My Ghost

My Ghost

Judith Jones-Ambrosini

I’d never been one to give much thought to ghosts. If someone had asked me if I believed whether they were real or not, I probably would have said no. Scary Halloween tricks and treats were about the extent of the paranormal for me. Then one October 31, something inexplicable happened.  It was years ago when I was 25.  Two friends and I left the city for a summer camping adventure in Canada. Our plan was to camp out in nature … cooking by the fire and sleeping in tents. But, as poet Robert Burns so eloquently put it … “The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.”  Instead of simply a summer of camping in nature, the adventure grew to living in an old farmhouse in the village of Ways Mills, south of Montreal for two the next two years.

We were lucky to find that old farmhouse. It had been vacant for several years and was available for a very reasonable rent. It was perfect for our needs. I might mention that it had no running water or electricity but we managed very nicely growing vegetables, grinding wheat to make flour to make bread, collecting water in a big rain barrel and reading by candlelight. It all worked well … most of the time.

October was the month to store turnips, potatoes, carrots and squashes in the root cellar. It was the time to press apples for the sweet cider we would drink right away and to add yeast to the rest so that it would ferment into hard cider for the winter. It was also a time to air out vintage quilts to make ready for winter beds.  And most importantly, Autumn was when we chopped and stored hard wood for the long winter ahead. 

Darkness seemed to sneak in on us earlier and earlier with each passing day. This meant fewer hours of daylight to work outdoors.  By supper time we were hungry and exhausted. We’d chow down on big bowls of brown rice and vegetables from the garden, leftover pan bread from the morning and occasionally some roast chicken that Madame LaVien brought by.  We’d light woodstoves to heat up the house and turn in for the night knowing we must get up early to continue the work all over again next morning.

On this night, as every night, I lit the lavender scented beeswax candle on my night table, pulled up the soft down comforter and snuggled into my featherbed ready to read, sleep and dream. As soon as I began to read a poem by A.E. Houseman, the lines slowly started to blur. It was time to blow out the candle and get some sleep. The only light left that I could see from my bedroom was a dim glow that came from the crackling cedar logs as they burned to ash in the woodstove in the living room. After more than a couple yawns, I closed my eyes.

Until…

Something wakened me. Suddenly I sat up in my bed.  A glowing bright light jostled my reverie. The light seemed to flicker and shimmer up and down in the corner of the living room where the woodstove once glowed. This light was not coming from the woodstove I realized. It was a moving light. It almost seemed to have an energy of its own. It seemed to beckon me to come forward and meet it. I didn’t move. Instead I sat in my bed and stared into the bright silence. I had no idea of how much time passed. What was this I wondered? What should I do? Should I call one of my friends to come see this? The light kept swirling up and down the corner wall. I blinked my eyes several times to see if it would disappear. It didn’t. It almost seemed to be dancing. I continued to stare. I was mesmerized by it.  More time passed, maybe a minute, maybe an hour. I had lost any sense of time. Despite the chilling air. I remember pushing back the comforter because I suddenly felt hot and sweaty.

Something unexplainable coaxed me not to be afraid. to get up and start walking to the light, I remember feeling uneasy as I put one foot on the floor. As I stepped down with the other foot a sudden icy cold shot though my body. I jumped back in bed. Once back in bed I peaked at the light again. It was as though the shimmering light was speaking to me. It was asking me to come into the light. No. No. I resisted. I was frightened. I didn’t understand what was happening. I remember thinking I should light a candle.  Strangely enough I felt as though something was turning my body towards the nightstand where the candle rested. I reached for a match with a shaky hand and felt warmth guiding my hand to quickly light the candle. I took a deep breath. I looked up.

The shimmering light was gone.

Except for the flicker of the candlelight next to my bed, there was nothing but darkness around me. The room was cold and silent again.  I slipped back down under the covers and fell into a deep dreamless sleep. 

I felt a tug at my shoulder. Get up sleepy head, my friend Annie shouted. Coffee and oatmeal have been on for almost an hour! It was morning and I was groggy. I looked outside at the quiet October sun and cloudless sky. I felt disoriented. Had I been dreaming?

Over a big mug of strong hot coffee, I told my friends what happened last night. I told them how I fell asleep and woke up to a shimmering light that moved in the corner of the living room. I told them I thought it may have been a ghost. They snickered and said this was just material I dreamt up for one of my stories. They knew I was always conjuring up incidents to write about. But I insisted on what I had experienced. It was real. They wanted proof. We walked to the living room so I could show them where the vision had occurred.  When Carl examined the corner wall, he was surprised to notice several discolorations where I said the light had flickered. None of us had ever noticed these markings before. There was something there that had not been there. Whatever it was left its mark.  Annie and Carl gave each other a look that said …. she was right.

That afternoon we went over to the library in Magog to look up things paranormal. After hours of researching, I found something catalogued in an old book. It said that ghosts were sometimes known to appear in the form of flickering moving lights in corners of rooms. That must be it! I had been visited by a ghost! Was it the ghost of someone who died in that old farmhouse? Maybe. The shimmering light in the corner never appeared again. I will never find out more about my ghost or what would have happened had I gotten out of my bed and walked over to its light on that chilly October 31th night in the old farmhouse in Ways Mills. Still … every Halloween night…

I wonder dear reader, would you have walked into that light?