Monthly Archives: January 2013

How I Lost the Battle (But Won the War).

  By Julia Barrett | January 31, 2013 - 7:00 pm | ,
15 Comments

After that night the ghost seemed to be emboldened. As far as he was concerned no room was off limits. Mi casa was his casa.

He really pushed it. I couldn’t go anywhere in the house without his eyes drilling into the back of my head. The dog went nuts, she could not get away from him. The kids couldn’t sleep with all the noise. He went crazy with the garage door. He threw the kids’ toys across the room every chance he got.

Taking a shower totally creeped me out.

One afternoon it came to a head. My son was in school, my 3 year old in preschool, and I’d just put the baby down for a nap - on my bed, of course. The dog lay next to her.

I propped some pillows on her other side so she couldn’t roll off and I sat on the edge of the bed, my feet in the bathroom - because that’s how damn small the room was - wondering what in the hell I was going to do.

Suddenly I heard this whisper. A man’s voice said, “Nobody wants you around. Nobody wants you here. Why don’t you just end it all? Go on, you should end it all.”

The dog jumped to her feet. She stood over the baby and began howling like a banshee.

My head flew up and when my head flew up I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Over my left shoulder I saw him. Tall man, white man, dark mustache, brown hat, evil expression… sitting right next to me, whispering in my ear.

Oh, the horror!

I flipped around and swung my fist at him with all my might. He might have been a ghost but he ducked reflexively.

“Get out of my room,” I yelled. “Get the hell out of my room.”

This time the dog snarled and she threw herself at him. I think Rosie had simply had it. She was finally fighting back.

I screamed - “Don’t you ever, ever touch me again. Don’t talk to me. Stay away from me.”

The dog and I chased him down the hall and he vanished.

Suddenly I knew what to do. I’d known the answer all along, I just hadn’t realized it.

Tomorrow: Winning the War.

 

The Ghost Throws A Tantrum.

  By Julia Barrett | January 30, 2013 - 7:00 pm | ,
21 Comments

So now I knew what he was and where he was.

What was some sort of trader or trapper or murderer or rapist or all around bad man. He wasn’t a Native because the Shoshone didn’t grow mustaches, weren’t tall (as my son described him) and probably didn’t wear big brown hats. Besides, my son told me he was a white man.

If a 6 year old says the ghost is a white man then the ghost is a white man.

Where was buried behind or beneath that nasty storage room.

The question was, what in the hell was I supposed to do? I called the rental agency. The agent in charge denied knowing anything about it. Besides, she said disclosure of a haunted dwelling is only required when one is buying a house. Stupid fine print.

I still had a good six weeks to go before hubby could join us. I was at my wit’s end.

My husband suggested I call a priest. But I’m Jewish. There were no orthodox Jews around to perform a Jewish exorcism, and I was worried a Catholic exorcism might make things worse.

Hey, I watch movies. I know how bad it can get when you call a priest.

Besides, do you really think a priest would have believed me? C’mon. Any priest I talked to was likely to think I was nuttier than a fruitcake.

So, one evening at supper - my two kids sitting in their chairs, the baby in her high chair, the dog beneath the table, me serving spaghetti, we heard noises coming from the tiny bedroom next to the master bedroom. Remember it was too small for a bed. I’d stacked a few unpacked boxes in there along with one book shelf filled with books.

We all looked at each other. So being mom, I gave a big sigh and went to investigate.

I stood in the open doorway. Dusk had fallen and the room was dark. It sounded as if something was being scraped along the walls.

I said, “Look, can’t we just co-exist? Does it really have to be this way? I’m sorry for whatever happened to you but I didn’t do it and I don’t really want to put up with your crap.”

I probably should have left out that last part.

Suddenly books flew off the shelves, slammed into the wall across the room. One of the cardboard boxes opened and the toys inside were tossed up in the air. I reached to turn on the light, but before I could touch it, he flipped up the switch.

I said, “That’s it. That’s it. You are dead. You are so dead. I’m going next door and I’m gonna get me a gun and I’m gonna blow you away. Do you hear me, ghost? I’m gonna blow you back into the ground. I’m gonna blow you back to hell. Do you hear me, mother fucker? Do you hear me? I’m gonna get me a gun.”

I stomped down the hall, seriously planning to go borrow a shotgun from my neighbor and shoot the hell out of that ghost when I heard him laugh. He laughed.

That son of a bitch laughed.

My son and the dog hightailed it out to the garage, leaving the two little girls in the kitchen. And I came to my senses.

Goddamn him. He’s already dead. I can’t kill him.

Tomorrow: How I Lost the Battle (But Won the War).

 

 

I Have A Chat with the Neighbors.

  By Julia Barrett | January 29, 2013 - 7:00 pm | ,
19 Comments

We only had one close neighbor. The family had four boys- the oldest was 14, a set of 12 year old twins, and a 6 year old. The 6 year old and my son became fast friends.

Their mother, Pat, was about as level-headed, no-nonsense, as they come. One evening I finagled an invitation for dinner - bringing the dog too - because I wanted an opportunity to pick her brain. Afterwards her husband headed off to a meeting. The boys went outside to play - my 3 year old daughter had a huge crush on the twins and they were really responsible kids so I let them take her to play on their swing set.

I held my baby on my lap while Pat mixed up a batch of cookie dough. (Pat gave me her top secret Heart Attack Bar recipe.)

“So Pat, did you know the people who lived in our house?”

She shrugged. “Not well. They kept to themselves.”

Me - “Did they have kids?”

Pat - “Four. Two boys and two girls.”

Me- “Why’d they move away?”

She sort of hesitated. “Well, I’m not sure, but I think they had some problems.”

Me - “What kind of problems?”

Pat - “I don’t know, exactly.” Mixing cookie dough. “It was kind of odd how it happened. I mean, I don’t really know what happened. They bought the lot. He designed the house, drew up the plans himself. He oversaw the construction. They moved in, but I really didn’t get to know them before they moved out. She took the kids and left after six months. He followed her a few months later.”

Me - “Do you know why she left?”

Pat - Another shrug. “I’m not sure. I heard a lot of yelling.”

Me - “Yelling? About what?”

Pat - “I don’t know. We really weren’t friendly with them.”

Me - “Where did they go?”

Pat - “I think she took the kids and went to stay with her mother in Nevada. As far as I know they’re still in Nevada.”

Me - “Um, Pat, when they lived there did anything weird ever happen? Did they ever mention anything strange about the house?”

Pat looked at me. She stopped mixing. “Like what?”

Me - “Oh, well, like for instance the garage door going up and down.”

Pat - “I’ve noticed that. It’s only started since you moved in. I’ve seen it going up and down when you aren’t home. I probably should have said something to you.”

Me - Girding my loins - “Uh, Pat, I’m pretty sure the house is haunted.”

Pat - Never missing a beat - “Doesn’t surprise me. He built it over a grave.”

(I’m not sure which troubled me more, the fact that he built it over a grave or the fact that she didn’t bat an eye at my statement.)

Me - “What?”

Pat - “Yes. When they were excavating, because you know the basement goes way back into the bench, they found a skeleton. Not a new skeleton or anything, but some old bones. He had to call the coroner.”

Me - “Uh, what? What bones? Whose bones?”

Pat - “I don’t know. They were pretty old. The coroner said they were probably from some trapper or trader. Maybe an Indian. The Northern Shoshone used to pass through this area to trade.”

Me - “Oh my god… I mean gosh.” (Pat was LDS.) “Where did they put the bones? Did the coroner haul them away?”

Pat - “No, they reburied them beneath the house in case they’d disturbed an Indian grave site.”

Me - “Did he call someone from the tribe to come and do something? Like settle angry spirits or anything?”

Pat - “No, just covered them over.”

And I am thinking, oh shit I am so screwed. I am so so so screwed.

Tomorrow: The Ghost Throws A Tantrum.

 

Oh No You Di’nt…

  By Julia Barrett | January 28, 2013 - 7:00 pm | ,
13 Comments

So after our little encounter in the workroom, or shop, the ghost upped the stakes. He went after my kids.

Nobody, I’m tellin’ you, nobody threatens my kids. I will go all homicidal on your ass if you mess with my kids.

I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again.

You hurt my children in any way and you are dead meat. Which is why The Walking Dead bugged me so much- because there were flesh-eating zombies everywhere and nobody ever knew where the fuck Carl was. Tsk. Tsk.

My aunt stuck around for a week. She’s now deceased, but she was a lovely prim and proper woman. She made more lemonade out of lemons than anyone I know. She observed the goings on, watched the ghost flush toilets, flip the light switches on and off, open and close doors, heard the chains rattling at night, and her only comment was… “How interesting.”

I think the ghost didn’t want to show his true colors in front of her because he waited until she left to get back at me.

Oh, by the way, this time when I drove her to the airport I brought the dog.

That very night, the night of the day she left, I was in bed with my baby when my six year old son and the dog burst into the room.

“I was asleep in my bed and my door flew open and the dog jumped on top of me and a man walked into my room and he had a mustache and a big brown hat. Can I sleep with you?”

Me, in a panic - “Where’s your sister?”

My son - “Downstairs.”

Me - “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Watch the baby. Keep the dog in here.”

I hightailed it down the stairs. Just as I reached my daughter’s bedroom, her door flew open and this ice cold thing walked right through me.

“Get away from my kids,” I yelled. “You stay the fuck away from my kids.”

My three year old daughter lifted her head, confused. I threw the blankets off, grabbed her and ran up the stairs with her in my arms.

“I’m warning you,” I called back down the stairs. “You stay away from my kids. You touch my kids again and I’m coming for you. I don’t care how many lifetimes it takes, I will get you.”

Yeah, as if. But at that moment I didn’t care. Nobody, dead or alive, messes with my kids.

After that night we all slept together in my bed. Me, the baby, my son, my three year old and the dog. Actually they slept, I stood guard. If we had to go downstairs to get anything we went as a group.

Meanwhile the ghost took the opportunity to run rampant through the rest of the house. I was expecting the walls to bleed any day.

Let me tell you, the battle lines had been drawn and at this point I was concerned he could outlast me. After all, he didn’t need to sleep or eat.

Son of a bitch.

My husband still couldn’t come and the situation was escalating.

Tomorrow - I Have A Chat with the Neighbors.

 

 

 

 

My Son Breaks His Arm and The Ghost Kidnaps the Dog.

  By Julia Barrett | January 27, 2013 - 7:00 pm |
25 Comments

Ten days after my husband left, our son broke his arm. I’m not saying I blame the ghost… I’m just sayin’…

Anyway, he broke his right elbow clean off. It wasn’t a compound fracture, but his elbow was just hanging there, detached from the humerus, the radius and the ulna. I threw everyone in the car, including the dog who simply could not be left home alone because she was terrified, and we rushed to the hospital.

Fortunately the orthopedist managed to set the bones without surgery. But as you can imagine I was feeling a might overwhelmed - between this accident, three kids, no sleep, a ghost…

I’d already had to bring the baby into my room at night. Think about it. Just think about it. She was right across the hall from me, and I kept both bedroom doors open, but still I left a baby monitor in her room.

The instant I heard a male voice muttering into that baby monitor I whisked that child out of her crib and moved her into my bed and ditched those baby monitors.

I was not a contented housefrau.

I spoke with my husband every day. I knew he couldn’t come back up to Utah, but still I asked. Even if I there hadn’t been a ghost in the house this was an awful lot to handle on my own.

I needed help. Out of desperation I called my aunt. My mom doesn’t travel by herself, but I had an aunt who loved to travel. She was happy to fly to Utah to stay with me for a week. I didn’t tell her about the ghost.

The Salt Lake City airport was eighty miles from our house. Of course I took all the kids with me when I drove to meet her plane, but I left the dog at home. The yard wasn’t fenced and I was afraid the dog would break a rope and run off, or maybe hang herself with a little help from her ghostly nemesis. I decided the safest place to leave her was in the kitchen. I closed both sliding doors so she couldn’t go anywhere other than the kitchen and the laundry room.

And then I prayed.

The kids were good in the car. In fact the kids were great in the car. It seemed like the only time we were all relaxed and happy was when we were away from that stinkin’ house.

I met my aunt and we headed back. As soon as I pulled the car into the driveway the garage door opened. Yeah.

My aunt said, “That’s a neat trick.”

My son stated the obvious, “It does that all the time, opens by itself.”

So I got everyone out of their car seats, retrieved my aunt’s suitcase from the trunk, and opened the door to the laundry room, expecting the dog to come flying into the garage.

No dog. Empty kitchen. Sliding doors still closed. Panic. My heart nearly stopped. What had the son of a bitch done with my dog?

I set the suitcase down, asked my aunt to hold the baby and wait in the garage with the kids. I opened one of the sliding doors and called for the dog. She answered with a frantic bark, a distant bark. It came from the basement.

Damn.

I did not want to go down there. I was scared to death, but I had to rescue my dog. I called her name as I tiptoed down the stairs leading to the basement. She kept barking. It was nearly a screech. I reached the bottom of the stairs. The barking came from behind the closed door to the big, empty, cavernous workshop.

I turned the knob and pushed on the door. It wouldn’t open. I could hear the dog on the other side, scratching frantically, trying to get out. I pushed with all my strength. Nothing. It was a stupid plywood door and it wouldn’t budge.

By now I was totally panicked, but I reminded myself that my aunt was upstairs with my kids and I needed to keep it together. And I was pissed.

“You listen to me, ghost. Give me my dog. Give me my dog. Open. This. Door. Now. Or. Else.”

I turned the handle. The door opened so fast I nearly fell on my face. The dog hurtled past me and raced up the stairs, leaving a trail of you-don’t-want-to-know-what everywhere.

Even now I still get angry and upset. I stepped into the workshop. I said something I shouldn’t have said because I made things worse, but I said it anyway.

“You want a fight? Is that what you want? Because you’ve got it. Bring it, asshole. Bring it.”

In retrospect a big mistake, but nobody messes with my dog.

Tomorrow: Oh No You Di’nt…