Many readers live their lives unaware of, or perhaps willfully blind to, the dark and disturbing aspects of Halloween.
They partake of tricks and treats and dress in costumes meant to frighten, amuse, or advertise questionable morality, all the while ignoring the deeper malevolence at work. But in honor of Halloween, I must confess that for months—nay, years—my wife and I have been subject to strange happenings in the middle of the night.
Lights turned on for no apparent reason, weird moaning sounds and the sudden, loud thud of books falling off shelves are just a few of the bizarre phenomena we’ve experienced. These strange household events have come to be known as “The Visitations.”
On occasion, we have personally witnessed not just the results, but also the root cause of these events. I remember the first time like it was yesterday, as it is forever frozen in my mind—I woke suddenly, victim of the vague and unnerving feeling that I was being observed. Careful not to disturb my wife’s peaceful slumber, I turned and half-rose from my pillow, turning my attention to the open bedroom door. Squinting through sleep-encrusted eyes, I gasped at the shocking sight that greeted me from the hallway.
Limned by the dim hall light, the apparition seemed to be bathed in a pinkish glow. I froze in fear, as the apparition raised its hand slowly, ominously. It pointed toward the bathroom door, and spoke to me: “I have to pee.”
Unschooled in the ways of the supernatural, I was ignorant of ethereal beings’ need to void themselves of waste. But the ghost, whom I estimated to be about the size of my daughter, was not finished delivering its message. “And I need a drink of water.”
Clearly in need of assistance fulfilling its obligations in the material world, the faceless visitor, draped in pink bedsheet, stood silently and awaited my response. I turned on the light to the bathroom and drew a glass of water from the faucet, wondering why the ghost could so clearly communicate, yet not manage the simple task of turning on the light itself, as it had so many times before. Better not to question the rules, I decided, when one has clearly drifted from the physical, rational world into the metaphysical (some would say nonsensical) realm of late-night visitations.
Pacified by my offerings and surprisingly modest, the visitor closed the bathroom door, seeking privacy, and I retreated to my bed, closing my own door out of fear of further interaction with the mysterious phantom. Soon after, I heard the flushing of the toilet, and a shuffling sound as the visitor returned to whence it had come.
This was not the first, nor, I fear, will it be the last such visitation. Over the years, the extramundane has become the just plain mundane. In that time, we have identified two distinct apparitions, and though these late-night guests have grown more self-reliant, they are, alas, by nature, not such quiet or graceful creatures as one might expect, and their midnight shambling has roused me from sleep many times. Thankfully, there is no rattling of chains, but the way these ghosts trip over plastic toys, metal chains might be a relief.
I have awakened to find them standing silently beside my bed, as if they had all eternity to wait, which I suppose, as apparitions, they do. Or perhaps the sight of me sleeping satisfied some curiosity in them, as if they needed to re-learn the process and were mentally taking notes; they certainly didn’t seem to be fulfilling the dictate “rest in peace.”
Since our own visitations began, I have discussed the issue with friends, family, and others I trust, and have found that the phenomenon seems restricted to households where small children reside. Perhaps these noisy, thirsty, pee-laden ghosts remember something of themselves as children and are drawn to parental figures.
Although there is usually no way to predict the visitations, for those who have passed beyond the call of sleep, October 31st is a special time. Thus, every year, the two invariably appear after the witching hour, moaning and clutching their midsections, complaining of bellyaches on this, Halloween night, when the dead once again walk the earth.
Or more specifically, my hallway.
Peter Dabbene lives and writes in Hamilton. His website is peterdabbene.com. His previous Hamilton Post columns can be read at mercerspace.com/author/p-dabbene. His science-fiction graphic novel ARK (illustrated by Ryan Bayliss) and his book Spamming the Spammers (with Dieter P. Bieny) are available through amazon.com.
