us with some interesting town history, she did not tell us any real ghost stories. I'm sorry, but a real ghost story doesn't end with a punch line. And I have a hard time appreciating the history lessons she provided, because she couldn't open her mouth without rolling her eyes in boredom and hacking her left lung out of her chest. The scariest thing about the entire walk, actually, was her phlegmy, body wracking cough. It was so scary I had to stay at the back of the line the whole time.  But, I'm not being altogether fair. She did tell one story that made the Ghost Walk worthwhile. She took us into the garret of the Farnsworth House and, in between eye-rolling and body-wracking, lung-launching, phlegm-spraying coughs, she told us the story of what Mr. Sweney found in his garret after the battle of Gettysburg ended. Story goes that when he finally felt it was safe to come out of hiding, he began to explore his home to asses the damage caused. He made his up into the garret and discovered the bodies of six dead Confederate soldiers piled in a corner opposite the garret window. (As I type this, I keep spinning around to look behind me because I'm getting the creeps so bad.) The floor was thick with congealed blood, and the walls were crawling with lice from the dead bodies. It seemed as though each time a sharpshooter posted at the garret window was shot, his buddies would drag him across the floor and leave him on the other side of the garret while another guy took his place. By the way, that floor? The one that had a thick layer of congealed blood on it? It's still there. I walked on it. And to make matters better? The very room where Poompy and I were staying was DIRECTLY UNDER THE GARRET. But not under the entire garret, oh no. JUST UNDER THE SIDE OF THE GARRET WHERE THE BODIES WERE PILED. Yuck, yuck, yuck. Creepy, scary, gross.

The ghost walk ended at about 11 p.m. and Poompy and I headed back to our room to pack our suitcases and catch some sleep. We needed to get up and hit the road by 6 a.m. if we would make it to work on time the next day. As we prepared for bed, I said a little prayer that I'd fall asleep FAST - I was exhausted because I hadn't been able to sleep a wink the night before. We crawled into bed and before I even turned the light off, Poompy was snoring. I stuck my elbow in his ribs. Nothing. Not even a "hrrrgmf". I elbowed him harder. Still nothing. The man was OUT. So I lay there, in the dark, trying to fall asleep, trying NOT to stare at the ceiling over my head because I was afraid I might see ghost-blood spread in a pool over my head. I heard the grandfather clock downstairs strike 11:30, then 11:45. When I heard it strike midnight a little voice in my head whispered, "Now it's the Witching Hour!" And I thought, Dear GOD HELP ME SLEEP. I heard the clock strike 12:15. Then 12:30. And then I heard footsteps. In the garret. The very clear and very distinct sound of someone pacing in the garret above my head. The footsteps were heavy, precise, intentional. And then I heard an enormous bang, and then silence. Complete silence.

I spent the rest of the night wide awake, sweaty and trembling. But I never heard or saw anything strange after that. When Poompy woke up in the morning I told him everything. He looked at me, his head cocked to one side, his brow furrowed in skepticism. "Seriously?" He said. "It was just staff cleaning up for the night. You're being ridiculous." Except, if it was staff, if it was HUMAN, I would've heard footsteps coming down the creaky garret steps into the hallway outside our room. I would've then heard those footsteps going down the creaky steps to the main floor, to make their way out of the Inn. Unless there is staff who sleeps in the garret at night. Which I HIGHLY DOUBT.

I will NEVER stay in a haunted B&B again. EVER.