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MY GHOST STORY....

8K views 1 reply 1 participant last post by  rooter 
#1 ·
‘WHY NOT’


For many years I had two jobs. In l980 I moved from Oxnard, California to Glendale, Arizona. I had a drain cleaning
service, that was family owned and operated by me, and for more that 15 years, I also worked as a stationary engineer at
nights. Many of my daily service calls would be scheduled in the morning, when I’d get off work at the power plant. During
the winter months, when the days were short, I’d get off shift at 6 AM and it would still be dark when I’d arrive at the
customers home. Such was the setting as I tell you this story; I’m still looking for a logical explanation----perhaps you have
one? I assure you, it really did happen. I’ve noted my real name, however, the other participant I’ll simply refer to as Mrs.
Gales.
The morning held promise of being a beautiful day although it was still dark. The stars were like glinting flakes of
diamond in the clear desert sky and the Eastern quadrant of the Arizona horizon hinted of a beautiful sunrise within a
reasonable period of time. The air was quite chilly and occasionally a light welcome breeze would fan my brow as I drove
through the Central Phoenix streets on the way to Ms. G’s. home----very little traffic; cought some flashing, yellow signals,
while listening to Christmas carols over AM 550. I was happy to be going to my first job now, for within a few hours, the
Christmas shoppers be out and and about----in Phoenix, ‘white-knucle’ driving, accompanied with a proponderance of
‘road-rage’, was the order of the day, order of the season.
The date was December 15th 1995---- Ms. G. had called the night before and although her plumbing drains were
completely clogged, she had assured me she was able to wait until morning----Ms. G. lived alone in North Central
Phoenix---I had provided drain cleaning service to her home since the mid-80’s. I had not been there for several
years---the last time I recalling seeing Ms. G., she had been mourning the death of her husband.
The porch light was on as I arrived at her home-- --- the light illuminated the house number easily and as I approached
the porch, Ms. G. opened the front door. A large, matronly woman, in her late 60’s. She was still in her bathrobe,
something feminine covering her head, holding a large ceramic coffee mug in one hand and in the other clutching a
smashed, half-smoked cigarette, between nicotine stained fingers. The odor of the acrid cigarette smoke, mixed with the
stupifying, gut wrenching smells of a stopped up sewer, assailed my nostrils as I entered the home to check conditions and
come up with solutions. All of these events would come to be recalled as the pleasant times regarding the service call for
what lay ahead, bothers me even now, many years later.
Ms. G. shuffled back to her overstuffed chair and plopped down and we began to speak of the sewer problems. As we
conversed, I got the most unusual feeling; no I should say alarming feeling----maybe a premonition that things were’nt as
they should be.....my senses seemed to dull, and then, almost as if a creeping sensation was coming over me. I sensed
the cold....yes cold, for I suddenly blurted out to the seated lady of the house, “do you still have your air-conditioning turned
on, or perhaps the evaporative cooler”......the cold was absolulty foreboding---maybe even threatening. When she told me
the gas furnace was heating the room, I shivered-- an uncontollable reflex..... the same as feeling the hair raise on the back
of your neck physically move when you are startled. I realized Ms.G. was still droning on and on--- telling me some
unimportant trivia. Her voice had dulled drastically as had my sense of hearing and even smelling. I turned away from the
seated woman and rushed from her house -- overwhelmed by the unexplained eirie, happenings.......I even contemplated
just leaving, not doing the job at all... the chill outside air was pleasantly warm now, compared to that evil feeling
temperature inside.
In a quandary, I gathered my tools, equipment, and ladder. I’d be working on the job through the roof vents to clear the
stopped up house drains----my mind still in a turmoil, I went about the task that I had come to do----no problems with that
but every time I’d have to re-enter the house to run water or flush toilets or check other conditions, I’d experience again,
that horrific cold and the sense of things being around....that unholy cold seemed to invade my very being--- I did’nt want to
stay there, anywhere, but not there.
I sensed, but never saw, a figure----a dispirited personage of human form, nothing determinate as to size or shape really,
but a figure with scraggly hair and a long unkempt beard, entertained my sensings --- that and the terrible cold. I wretched
until my eyes watered. I gulped in large breathes of air as I rushed outside again----realizing that I had not been
breathing---it seemed hopeless, too freightened to even breathe. Who would ever understand, or even offer some solace.
My work was complete. I had done what I had come to do.... Generally after completing a task such as this, one would
feel a sense of accomplishment...not this time though! I still had to go in the house and be paid for services rendered. As I
entered the home for this final time, Ms.G. was still sitting in her big, untidy looking chair, still smoking, mug in hand,
appearing totally relaxed and comfortable. After presenting the written invoice, I stood waiting in front of her chair as she
made out the check and handed it to me. It did’nt seem to startle or alarm her, but I suddenly I blurted out to her my
questions, my concerns, and yes, most definately, my fears.......I must have sounded like a blithering idiot; the cold
temperatures, seeing things that obviously were’nt there, never being so scared in my whole life, never wanting to work
here again, and on and on.
Mr. G. listened patiently to my rantings and my ravings as if she grasped everything I was blurting out to her. As I had
said, I was standing in front of her chair, facing her, when she suddenly pointed her finger--no, not at me, but behind
me----my pounding heart fluttered and seemed to skip an unhealthy number of beats---- my eyes must have bugged right
out of my head....what was there behind me....I whirled around, ready to confront what, who....There was nothing lurking
there behind me; no sinister thing or person, or whatever my mind had conjured up. Nothing---- only a wall filled with
pictures, portraits, and other family paraphenila.
Truly, it was if I could not control my eyes. My eyes were drawn to and focusing on one picture----a man with a beard
and long, straggly hair. Steady, wide-set and piercing looking eyes, stared lifelessly back at me....Without a glimmer of
doubt, I knew it was the thing I had been sensing, the source of my fear, my rattled emotions, my unknown thing. “That was
my son, he was a good boy, but he had a lot of problems---too many”.
I knew my back had been turned away from Ms. G. when she spoke to me, as I had still had been staring at the picture of
my unknown thing---how could she have known that it was the picture I had been looking at----her voice lowered, now,
almost whisper like-- “A good boy, he was my son, too many problems--he killed himself out in the garage--too much
happened to him, so many things, he shot himself, out in the garage”.
The entire time I had been staring fixedly at the mans picture when suddenly, much like what happened when I first felt
the cold, astounding things began to happen in the room---Ms. G’s. droning, whisper like voice, suddenly sounded clear
and audible. The heat from the nearby furnace, permeated the space with welcome warmth...the outside traffic sounds
were now distinct and the ticking of the old round top, mantle clock was interrupted by its chiming, indicating the hour
change. I turned back toward Ms.G. witha sense of unfullfilled wonderment. The ash on her smoldering cigeratte, fell onto
her old coffee-stained bathrobe, staying there, undisturbed. The half-filled coffee mug leaned over her lap precipitously,
almost spilling the remaining contents. I could not help but notice how white her knuckles were from clutching the coffee
mug so tightly while her other hand holding the cigarette appeared aged and spidery looking. Her fingers dug deeply into
the fabric of the old overstuffed chair---like she had been on a fearful trip--an oddessy to another demension.
I now smelled the aroma of overcooked coffee from the kitchen so vividly and the dustiness and staleness of the
unkempt room. She moved quickly for a lady her age.... Her face from a trance-like mask to the the now smiling Ms.G. I
had known over the years. She lighted another cigarette from the still smoldering butt which she seemed to pinch between
her nicotine- yellowed fingers. She rose from the old chair, quite possibly a throne to her, in an almost regal flair----
standing now, straight and proud, ready for her day.
I did’nt blurt out questions to her this time. I too, was feeling much better, but still, I had to know for some peace of mind.
I had to pursue some logical explanation. Having scarcely muttered a ‘how’, when she responded in an almost contented
sounding voice-----’It’s like this every single day. I’ve come to live with it, because I know it is Him’...
When I heard Ms. G. utter the word Him, it was almost as if she was speaking of a Heavenly Personage. Perhaps her
departed son had become that to her......I did’nt inquire any further----my emotions were strangling me---between joy and
sorrow, but not fear any longer----and not even to mention that all those unholy seeming events that had occurred, were
still as unexplained as when they had happened. It was a long time before I told anyone this story-- or happening-- or
event. I’m still at a loss as to how or what to refer to it as.
When I told Mary, my wife of more than 40 years, she listened attentively. with a look of almost calm acknowledgment.
She never seemed to be a bit frightened or flustered. Mary, who had patiently contended with me over these long years,
took it pretty much in stride---encountering all the illogic of my ‘whys’ with the sound feminime logic she displays and calls
to task so often when she deals with me, with a soft, simple ‘why not’. Chief

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#2 ·
8-11-2004

MY GHOST STORY.


Good Morning All!!! Went over to the forum JD gave me for posting my stories---though titled Vietnam War stories by John H. Wilborn, and that's how I tell folks to find them on Google, most are just plain stories covering more than just Vietnam. There is only one story listed there that has had triple digit viewings--Smokey's Crack---I wondered why that was and as I scanned the stories there, I realized the story everyone, including me refer to as 'the Ghost story---the one I titled, WHY NOT is not listed there. Perhaps you have read it before when I wrote it way long time back--if not, here it is again. Chief
 
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