Ghosts
Filed under: soft fiction + psychic residue.
I am small. My house is a castle where everything towers over me. This doesn’t scare me. My favorite room in the house is a large sitting area that looks over the courtyard. We call it The Magic Room. The walls are painted with dark, mysterious looking symbols. Hanging from the ceiling are two heavy set chandeliers where candles can be lit. The couches are plush red velvet and a grand piano sits in the back corner. Above the piano, visible from the entire room, is a balcony that looks over the sitting area. Often I walk to the door of the room to sneak a peek up to the loft, hoping to see the silhouette my sister claimed to have seen lurking in the shadows. I never do.
The Magic Room is a frequent topic of conversation amongst the adults. Our house is one of the oldest in our neighborhood; a small Los Angeles community filled with Spanish-style homes mostly built in the 1920s. When my parents have new guests over and feel obligated to give a tour, they pause at the entryway and hint at the house being haunted. My father rationalizes the stories. My mother hands out the phone number to her favorite medium.
On many occasions after I get home from school, I find my mom accompanied by Craig, her psychic friend, walking around the house together. They are always excited to see me, to bring me into their world and tell me about the spirits in our home. I feel like the only one in the family who shows interest. We go into rooms and use special tools to test out the energy fields permeating from corners. We sit on the ground and ask “the source” to cleanse us of negative vibrations while I’m given crystals to hold.
During sleepovers I dominate the storytelling circle. I repeat the words my parents use during their dinner parties. We run around The Magic Room late at night and I point out the most haunted areas. I beg them to bring our sleeping bags into the room. I tell my friends not to be afraid, that Craig spoke to the ghosts and made sure they wouldn’t hurt us. Sometimes these friends never come for sleepovers again.
These people remember our words. On the occasion I run into a old friend from elementary school, they almost always bring up my haunted house. They ask if I remember staying up late and telling them about the woman who I say sat at the end of my bed or the one who scattered rose petals around the living room floor or the little girl who followed me around for weeks. I pretend to not remember and we laugh. But I have a rose quartz in my purse and Craig’s phone number at the top of my texts and at night I look around my room wondering what being could be with me.
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Love this. I remember the magic room!