I love ghost stories. Not horror flicks, or gory slasher movies. But stories about people who have moved on beyond this mortal state, and are yearning to maintain some sort of connection with life, and the loved ones they left behind. Or stories about people who can't seem to make peace with death. Like "The Sixth Sense", or "The Others." If you haven't seen either one, and you like ghost stories, I recommend them. Especially "The Others". It will tug at your heartstrings. And scare you just a little.
Do I believe in ghosts? This, for me, is a tough question to answer. The best I can come up with is, "I don't know." I really don't. I think life is incredibly mysterious, and the more I learn, the more I know I don't know. And since nobody who has ever truly left off this mortal coil has been able to come back and tell me about it, I have nothing real to base a belief on. However, I cannot discount completely the experiences I, and others, have had that cannot be readily explained by modern science. At least to my satisfaction. So, do I believe in ghosts? I don't know. I really don't.
I have had a few experiences in my life that could be called ghost stories. I wasn't drinking at the time, so they weren't the hallucinations of an alcoholic stupor. And most of the strange happenings at my apartment in Salt Lake City took place during daylight hours, while I was awake, so they can't be blamed on that weird half-sleep state that seems so conducive to other-worldly visits. I love relating these stories to my children and seeing their awe-struck expressions. They think I'm really brave because I didn't run screaming from my apartment. The truth is, it wasn't scary at all. Just weird, and slightly disconcerting.
Way back in the last century, 1988 to be specific, I moved into an apartment all by myself. I was working in Salt Lake City at the time, as a nurse, and living by myself fulfilled a lifelong dream. I grew up in a large family, so having my own space was literally a dream come true. My first night alone, I rolled around on the living room floor, reveling in my own private heaven, soaking up the silence. It was awesome. So, so awesome. I had my own space, and I could do whatever I wanted to it, or in it. The freedom was slightly intoxicating.
Shortly after moving in, I started to notice some strange things. Odd things that were out of place, like bobby pins on the floor in front of the couch. I didn't use bobby pins, didn't even own any, so their presence in my apartment got my attention. Then, the plant I had in my window ended up on the floor of the kitchen, which meant it had traveled across the living room seemingly all by itself. I had a bubble gum machine in my apartment, a fun novelty item at the time, and a large picture of a bubble gum machine with a goldfish inside it, that I'd placed on the wall above a bookcase, with the bubble gum machine itself standing next to the bookcase. The wall was a load-bearing wall between the living room and the kitchen. One day, I came home to find that the picture had been taken down, and placed in the kitchen, on the floor, leaning against the stove. It couldn't possibly have landed there had it fallen off the wall, as it was around a corner, and seemed to be carefully placed so as not to break the glass. I put the picture back on the wall, feeling a little uneasy, but brushed it off, as my mind was not willing to accept that anybody, real or imagined, had been in my apartment and was messing with my stuff. But, when I got home the next day, there was the picture again, leaning against the stove. Weird. I put it back, and, about a week later, it was again on the floor. I was a little unnerved by this, so I had the lock changed on the door to the apartment. And, once again, came home to find the picture off the wall, leaning against the stove. I finally gave up and left it leaning against another wall in the kitchen, out of the way. And there it stayed. Whoever kept moving it apparently didn't approve of my taste in 'art'.
Then there was the stereo I had on the top shelf of the bookcase. I favored 80's pop music, and kept the station tuned to my favorite channel. One day, while I was showering, I had the music turned up loud and was rocking out, singing along to Elton John. In the middle of the song, I heard the sound of the station being changed. It sounded as if someone was turning the dial, searching for a particular station, then it stopped on rock-a-billy country music. Blech. Not my kind of music at all. But there it stayed, until I finished showering and changed it back. And I yelled out to the room, "I don't care about the picture, but leave my music alone!" There was no response, of course, but by this time, I was feeling a little annoyed. Fortunately, for me and my otherworldly visitor, the stereo stayed tuned to my chosen channel. Not sure what I would have done otherwise, as hand-to-hand combat with spirits usually doesn't turn out well for the corporeal being.
The strangest occurrence of all happened late one night, shortly after I'd climbed into bed, and was laying there contemplating the wonders of the universe. Or fantasizing about Patrick Swayze as Johnny Castle. The apartment was silent, and as I was drifting off to sleep, I heard the bubble gum machine rattling, as if someone was shaking it in an attempt to get a piece of gum to drop out. I stiffened, frozen in place, my heart beating rapidly, as I envisioned someone, or something, just outside my bedroom door, robbing me of my precious gumballs. The nerve. He, or she, or it, wasn't even trying to be quiet about it! I didn't dare move, as I didn't want to confront the stranger who had invaded my space. I was imagining a piece of gum being masticated by a ghost, hanging there in mid-air, teeth marks showing up on the gummy surface. And I had to giggle a little. Seriously, what kind of a ghost steals bubble gum? Casper? My fear faded as I realized that I was in no danger from this spirit. If all he wanted was bubble gum, he was welcome to it. And I peacefully drifted off to sleep, feeling safe from more sinister beings, as I had my own private ghostly security guard stationed just outside my bedroom door, happily munching on bubble gum.
A few days later, I was relating these tales to a friend, and her mother overheard our conversation. She exclaimed, in horror, "Your apartment is haunted! You can't stay there! You're not safe!" And I laughingly told her that I felt no danger present, no evil spirits haunting me, no feeling of unease whatsoever. Whoever was haunting me did not wish to do me harm, I said, and I didn't feel unsafe at all. She stared at me fearfully, and said, "Let's call your bishop. He can do an exorcism." I couldn't keep my laughter inside, which, unfortunately, just confirmed her suspicion that I was under an evil influence. I told her I didn't think Mormons believed in exorcism, nor performed it. She replied that the priesthood could, and should, be used to bless and sanctify our living spaces, making them amenable to only the best of spirits. I'm paraphrasing, as I can't remember exactly what she said, but that was the intent. Exorcise the ghost who disliked kitschy art, listened to sappy country music, and enjoyed an occasional piece of bubble gum. Who surely meant me no harm. I mean, come on, he had a point about the art, and he left my stereo alone after I yelled at him, and I didn't mind sharing my gum. I wasn't happy about the plant, and the bobby pins could have messed with the inner workings of my vacuum, if I'd ever attempted to use such an appliance, but having an otherworldly roommate wasn't anything more than a minor inconvenience. I didn't see the need to call down the powers of heaven on his head. For whatever reason, he was stuck in my apartment, and he certainly made things interesting. Never mind the fact that if I called on a bishop to come perform an exorcism, he'd be more likely to have me committed to a state facility. No, my ghost was welcome to stay. After all, it was probably I who was the intruder. In all likelihood, he was there first, and I didn't want to anger him by demanding that he leave. Just so long as he left my stereo alone! I do kind of wish he'd offered to help pay the rent. But the entertainment value of the stories he gave me were worth more than money, to be fair, and I've continued to reap the benefits in the ensuing years. I love telling people I lived in a haunted apartment. And that I had a roommate from another world!
I did consult my dad, a man who is both visionary and reasonable, and I value his opinion. His only question for me was, "How do you feel in your apartment? What does your gut say?" I felt safe, and at peace, and at home. I did not perceive any danger whatsoever. I never felt threatened, and, except for the brief moment lying in my bed listening to the bubble gum machine rattle, I was never truly frightened. He said it sounded like I had nothing to fear, and saw no reason to call for a priesthood blessing. This, from a man who highly values the priesthood and views it as actual power from heaven, was reassuring to me, and I continued to live in the apartment, sharing my space with my ghostly friend, until I met and married my husband.
To this day, I have no explanation for the strange happenings in my apartment in Salt Lake. My logical self knows that an explanation exists, but my mystical self is satisfied to believe that I lived with a ghost. A country music loving, bubble-gum chewing, art critic, who seemed to have no agenda beyond making our apartment a livable space for us both. I kind of miss him.
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