A Ghost Story

A GHOST STORY

My story starts several months ago. I was sitting in my front room working on my blog when I heard a snuffling and scratching at my front door. I couldn’t imagine what it could be. I went to the door and unwisely pulled it wide open and was immediately bowled over by the canine exuberance of a one hundred- and ten-pound St. Bernard. He promptly sat on my stomach, started panting, and gazed at me with loving honey-brown eyes. I reached up and looked at his dog tag.

My Name is Farley, it read. I liked that name, and it sounded oddly familiar to me for some reason. I pushed him off me and rolled over. This apparently was the signal to play, so as I got to my knees, he climbed on my back and wiggled and chuffed with great delight. I struggled to turn around and get him to calm down, it was easier said than done. Farley was having a good time. I finally got up, and he promptly sat on my feet and leaned into my legs. One of us was going to fall over any minute. I shuffled over to the wall trying to disengage, and was finally able to separate from my newest best friend.

There was no way I could keep him. He was obviously lost, and somebody would be missing him. My blog wasn’t going anywhere anyway, so I grabbed my keys, and Farley’s collar and we made our way to the car. Getting him in the car was an experience. I was drenched in sweat by the time he was in and settled. At the pound, he wouldn’t get out. He actually shook his head as if telling me, “No”. I went inside for some helpful advice. A very nice young man walked with me to the car with a fistful of treats. Ah. Bribery. It worked. I told him my story. He agreed that they would check for chips or missing dog information, and I went on my way. I was pleased with myself and felt I had done the right thing. Strangely, I sort of missed him. He was a presence. That was for sure.

As I pulled up to the curb, I looked at my front porch. Farley was sitting on my WELCOME mat, looking at me with somber brown eyes. “How in the hell?” I muttered to myself. I called the pound. They were mystified. They explained that they had put him in a cage in the holding area. When they went back, the cage was open, and he was gone. There was a note stuck in his collar. It was written in an odd script and read: Dear Dustin. I belong here with you. If you take me back to that place, they will just bring me back. Everything will be fine. If you think about it, you will understand.

Think about what? This was totally absurd! I didn’t need a big, drooling dog. I didn’t want a big, drooling dog. Somehow as I stood thinking he had come to sit on my feet once again, leaning hard against my legs. I was stuck in more ways than one, it seemed.

“Okay, okay, you can stay.” I may have imagined it, but he nodded his head as if in agreement. I felt this sense that I had finally gotten it right. Then he stood up and waited for me to open the door.

It wasn’t long before Farley was ruling the roost, and we settled into a dog-centered routine. I was in the process of remodeling the old house I had inherited, and he was always right in the middle of things. He was a dust magnet and an expert at making sure it was tracked over the entire house. It did no good trying to restrain or chorale him, and he was also an escape artist of the first order. I kept trying to figure him out but to no avail. There was definitely something very odd about this dog.

 After I had worked for days in the kitchen and dining room, I decided to take a break. An idea had developed as I worked on the novel I wanted to write. I needed to find a certain memento from my childhood days, though. It was important that I have that exact object to make sure that I had my facts and dates exactly right. The quest began.

I had been searching all day. I was hoping that it would jog my memory and inspire a story both for my blog, which was seriously overdue, and also to jump-start my first novel. I had finally decided to write about my childhood. It was full of interesting characters. Sadly, the story would also have a twist of me being a misfit and growing up strangely alienated and alone. I just never quite fit into the family dynamic. I tried. And now, I was determined to find and unleash those memories, write my book, and get on with my life. I had exhausted myself and Farley. I had frustrated myself as well. I’m not sure Farley cared much. He was much happier, however, and stopped complaining. When I finally ended the search, we went for a walk, and he got his supper. As I fed him, I thought again about Farley. He was an odd dog. He seemed to understand things you wouldn’t expect a dog to understand. But maybe it was my imagination. Maybe I was just lonely. Any port in a storm, as they say.

After supper, we retired to the tower room, where I had managed to clear a space in the impossibly drafty old house. I had half-heartedly been cleaning things up, making a real office space. I wanted to be a writer. A little dramatic, perhaps, but this was the perfect place to dream and scheme. Or create. Really create. So far, that hadn’t happened, but I had hope. I was determined to get some work done. I lit the fire and got busy. Farley was lying on his stomach. His back legs curled up under him. His front legs straight out in from of him. He was both whimpering and chuffing. It sounded as if he was carrying on a conversation that was both of great importance and emotionally charged. He was staring without blinking at a stucco angel perched on a short, small stool. The angel held a crystal heart in her outstretched hand.

I was amused watching him. It occurred to me that he suited me just fine. He communicated with angels. That was alright in my book. Perhaps I should ask her to give me some inspiration or, better yet, find that damn memento. I had been sitting here in my almost remodeled office, staring at a screen, trying to write my blog. It didn’t help that there was a news scroll on the bottom of my computer going crazy about a missile crisis in the mid-east, the latest news in the political free-for-all fight about whatever was the hot button of the moment, and a grizzly bear that was loose in the neighborhood. Not exactly the calm I was seeking to be creative. It went beyond writer’s block. I was deep in the mud. Perhaps I could just forget the memento, forget my family, and write about a dog who talks to stone angels, I mused when I heard a strange sound. Wind? It didn’t sound like wind.

With a suddenness that almost stopped my heart in its tracks, Farley jumped up and started to scuff the rug under him, barking out his joyous it’s time to play vocalizations. Loudly. Very loudly.

“Is it the grizzly Farley? What’s going on?” I’m not sure if I expected an answer, but I got one of sorts because music started to play. Loudly. Very loudly. I had no idea where it might be coming from.

Just out the door and up about four steps was the door to the attic. I had been rummaging around in there most of the day. It was chock full of family memorabilia, but I had not found exactly what I was looking for. Was the music coming from there? I tried to concentrate over the din. I tried even harder to ignore it, and Farley running around the room in doggy glee.

Farley was now howling and prancing. He had charged to the attic door and was pawing at it and barking. He was excited, quivering in anticipation of whatever was beyond that door. Suddenly it burst open, and in he rushed. There on the threshold stood a regally outfitted and made-up woman.

“Really, Dustin! You can be impossibly dense sometimes!” It was my late Aunt Martha. “But then you were such a late bloomer. You have bloomed, haven’t you, dear?” Yep, that’s Aunt Martha, all right. My family was made up of generations of circus performers. I never made it beyond balloon boy. I wanted to be a writer. Not a popular choice in a family of over-the-edge performers.

I turned around slowly, and sure enough, there she now sat where once an angel had been. She was stroking Farley, who had succumbed in blissful peace at her feet. She smiled at me and said, “You might as well stay for a little while for the celebration, dear since you’re here anyway.” She sighed in resignation, got up, and said, “Follow me dear. Do try not to step on anybody.”

“What celebration would that be?” I managed to choke out in a strangled whisper.

“Why your Uncle Claude’s 120^th birthday! You must learn to keep up, dear.” The music turned to a lively tango, and Uncle Claude danced into the room. The bird, the stuffed bird, in the cage in the corner started to chirp, and suddenly the room was filled with dancing, laughing, drinking ghosts, one chirping stuffed bird, and a blissful dog. He was now on his back getting belly rubs from folks as they danced by. Most ignored me. Some nodded and smiled, and most frowned, and called me balloon boy. I saw cushions in the corner indent, the attic door open and close but saw not one soul to account for this.

“Are there invisible ghosts too?” I asked Aunt Martha as she swung by, drawing her signature fringed scarf across my face.

“Well of course, dear. They’re not overly fond of you, you know. They’ll come out when you finish up and go downstairs. You will be going soon, won’t you dear? And please don’t say anything mean in that book you’re planning. We all have feelings too, you know.”

“This is MY house,” I shouted. “I will go downstairs when I’m good and ready and not one minute before.” Farley turned his head, and a soft growl rumbled in his throat. “That’s just great,” I yelled as Aunt Martha glided away. “Now you turned my dog against me!”

“No, no, sweetie”, my cousin Jeanie cooed as she shimmered by. Glitter puffed off of her in a cloud, covering me in sparkling dust. “He’s just happy to see us all again and wishes you wouldn’t shout, that’s all. Be nice dear. Some of us love you, after all. We always did. You were always just so odd, weren’t you?”

I chose to ignore most of that. “What do you mean to see you all again?” I managed to calm down slightly.

“Oh, you are impossibly dense! Have I said that before? I do so hate repeating myself!” Aunt Martha said. She disengaged from Uncle Claude and stood before me in all her regal glory. “Think darling. Think. Farley has been very patient with you and is trying to help. Think. Doesn’t he remind you of someone?” I stood staring at her stupidly, mouth open in disbelief. Charles Farnsworth Fairworthy II was the reigning king of the Fairworthy Circus Family. He was a large man, and his crowning achievements included being a top-notch magician and illusionist.

“So why is he here as a dog and not a ghost like the rest of you?” I really wanted to know.

“We choose different forms as we go along, dear. You’ll find out one day. In the meantime, do be a dear and let us have our fun, won’t you?”

Aunt Martha placed the very memento I had been searching for all day in my hand. It was worn and faded but held all the promise I had hoped. My heart soared, and my mind whirled into action. Images and words scattered and skittered through my mind at a record pace. I was excited. And then she gently pushed me toward the door.

Farley got up reluctantly, padded over to me, and promptly started to push me harder. I stumbled out and would have tumbled down the stairs had I not grabbed the railing and stopped at the last minute. I looked myself over. No glitter anywhere. The attic door opened once again from my side, and music blared while laughter and glasses clinked together and then closed silently. I could hear nothing once the door closed. Nothing at all. Farley looked at me with big brown eyes and nosed into me.

“Well, well, well” I said. “Welcome home.” He nuzzled into me and chuffed softly.

Clutching the flyer in my hand, I said, “Let’s go. I have some things to get down on paper!”