A Story For Halloween

Because I won’t have a blog running tomorrow, I won’t be able to refer to one of the “anniversaries” I had mentioned that I ran across in my old journal while I was writing my Florida Tan story. Tomorrow is the 31st anniversary of my sister’s coining her fabulous word, “STUPIOTIC”. I think it speaks for itself. And I still use it, in quite a few instances.

Speaking of anniversaries, today marks the 71st of  Orson Welles’ broadcast of “The War Of The Worlds”.  I remember hearing that as a young kid in the basement of my Grandmother’s neighbor, whose son was an aspiring DJ (Pete Tauriello, to be exact) and I wouldn’t admit it, but I was almost too scared to go back to my Grandmother’s, even by simply hopping the fence between their yards.

Also, tomorrow, as you may have realized by now, is Halloween and I thought I’d share a spooky ghost story of sorts. It’s a true story that happened to me when I was around 10 years old and I still get chills when I tell it. Actually, my part of the story begins the morning after and that’s what makes it so eery. Some of you out there know this story, so bear with me.

It was some time after my grandfather (my father’s father) died when I had a most unforgettable nightmare that still, after all these years is as vivid as that night. I woke up, shaken, just having had a dream related to something new to me in my young 10 years – death. I remember distinctly being in my bedroom, the middle room of the three that faced the backyard. I was playing with my little bi-level garage set. It was made of tin and was slightly dented out of shape from when I had fallen on it when I tumbled to the floor one night during my sleep.

I heard people talking in the kitchen–my mother, both my grandmothers, my father, and there was laughing, and I could see them from the doorway to the bedroom. Grandma B was wearing a black skirt and a pink blouse, Grandma S was wearing a blue and white print full skirt dress and my mother was in her house clothes as she toiled over the holiday dinner. I turned to go the living room, where the Christmas tree was, which I could also see from the doorway of my bedroom.

The living room furniture was rearranged to accommodate the tree and the gray and red boxy 1960’s chair with the homemade green slipcover was against the wall on the side of the opening from the hallway into the living room. I walked past the chair and suddenly felt something tugging at my undershirt. I turned to see what it was and it was my dead grandfather, sitting on the broad flat arm of the chair. My first instinct was to go tell everyone in the kitchen, but the grip became more intense and his scurrilous expression told me with silent words that I had better not, if I knew what was good for me and my own voice was stilled.

The next morning, when I told my mother about my dream, her expression turned from concern, to alarming disbelief. The night before, an aunt of mine, my father’s younger sister, and some other people were visiting and my father was dazzling everyone with the powers of hypnosis. He had begun dabbling in hypnosis and would eventually work with it in a clinical capacity. It was my aunt’s turn and apparently she was a very susceptible subject.

Somehow, in her deep state, it was like she had channeled her dead father; writing in a style to his chunky letters as opposed to her own flowing hand and making unflattering comments (which I was told about, but will opt to not reveal them) about her (herself, as the case may be). From what my mother told me, it had turned into an angry and emotional session. And the session was conducted in the chair with the green slipcover.

Meanwhile, my uncle, my father’s brother, without any prior knowledge of  what had gone on in my house the night before, or of my experience,  called to tell of  having  a nightmare which was eerily similar to mine, where my grandfather came to him and warned him not to say he was there.

That’s my story. As I wrote it, I got that all too familiar chill down my spine, thinking back on the experience.

So, happy Halloween!

BOO!

Oh, and don’t forget to turn your clocks back an hour before you go to bed tomorrow night!

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One Response to “A Story For Halloween”

  1. A Little Night Blog « My Life. . . And I'm Sticking To It Says:

    […] A Story For Halloween […]

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