Ingrid McCleary
By INGRID McCLEARY
We have a ghost in our house. We call him George. Every time our front door swings open by itself or we hear creaking boards in the back of the house, one of us says, "Hi, George."
These sounds may be our home's natural "breathing" noises. Or one of our pets getting into something they shouldn't. But ... it may be George. And I tell you this--there have been instances when all kids, pets and stray gusts of wind have been accounted for, leaving George as the most likely perpetrator.
But since George hasn't harmed us in any way, I figure he can hang around, as long as he doesn't start raiding the pantry. I've enough mouths to feed without having to satisfy a spirit's bottomless stomach.
Whenever I head for the bathroom late at night and snap on the hallway light, I expect to see George standing at the other end. There is a presence there.
Most likely, it's only a manifestation of my own fears. But then again ... maybe not.
One time, though, my brother house-sat for us while we were away, and he slept in our bedroom. The first night he woke suddenly to find a misty apparition hovering over him.
Until that moment, he'd been a "seeing-is-believing" skeptic. And when he actually saw the ghost, he did what any non-believer would do when confronted with an impossibility: He hid under the sheets.
My brother is a self-confessed spiritual wimp. Such things as guardian angels, poltergeists and the hereafter give him the shivers. I told him not to worry; it was just George checking out the stranger in my bed. Still, when Peter stays overnight now, he takes over my daughter's bedroom.
George has always come across as a man-spirit (though I don't know why I think that; I've never seen George). My brother described his ghost as a translucent lady with flowing, white-gray hair and menacing, ebony eyes. Not the kind and caring eyes you'd expect from, say, a guardian angel.
"No," my brother said. "She looked angry."
In truth, I find my brother's ghost highly suspect. I mean, he'd woken from a dead sleep, and we all know how the lines between dreams and reality can blur during those first waking moments. Of course, he probably doesn't believe in George, either. Which brings us back to the "seeing-is-believing" skepticism in all of us.
And sometimes, it's not the "seeing" that scares us, but the "believing." Consider this story, which happened a few days before Halloween: I was 11 and walking home from my friend's house. It was dark, I was late, and I knew I'd be in trouble when I got home, so I postponed the unavoidable by walking even slower than usual.
I was halfway home when I heard a noise behind me. I slowed but didn't dare turn around. To do so would make the noise real. There it was again! I picked up my pace; it picked up its pace. I started to jog, it began to jog. I ran and the faster I ran, the more panic grew.
By now I was convinced it was a murderer/rapist/escaped laboratory monster and I just couldn't bear to look over my shoulder, sure that the dimensions of the evil thing surpassed my most horrific visions. I flew through the door, gasping and heaving, weak-kneed, but safe.
Had my imagination run rampant? Maybe, maybe not. But compared to running for my life, the subsequent punishment for being late was a piece of cake. There's nothing like a good scare to make you appreciate your home, with or without a visiting ghost.
This article appeared in the Sunnyvale Sun, November 6, 1996.
©1996 Metro Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved.