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Category: Dreams and the Supernatural

Ghosts on the Television

I titled this blog "Ghosts on the Television" because currently I am sitting at my dining room table while my mother watches some long-haired blond man hunt ghosts. One of the Zak Bagans types, you see.


So, speaking of ghosts, I shall now regale you, dear reader, with tales of horror and intrigue. 

Let us start with the GREAT DEPRESSION. I capitalized it because all things that are great deserve capitalized recognition, especially great things which caused mayhem and sorrow across the nation. I believe Olivander from Harry Potter quoted it perfect, "terrible, but great." 

Anyway, my grandmother, as I'm sure your grandmother, and even yours was alive during the, ahem, event which lasted long enough to sweep families from their homes and ruin entire lives. Exciting, right?

She lived in a small home, single bedroom, and shared it with her sister. Now the furniture, you see, was original to the home. Small, metal framed beds, you know which I'm talking about - oh, no not those. Those. Yes, you've got it. - and within this single bedroom was a little door. A crawlspace, perhaps. Tucked into the wall and given little thought.

Well, that is until the man crawled out of it. 

Every night, a small man would crawl out of the door, cross the room, and stand still as death at the foot of my grandmother's bed. She lie terrified, whispering to her sister to wake, but she never did. And the man stood, and stood, until she fell asleep, and was gone when she awoke. 

This happened many times, and I can imagine my grandmother eventually ignoring the man because...he didn't DO anything, did he? Just stare.

My grandmother's sister got married, and moved out. The room now had only two occupants instead of the three - my grandmother, and the man. The first night my grandmother was alone in that room, the door opened, the man crawled out, and moved to the foot of the bed. Standard man behavior at this point.

Until he grabbed the bed. Until he began to shake it. Yanking the frame back and forth, back and forth. My grandmother ran from the room to find her parents, who promptly dismissed it as a nightmare. She never slept in that room again.
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Much later, when my mother was a child, the house still stood although only my grandmother's father lived in it. My grandmother now lived a mere few houses down.

Riding her bike, my mother played on the street as children do, going up and down the road, which ended with the house, as it was a dead-end street.

Something, some strange feeling, compelled her to stop her bike that day. She looked up at the house, to the little window which looked into the room her mother once shared with her sister. 

There, staring back at her, was a dog. A dog with a grin. A long, stretched grin, teeth baring out at her. But, my great-grandfather didn't own a dog.
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Some years go by, and my mother is entering her family's home from a fun, thrilling night on the town. It's dark as she creeps up the stairs, passed through her father's bedroom as gently as possible. 

She looks up, and watches as a figure, indescribable from the dark of the room, approaches her. They stand face to face, nearly nose to nose. My mother laughs and calls out for her brother. Calls out for her father, who she realizes is asleep in the bed. Well, then it has to be her brother. Over and over, she whispers for him to say something, why is he playing this trick, this awful trick in the dark? 

The figure passes, walks toward the stairs. My mother turns. Nearly at the top, the figure simply dissolves. My mother ran, ran to someone she knew had to believe her, someone who had had strange experiences - my grandmother. She didn't believe my mother, or...if she did, she refused to acknowledge it.
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Ghosts run in my family. I do not know whether we are sensitive, or if it's the same spirit that plagued my grandmother as a young girl, or the demonic dog that my mother saw. 

It is quiet most days. I try to ignore it. When I see something too black pass through my room, I turn up my music and close my eyes. When I hear a voice shout or an unnatural breath sweeps through the room, I laugh it off. 

When I turn in my kitchen, and watch a blond man walk toward me, I chalk it up to overexposure to electromagnetic fields from talking on the phone too long. That's all it is.

Isn't it?


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