Manifest

Until today I never touched the dead. Never thought about, never wanted to. This morning I was making microwaveable sausage biscuits, when a girl appeared and took my hand. She felt cold. She lead me away from the microwave, upstairs, and out into the street.

An older gentleman peered at me—and her. “Anne, you look so beautiful,” he told her. “I love you.”

“I love you too, William,” she replied. She touched his cheek. He seemed to jump at the chill of her. “This man has a very special gift. Help him however you can.” She turned to me. “William has a gift too. Not like yours, but he can help you. Emmy sends her regards.”

After she spoke, she let go of my hand, and disappeared.

“Thank you for letting me see her again.” William held out his hand, and I shook it.

“I had no idea I could do that,” I told him.

“Since it’s my wife’s wishes,” he said. “I’m going to help us both out. I think we can change the world together, my friend.”

I didn’t know what to say. All I could think about was her mention of Emmy. Why hasn’t she come to see me personally?

“We’ll discuss it over dinner tomorrow.” He shook my hand again, and walked to his car.

I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.

 (Photo by octaviolopez)

Rest In Peace

I’ve been inactive for a while, I know. I had been busy with Emmy, and became extremely distracted. To tell you to honest truth, I forgot about this journal.

Emmy and I were doing great. I never met anyone so compatible with myself—and vice versa. I’ll skip all the intimate details, and get to the part where I realized nothing lasts forever.

Five days ago, I got up and rang Emmy’s cell. She didn’t answer—no big deal. I tried again about an hour later, same thing. I began to feel a bad vibe in the pit of my stomach. I kept trying as I drove over to her house.

The ghost that had been haunting Emmy’s house was of no threat, and didn’t talk much. I met him when Emmy finally invited me over on our second date. While she was occupied in the bathroom, I tried to talk to this fellow, and he did not speak much. His name was “Fred,” the only answer I got out of him. I did not speak about any of this to Emmy, of course.

Fred stood on Emmy’s front porch as if he was expecting me. He looked remorseful.

“She’s dead,” he told me. His eyes were melancholy.

I rushed into the house. She was on the floor in a pool of blood.

“Burglar,” Fred quietly spoke.

I called 911, and gave a description based on what Fred had told me the man looked like.

When the police arrived, I was surprised that they did not suspect me. They had actually picked up a man for breaking and entering, moments prior to my call, matching the description I gave.

Her funeral was soon after. No one was there except for me and her mother. She talked about Emmy’s father. “Fred was his name,” she said. “He cared so much for her. I’m happy he isn’t around to see his daughter in this casket. It would break his heart.”

He wasn’t at the funeral, but if she only knew what he did see. He watched helplessly and couldn’t do anything about it. Perhaps, out of panic, he didn’t think to come to me for help.

The image of her laying there still haunts me. I’ve cried my tears, and starting writing again. Perhaps it will help me move on. I still have an echo of that awful vibe in my stomach. Perhaps Emmy will find her way to me like the others do.

I’m waiting for her visit.

(picture by mr-twingo)

My House

I checked my e-mail, and there I found an interesting question from a reader:

“…I’ve been reading your blog, and I can’t help but wonder what your place looks like. I keep imagining you writing in a dark attic in a cabin in the woods. -Dawn”

To answer your question, Dawn,

I live in a four bedroom house that my parents gave me in a suburban area. The upstairs has a few odds and ends; a kitchen table, and a few chairs here and there. I don’t use the upstairs much, except to cook (which I rarely do). Once a woman spirit sat with me, which was the whole reason I cooked. She thought I was handsome and wanted me to humor her with a dinner date. It was quite hilarious thinking back on the ghostly old woman, and I had nothing better to do. I think she used to do stand-up comedy at a local theatre here in Ashland.

I actually live in my basement.  It’s usually dimly lit—when the light aren’t completely out—with the lowest watt light bulbs I can find. I don’t like the light when I’m trying to relax. I have everything I need down there, a fridge, television, a couch (where I’m usually lounging with my laptop), a bedroom with a king bed, a microwave, and a hotplate. Amongst billions of things it would take forever to mention, I have four very large bookshelves packed with books of all genres.

Not really what you were expecting? Perhaps you were close with the dark part; bright lit rooms tend to annoy me.

Rain, Rain Please Don't Go Away

It rained the whole time I was at work which made it a very relaxing day. There's something about being in a desolate library while it's dark and rainy outside, and you're inside comfortable and dry watching the rain pour down. There's a unique feeling of peace that overcomes you. (Until your boss pulls you back into reality).

I thought a lot about Emmy today. My last conversation with her was very pleasant. We planned another date for this weekend. This time we noted to make it longer.

I asked her about her ghost but she didn't want to discuss it. I figure I'll leave it alone for now. I'll get to meet it soon enough I'm sure.

I heard from my mom last night. She let me know about the family reunion Sunday. I don't know if I'll go. My living relatives are bad enough, but the dead ones are worse, especially now that they're dead.

My mom is the only one that ever knew about my 'gift.' She always believed me, but when I was a kid we stopped talking about it because she was afraid that my father would have me committed. Even though I'm grown now, we still don't speak of it, and my father is still an asshole.

I wonder why mom has never doubted it wasn't 'just my imagination.'


(photo by mconnors)

Haunted Emmy and Coffee

Yesterday at work, a girl came in to the library where I work, and asked if I could recommend a book on ghosts and spirits. Oh, if I could have leant to her my brain. You don't need a book, honey. Just spend a few hours in my shoes.

I pointed her in the right direction. She came back with Ghosts: True Encounters with the World Beyond by Hans Holzer, and I began to check the book out for her. That's when I did something completely impulsive. I asked her out for coffee. Normally, I wouldn't have done such a thing as I do not mix with regular people. But there was something about her that drew me in and shut off my logic.

She blushed from behind her glasses. "Sure," she said to my surprise. We exchanged names (hers was Emmy) and phone numbers, and decided to meet up the next morning--this morning.

Oddly enough, I wasn't nervous. I don't know if it was because she checked out a book about ghosts, or if fate had brought this girl to me. Nevertheless, I felt good about it as I sat at a table at the Little Coffee House.

She came in. She paced looking timid of the crowd, barely glancing around to find me. She caught my eyes, came over, and sat across from me. She said, “A little crowded this morning, huh?”

I agreed.

We conversed shyly—she was the shyer one. In our conversation I asked her why she got a book about ghosts. She said, “I’d rather not say. You’d laugh.”

“Try me,” I responded.

She looked around like she didn’t want anyone to listen in, and said, “Okay, I know this sounds stupid. I think I have a ghost in my house, and I need to figure out how to get rid of it.”

I smiled. It was nothing new to me. Dead people are always bugging the shit out of me.

She thought I was laughing at her, and she told me that she knew I would laugh. I assured her that I believed her, and that she just might have a spirit haunting her house. I didn’t tell her about my ability yet, but I wanted to. I wanted her to invite me over so I could try to convince the spirit to leave, and maybe have some more coffee with more privacy. But I wasn’t ready to share that part about me yet. I didn’t want to run her off.

We finished our coffee. She had to get to work. She was barely able to say, “You want to do something again sometime?”

Of course I agreed. I leaned over and kissed her on her cheek. It startled her—hell, it startled me. But she smiled and said, “Until next time, then.”

She gets off of work at seven. I think I’ll give her a call then, and talk about that ghost of hers.

(photo by hotblack)

The Clinic

I'm feeling extremely sick today. I made a trip to the clinic earlier, and I sat beside a fellow in the waiting room. He struck up a conversation with me. We talked about how his wife had the same cancer he had. He was waiting on her in the waiting room because he never liked to hear what the doctor had to say. "It was too depressing to see his wife cry," he said.

They called me back, and apparently I have an infection somewhere in my body that was causing a high fever. The doctor asked me if I had been hallucinating, I assured him that I hadn't been. I just felt extremely weak and cold. To which he responded, "Are you sure? The receptionist told us you were talking to yourself in the waiting room."

I was completely embarrassed. I was so sick that I didn't realized the man in the waiting room was dead. Thinking back, the man was talking strangely as if his wife would be joining him soon. I simply didn't catch it.

I hate how the dead automatically know they can talk to me, but they don't warn me that they're dead and that I might look like a lunatic talking to the air. I suppose they do look a lot different than the living, but only if you're paying attention. So, I guess, it's my fault. I just need to be more attentive in public from now on.

Let Her Go

I woke up at two o’ clock this morning to a spirit crying and droning on, “She’s moved on, she slept with him!”

It pissed me off at first. Usually the dead never disturb me while I’m asleep. But this time, after waking up a little more, I kind of felt sorry for the poor fellow. I can’t imagine what it would be like to die and watch your wife move on.

I sat up for about an hour talking to this guy. To make a long story short, I told him to let her go and go find himself a nice ghost girlfriend. (Yes this does happen, I’m not kidding). I’m not sure if it did any good, but he left. He seemed to have a new attitude about life--or death, rather.

I never asked how long he’d been hanging around watching her, but perhaps it had been long enough. Sometimes the dead need to let the living go as the living do so with the dead.  Oh, but this isn’t always the case.

(photo by XTearsxOfXTomorrow)