The Next Generation
by Keshia Swaim
As a child, ghosts taught me that thunderstorms were nothing to be afraid of, tucked me in at night, and were very good at playing hide-and-seek. I didn’t—and still don’t—know how or why they exist, but I didn’t know how or why birds fly either. But people never question the fact that birds do indeed fly. To me, ghosts fell into the same category. I don’t remember when I decided that the green ball in my room was a ghost, but I don’t think it was ever a big deal. Ghosts were just part of life; nothing to get too excited about. It wasn’t until much later that I discovered not everyone felt that way.
Of course, I knew that some people were afraid of ghosts. My friend Cindy, along with various cartoons and horror shows, taught me that ghosts made a lot of people scared. But so do spiders, and I had a pet tarantula. I think my earliest knowledge that ghosts were not something everyone saw came from my dad. Imagine my surprise when I first heard him deny the existence of something I saw on a daily basis! In my mind, the only way to explain his skepticism was to decide that dear old Dad just wasn’t all there. His staunch refusal to acknowledge the spirits in our home, even when they did exactly what he told them to do, became a standing joke between Mom and me. To my shock, over the years, I realized that Dad was the normal one.
Most people didn’t believe in ghosts. And even among the believers, ghosts were not something people typically wanted around. I do understand that some people have had frightening experiences that they attribute to ghosts. Some of my own encounters have been unpleasant, and a few were truly frightening. But I can say the same thing about my experiences with people. If I decided that I no longer wanted people around me, or chose to ignore their existence, I’d be nuts. So why would I shun ghosts as a whole because of a few bad apples? Besides, I have a feeling that ghosts are a lot like us. Some of them are mean, but very few are really evil. And, like people, most of the ones that initially seem mean are not so bad if we take the time to get to know them.
Needless to say, discovering I was in the minority as a ghost-lover did not dissuade me from talking about them. Instead, I became more interested in the paranormal: watching TV specials, reading about ghosts, going on ghost tours, and being very open about my beliefs and experiences.
My first “real job” gave me plenty to talk about. I worked at a local pizzeria through high school, and I quickly discovered that the employees were not the only ones in the kitchen. Before I go any further, let me set the stage by stating that I’m fairly short; five feet with my shoes on. While preparing pizzas to go in the oven, I constantly had to ask my taller co-workers to hand me cooking utensils that I had just placed on the edge of the buffet, only to find that they had slid to the back, well out of my reach. After several co-workers jokingly told me to stop throwing things where I couldn’t reach them, I calmly explained that I was being picked on by the resident ghost. They all shook their heads and looked at me like I was crazy. Even when we occasionally got stuck in the walk-in freezer, as if someone was holding the door shut, and the chime above the entry door sounded for no apparent reason, I was the crazy one who believed in ghosts.
I can only recall one instance that made one of them take me seriously. A female co-worker and I were standing in a storage room talking when we should have been working. Our conversation was interrupted when a two-gallon glass jar, half-full of peppers, slid off a shelf and fell about six feet to the concrete floor. The crash got our attention, but to our complete surprise, the jar didn’t break. Instead, it bounced a few times, like a basketball, before coming to a stop, upright, in front of us. Without thinking about it, I griped at the ghost: “Geez, you don’t have to give us heart attacks. We’re going.”
It wasn’t until I’d given up on lifting the heavy jar above my head to put it back on the shelf that I noticed my co-worker was much paler than usual. The ghost’s stunt had startled me, too, but nothing was broken, so, the way I saw it, no harm done. And he (it was definitely male) was right; we both had jobs we should have been doing instead of talking about boys. So I was genuinely at a loss.
“Hey, are you okay?” I asked, choosing a spot for the peppers on a rack much closer to the ground. “You don’t look so good. Are you sick?”
She shook her head. “You really believe in this ghost stuff, huh?”
“Well, yeah.” I was finally catching on. “But it’s not usually like the stuff on TV. I’ve never actually been hurt by one, they’re pretty harmless, I think. They just want attention.”
“But you really think there is a ghost here? Like, a dead person is messing with us?”
I could tell she halfway believed me, and if I wasn’t careful, she was going to have a panic attack, right here between the flour and spices. “I honestly don’t know if ghosts are dead people. But whatever it is, I think of it as more cool than scary.”
“Cool?” She raised a very skeptical eyebrow.
“Well, think about it. Neither one of us touched that shelf. And even if we did, it would have taken a pretty hard jolt to knock a heavy jar of peppers to the ground. But the cool part is that it didn’t break.” I could tell she didn’t see why that was cool, but the color was coming back to her cheeks, so I continued. “How could glass fall that far, hit concrete, and not even crack? You’ve gotta admit, it’s at least interesting.”
She just shook her head again. “You’re sure it isn’t going to hurt me or follow me home or anything?”
I just shrugged. I couldn’t tell her that ghosts, like people, weren’t 100 percent predictable, so instead I laughed. “It hasn’t happened yet, has it?”
My answer seemed good enough for her, and we’d already spent too much time not making pizzas, so the subject was dropped and we went back to work. Later, the guy responsible for taking inventory demanded to know who put the peppers in the wrong spot. Between the “don’t you dare” glare I was getting from my friend, and the customers that could hear the conversation, I knew this was not the time or place for another ghost conversation. So I just gave him my sweetest smile and answered, “Some of us aren’t big and strong enough to put them back on the top shelf.” My friend relaxed, my customers laughed, and the shift manager’s ears turned red. I had mastered the art of dealing with spooky situations without lying or freaking anyone out.
It was a skill I had to use a lot. Over the years, I discovered that my high school, college, every place I have lived, every place I have worked, and several of my favorite vacation spots have ghosts attached to them. And since half my family, most of my friends, and the vast majority of my co-workers are extremely uncomfortable with the idea that they share their space with beings they can’t see, I’ve learned to pretend I don’t notice a lot.
Ghosts are honestly not something I think about every day. They are always around, and ghostly activity is so commonplace that turning on a light isn’t going to get my attention. It usually takes bumping into a new entity, or an old one doing something drastic, like throwing model cars at me, to make me pause and think about how abnormal my life really is. One afternoon, while regaling my husband, Stephen, with stories of my haunted childhood, a truly creepy thought struck me: Do ghosts follow me? Which is more likely; every place I’ve spent much time at is haunted, or I am simply a haunted person?
I’ve heard the theory before that ghosts can sense “sensitive” people, and they are drawn to them. To get a better picture of this idea, I’ll reference Ghost Town. It is a quirky film in which the main character has a near-death experience that lets him see ghosts. One ghost discovers the poor man’s new ability and tells another, until every ghost in the city has taken up residence in his apartment. Although the film is a comedy, the thought that it might be accurate in its portrayal of sensitives gives me goose bumps. I do not like the idea that I could make a place haunted, simply by being there.
So, perhaps selfishly, I have decided that this theory is wrong. There are ghosts in most places, but most people don’t pay enough attention to notice them. While I do not believe that I make places haunted by spending time there, I do think that many ghosts are more active when I am around, because I give them what they want: attention. I’ll use my current job to illustrate my theory.
I have worked at the same bank my entire adult career. Within a few days of starting my new position, I knew that the bank was haunted. At first, there were no major incidents, just a feeling of being watched. That is creepy enough, especially working after-hours in a bank, when I was certain I was alone. But, the longer I worked there, the more I realized that I had a rather active ghost on my hands. The 10-key calculators at the teller stations would frequently begin typing by themselves—while they were turned off. I overheard our security officer complain that the motion sensors constantly went off, even when the security cameras clearly showed that no one was in the area. On one occasion, this happened at four a.m. and the police were dispatched to surround a completely empty building.
For months I said nothing. I simply shook my head and smiled at the reasons my co-workers came up with to explain the strange happenings in our office. Apparently, as a young professional, it is not acceptable to believe in ghosts. But it is perfectly acceptable to blame “extremely glitchy equipment” and “office gremlins” for everything that goes wrong. For example, it was not at all uncommon for faxes to arrive with missing or blank pages. Two fax machines and countless repairmen later, the “glitch” remains.
I finally decided to break my silence after I saw our resident ghost. Working on my computer one afternoon, I happened to glance at my security camera and noticed that a customer was standing in the lobby behind me, not being served. I quickly spun my chair around and stood to greet … an empty lobby. I walked around my desk and looked for the mysterious customer. Both entrances were vacant, and none of the other employees seemed to have noticed the strange man. And this was a man they would have noticed. He was an elderly man wearing overalls and a wide-brimmed straw hat. My immediate assumption was that he was a farmer, which, given our rural location, would not have been unusual.
What was unusual was the man’s height. As I walked back to my desk, I eyed the column the vanishing customer was standing near. For his hat to have reached the design on the column, which I was certain it had, the man would have to have been nearly seven feet tall. I was sure that someone would have noticed a giant, elderly farmer running through the bank. But no one else had seen a thing.
From that point on, I started talking to our ghost and blaming him for our numerous “glitches.” I believe that by doing so, I painted a huge target on myself. Most of my co-workers, of course, thought I was nuts. And the few who believed I might be on to something looked at me like I’d grown another head when I told them that, yes, I liked ghosts; in fact, they had been friends of mine for years.
But the target I spoke of was for the ghost. Almost as soon as I started acknowledging him, things started vanishing from my desk. I was frequently touched, heard my name called, and saw flashes of movement when nobody else was in the area. Usually, I didn’t mind this type of attention. It was almost like a game to me, and it kept work a little more interesting.
That is, until the day he crossed the line. Late one afternoon, as I was getting things in order so that I could leave, I experienced one of a banker’s worst fears. I was missing a check. A very large one. I distinctly remembered it because it was lime green, and worth about half my annual salary. I knew I had placed it in a black plastic tray on my desk, but it simply wasn’t there. After frantically searching, I called in two of my co-workers to help me find the check. We dug through trash bins, emptied desk drawers, crawled under desks, and anything else we could think of.
After approximately half an hour, I was about to have a panic attack. And then one of the women found the check. Lime green, face-up, in the black tray I had placed it in earlier. I stomped my foot, told the ghost he had gone too far and to never touch my work again, and then I went home. After I left, the other two women decided that, in our desperate search, one of us had accidentally picked up the check and, not realizing what she had, placed it exactly where it was supposed to go.
I decided not to argue the point. I knew what had happened, and more importantly, the ghost knew I would only put up with him to a certain point. He’s never messed with my work again. That is not to say he’s left me alone. His new trick is locking me out of certain areas of the bank. We have electronic finger scans that allow access to parts of our branch. The scans work for all of the employees, except me, unless I beg, or insult the door. For instance, if I say, “Let me in, you stupid piece of crap” before scanning my finger, I will normally be able to open the door. I know it’s possible that I trigger some kind of malfunction with the door, but I think the more likely explanation is that the ghost wants me to know he’s still around.
But my current ghostly experiences are not limited to work. As Mom mentioned, my house is haunted. The ghosts at my new home are not nearly as active as the ones where I grew up. And, to be honest, I’m a bit disappointed. I think at least one of these ghosts and I got off on the wrong foot. He was not happy when we moved in, and his intimidation tactics just annoyed me. After a year of trying to upset Stephen and me, I think he just got bored. He’s still around. I can feel him from time to time, hovering in a corner, or out back under a shade tree.
There is at least one other ghost that shares our home, but she is very shy. I can’t list a single thing that she has done. I simply know she’s there. Sometimes I wish I had more time to spend at home. Maybe then I’d be able to draw her out of her shell a little bit. I keep hoping that eventually “my ghosts” will warm up to me, and I can continue to have the types of experiences I had as a child.
But, recently, I think our ghosts have found something else to occupy their attention. Since moving into our home, Stephen and I have been blessed with a son. He isn’t old enough to speak yet, but frequently he stares down an empty hall, or doorway. His eyes move as if he is watching something, and occasionally he’ll laugh out loud, and I can’t help but wonder what he sees. Whatever it is, he doesn’t seem at all afraid.