Around this time of year, everyone starts talking about witches, goblins and ghosts. I don't really like the creepy stuff. We decorate it up around here, but the rule is it has to be cute. Cute ghosts and witches and little black cats. Nothing creepy. No ugly, leering or scowling creatures.
I don't really like to be frightened, and I don't really like to talk about ghosts. I know they exist. I have seen them.
My mother has always been intuitive, I think I'm saying that right. She senses things before they happen a lot. I do, too, but not as much as she does.
Anyway, when I was a kid, I lived in a historic Colorado mining town. The town was and is full of Victorian houses and other old buildings. You can't walk a block without seeing a historical building.
Anyway, when I was little, we lived in an old house. It wasn't Victorian. It wasn't much at all, except old. With a wood burning stove in both the living room and an old-fahioned cook stove in the kitchen.
I hated to go to bed.
Because that's when they came out. To play. To frighten me.
I don't like to talk about them because people discount me, but I know what I saw. After lights out, and my sisters were asleep, filmy, white people, always dressed from another century, would roam that house. A confederate soldier. A man in a top hat. A woman in a bonnet and a long coat.
They seemed not to want to do me any harm.
They terrified me.
I would cower under my covers until exhaustion overtook me.
This went on for four long years, until we moved. The house was condemned and torn down. There's an empty lot there, and has been for over 40 years.
If I close my eyes, I can still bring those images back. I know they were real. I don't like to talk about them because I don't want them to ever return.