Listen, I enjoy talking to friends at night, especially old friends, like the rest of the world. No topic is off guard, no insecurity unwarranted, because at the close of the conversation both parties agreed on one thing: to have a conversation.
But last night Anna pretty much stuck a corn-cobbler in my pasta salad and called it dressing, for she admitted to me in passing something I didn’t ever think I’d every hear from her or anyone.
She told me that nestled upstairs, between the staircase and one of the bedrooms, nestled quietly at times in the hallway that made up the interior of her new home; nestled until everyone went to bed, woman and creature, only to stomp about like a man, loomed the presence of a ghost.
Anna isn’t one of those types( I’m one of those types) that blames bumps and odd movements on the unmentionables of the night, but she said it as plain as one tells a doctor “I don’t feel good”.
“I think there’s a ghost upstairs, because I hear something stomping around at 3:00am every night.”
Now, forgive my imagination, because I have an overactive one–as well as a prefect memory of reference to things ghostly–but 3:00am is considered the hour that Satan, Demons, Ghosts, are permitted to scurry about the land of the living.
However, I’ve always found this historical information odd, for you see, it isn’t 3:00am on every region of the Earth at one time. I mean, somewhere there’s a Ghost suffering from severe jet-lag.
In any event, and humor aside, I don’t like conversation about ghosts; ever since moving to Massachusetts this abhorrence of mine has been escalated. There are plenty of old homes littered all over this state, some dating back to the 1600s, and that causes me to think that there are a lot of memories attached to this locales.
Well, both memories and anger.
I believe in Heaven and Heck. I do. So, when the topic of Ghosts come up( because I’m damn sure not bringing them up on my own) I tell myself that these are unhappy or lost souls–and the light or brimstone of both destinations aren’t there’s to decide just yet.
Anna and I talked about the sounds she’s heard at 3:00am. We talked about how her two cats react to the sounds, staring unflinchingly off into the depths of the staircase. I assured her it’s the house settling. IT HAS TO BE THE HOUSE SETTLING. After she and I concluded our conversation, we each returning to our perspective lives, the topic of ghosts soon infected my thoughts. I started thinking about shadows, voices, things that would precipitate an overactive imagination into darting at every sweeping movement in the dark; forcing the mind to staying awake.
I didn’t go to sleep until 1:00am.