by Gary Jansen
THE DAY AFTER I SPOKE to Mary Ann on the phone, I called Peggy to tell her everything that had happened and, though she was excited to hear the story, she couldn’t speak long on the phone. I then called a friend of mine at another publishing house who I knew loved this sort of thing and related to her the events of the previous night. She was a firm believer in the paranormal, and while we were on the phone she did a quick Google search for any links that might bring together some of this information Mary Ann had relayed to me. After a few minutes she said, “I found your ghost. Well, at least one of them. Here, I’m going to send it to you.”
I waited a moment, watched her e-mail appear on my computer screen, clicked it open, and read the story of a twenty-year-old man named Peter Smith who was involved in a car accident on March 7, 2007. He had lost control of his car and plowed into another vehicle, injuring the driver. Later that night, he was pronounced dead at a local hospital, not too far away from where I lived. I read the article again quickly and that’s when I noticed something that sent chills up my spine. The man was from Merrick.4
My mouth dropped open. I didn’t know what to think. It was uncanny. This seemed to fit what Mary Ann had told me on the phone. And it fit the timeframe. I had started experiencing the strange sensation in Eddie’s room in early March of that year and though Merrick wasn’t the guy’s name, it had been the place he had lived. Was I just grabbing at straws or could this man’s spirit actually be in my house? I didn’t know Peter Smith and was positive I had never met him, but something seemed strangely familiar about it all—I just didn’t know what.
“It’s eerie,” my friend had said. “It fits everything.”
“Yeah, I started feeling things in the house in March ...” A wave of panic rushed over me.
“My God,” I said. “This does say March 7, right?”
“Yeah, why? What’s March 7?”
“I don’t know. I’ll call you back.”
I hung up the phone and quickly dialed Grace. She picked up after the first ring. I didn’t know how to say this, so I just started.
“Grace, I’m sorry, but I have to ask you something.”
“What?” she had said.
“When did you miscarry?”
“Last year. Why?”
“No, I know last year, but when last year?”
“In March. What’s this all about?”
“March what?”
“Hold on. I still have the paperwork.”
She put the phone down and I waited, rereading the article that was on my computer. Why did all of this sound so familiar and why was I mildly freaking out right now?
“Okay, I have it here.”
“What does it say?”
“March 7, 2007.”
“And when was Charlie supposed to be born? What was his due date?”
“March 7, 2008.” She had paused. “I never realized they were the same date. That’s weird.”
I stared at the article on the screen and closed my eyes and said, “It’s going to get even weirder.”
PART III
Dearly Departed
Remember, O Lord, the God of Spirits and of all Flesh, those whom we have remembered and those whom we have not remembered.
—Liturgy of Saint James
Chapter 10
The transmigration of souls is an idea shared by many cultures and religions around the world. Otherwise known as reincarnation, it is a belief that when the spirit separates from the body at the time of death, it roams around for a while and eventually makes its way back to Earth in the form of a baby. The belief in karma—or the balance sheet of good versus bad deeds that determines what happens to you after you die—and in samsara, or the wheel of rebirth, is prevalent in Hinduism and Buddhism, though versions exist in other religions as well.
In Vedic traditions, the ever-spinning wheel contains six states of incarnation: gods; elemental forces like wind and fire; humans; animals; the frightening pretas, or “hungry ghosts,” purgatorial creatures bound by their unfulfilled desires to roam the world until something breaks the cycle; and citizens of hell, which unlike Christianity’s version, is a temporal place, kind of a harsher purgatory. Though the idea isn’t found in major sects of Judaism today, gilgul is the mystical Hebrew term used in kabbalah that means transmigration of one soul to another body. Even early gnostic Christians believed in the concept, citing the passage in the gospel of Matthew where Jesus referred to John the Baptist as being the new Elijah (though mentioning a belief in reincarnation today is enough to get your ass kicked to the curb at your local church).
I never really thought much about reincarnation. As a Catholic, I believed that everyone who ever lived was a brand-new creation, right off the lot without any used parts. But what did happen to a soul once it separated from its body? Did it travel some spiritual superhighway greater than the speed of light to get to its next destination? If a lot of people died on the same day, was there traffic like on the Long Island Expressway on a Friday afternoon? Could souls cross paths, swap stories, and visit one another’s relatives, just to check in and look in on them?
All these questions and ideas swirled around in my head as I waited over the next few days for Mary Ann’s package to arrive. I would wake every morning and pray the Rosary and ask the Blessed Mother to help me understand all of this. If Peter Smith’s ghost was in our house, was it just a coincidence that he had died on the same day that Grace miscarried? And was it just a coincidence that Charlie was supposed to be born on the same day a year later? I thought of Pope John Paul II, who had said that there was no such thing as a coincidence. If there wasn’t, then what was going on? All of this was unsettling to Grace and brought back bad memories of the past year. She didn’t know what to believe and, to be honest, I didn’t, either.
The house had been quiet for the last few days. Eddie still stayed away from his bedroom, but there had been no strange sounds or noises, no minor electrical disturbances, no stray shadows. Everything seemed peaceful in a way that it hadn’t in some time. Granted, the four of us were all sleeping in the same bedroom and Charlie was waking us up in the middle of night three or four times, but that was normal.
The box arrived the following week and inside it were two six-inch-long bushels of sage and sweetgrass tied together with string. Upon seeing all this, Grace started shaking her head at me. “Do you really want to do this? You’re going to set yourself on fire,” she said.
I was nervous and perplexed and wanted to get it over and done with, but I have to admit I was curious about what was going to happen. Would there be any change to the house? Would I actually see a spirit materialize? Would I get slimed like Bill Murray in Ghostbusters? I wanted to find out, and I wanted to find out fast.
I assured her everything would be fine, but she wasn’t convinced.
“So what are you going to be doing? Performing an exorcism or something?”
“I don’t know. I never thought of it like that. Mary Ann said it would help them cross over, but I guess it’s like an exorcism. I mean Mary Ann said they weren’t evil, so maybe it’s not an exorcism. I just don’t know.”
“I know you want to become a deacon someday, but you don’t know what you’re doing. Don’t you think you should have a priest do this?”
I was insulted. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was playing with something I shouldn’t have been playing with, but I didn’t care. Hubris welled up inside me. We had had a priest in our house some years back, and if his blessing hadn’t gotten rid of an old woman ghost, who was to say that it would do any good now? I stared at her in a moment of defiance before I said, “I’m going to do it myself.”
INCENSE, according to theologian John Hardon, is an “aromatic gum or resin in the form of powder or grains that give off a fragrant smoke when they are burned. When blessed it is a symbolic sacramental. Its burning signifies zeal or fervor; its fragrance, virtue; its rising smoke, human prayers ascending to God.”
While what I was lighti
ng near the stove wasn’t incense, it sure had a powerful smell and I imagined the ghosts sniffing it and busting out bongs, relaxing on some spectral futon, thanking me for the “good smokes” with a mellow “Groovy, man.”
Grace and the boys were staying at her mother’s and I started having second thoughts as the flame began to overtake the stick. I was alone and I had told Grace I was going to do this myself, but that had been only a half-truth. I was frightened and had no idea what I was getting myself in to. I couldn’t admit that to Grace, but I didn’t want to do this alone. I had called a few people earlier in the day to see if they would stay with me while I smoked my house. That was when I realized I had no friends. People either didn’t call me back or, if they did, they would say something like, “Hey man, I would love to help you, but my wife doesn’t want me bringing anything home with me, so I have to pass.”
Cowards.
I put the smudge stick out by tapping it against an aluminum saucepan, and the smoke billowed out of it. I left it by the stove and wandered around the house aimlessly for a little while. Nervous habit. I felt like my grandmother’s old dog, Puppy (that was his name), a one-eyed, broken-tailed pooch with a rocking case of halitosis who would walk around in circles when he was anxious (and occasionally hit his head on the blind side). But it wasn’t just me. The house had a stifling heaviness about it, and that made me feel tense and uneasy, like I was being watched.
After a few minutes I went into the kitchen and grabbed the saucepan, the smudge stick, a box of matches, and my rosary, which I hung around my neck, and made the climb to the second floor. I heard every creak on every step and remembered my father telling me when I was a boy how old houses were as flatulent as old men. Well, this house had some gas and as I climbed higher I thought I saw a shadow move across the hallway toward the bathroom, but I quickly wrote it off as just my imagination (though I really wasn’t sure that was the cause). I felt spooked and began reciting the Lord’s Prayer in my head, but really, what was I worried about? I trusted Mary Ann. She told me the spirits weren’t evil and I believed her. I had nothing to be afraid of, right?
I stood at the top of the stairs and everything seemed magnified—the light from the bathroom, the shadows in the corners, the sound of my clothes as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. I stood for a moment trying to listen and heard nothing. I turned the handle and pulled the attic door open, a long witch-like screech coming from the hinge. I shook my head. “Nice,” I thought. Then I wondered if I should go downstairs to get a can of WD-40. (I get easily distracted.) I walked up the stairs and, once at the top, struck a match and lit the stick.
I could feel my heart beating in my ears, and my shoulders were tall and tense. I held my breath for a moment and then, seeing and hearing and feeling nothing, I relaxed and exhaled. With a steady stream of smoke smoldering from the stick, I turned to the window that overlooked the north side of the house and looking out could see the arthritic-looking trees along Hillside Avenue naked and gray against a cold blue sky. I raised the stick and began outlining a box around the window, intoning, “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,” the sweet-smelling smoke rising around the window and up toward the ceiling.
I thought I heard something behind me and, turning, I looked to my left and to my right, half expecting to see something, a shadow, a person, a demon, a Smurf, anything. There were just boxes of clothes and old books in cases. I began walking slowly across the length of the attic and about halfway to the other side the smoke, which only moments before had been powerful and strong, went out. I thought it had just burned out, so I lit it again and could sense a shift in the room, a subtle chill. I walked to the window, looked out at the cathedral, changed the prayer to the Hail Mary, and outlined the window with smoke.
I walked back across the attic, descended the stairs, and began smudging each corner of every room and the windows and doorways as well. I was expecting Eddie’s room to be a place of activity, but it was quiet. The wild sensation I had felt for so many months was nonexistent. I moved to the back room and did the same, praying and outlining doorways and windows. I did the master bedroom and all along the hallway as I made my way to the bathroom.
Just as I was about to cross through the doorway, the smudge stick went out again and I felt that sensation of cold electricity wash all over me. This time, it didn’t just run up my back, it seemed to surround every part of me. I tried shaking it off as a wet dog would rain. The feeling was so intense and, ignoring what Mary Ann told me about talking to ghosts, I yelled out, “Get the hell off me!” Outside I heard a dog barking and I was sure it was just a coincidence, but the sound scared me even more than what was going on now. Trying to ignore everything around me, I smudged the windows, the door, and the mirror and then made my way downstairs.
I smoked the first floor of the house and went down to the basement. When I was done, I took the saucepan and what was left of the smudge stick and left it outside in the backyard. It had started to drizzle and I stood outside breathing in the rain and the fresh air. I smelled like a New Age barbecue, and as the rain started to pick up I went inside and walked around the house. Everything seemed quiet. I kept thinking about the incident in the bathroom and how intense the electric feeling had been. I was tired, so I lay down on the couch and fell asleep.
I wasn’t asleep long, but when I woke up I remembered why the story of Peter Smith seemed so familiar.
JOHN HARDON ON CURSES:
A curse is to call down evil on someone or something. In the Bible a curse is often a prayer of imprecation. Israelites knew that they could not constrain the Almighty but only move him by prayer. Unlike the magical incantations of their neighbors, the ancient Jews believed that Yahweh could remove a curse by his blessing, preserve the pious person from an undeserved curse, change the blessing of an unworthy priest into a curse, and turn aside a curse from a humble person because of meekness. In general, the intended evil of a curse takes effect only when the just God wills it.
I’m not sure I called evil down on someone, but I may have come close. Two days after Grace’s miscarriage, I had come across a story about a man name Peter Smith from Merrick who two nights before had died when he lost control of his car. I had assumed from the report that he was speeding. Grace’s miscarriage was in the forefront of my mind and as I read the story I grew more and more angry at the man for having been so reckless. Not only did he kill himself, but he could have killed another driver. I thought about the waste of life—and the lost life of the child Grace and I would never know—and I thought about the man’s parents and the pain they must have been suffering knowing their son was dead. Had the man been married? Did he have a kid? I had no idea, but I remembered exclaiming out loud, “You idiot. What the hell were you thinking?” My words, flippant and stupid, were charged with vehemence.
Had Peter Smith’s spirit heard what I said about him? Do thoughts and words travel in different ways in a ghost world? Or do words and thoughts have a power that we don’t fully realize today? The ancients believed in the power of words to destroy and control, which is why in Judaism you are never allowed to say the name of God. Words have power. Thoughts have power. Maybe the idea of the malocchio, the evil eye, wasn’t just a piece of superstition but was something real and true and destructive. Maybe every negative thought was like a spiritual attack aimed at another individual. Had my anger toward a total stranger somehow trapped this man in-between this world and the next? Was that why Mary Ann said he was unhappy with me? Was that why he had been haunting me? Even if everything Mary Ann had said was a good guess, there is no way she could have known I had done this. No one had heard me. I had been alone when I said it. Or had I? Had this man’s spirit been standing right next to me? Had he come to escort the soul of Grace’s unborn baby to another place? Had he come to comfort her? To comfort me? And had I turned on him with my lack of compassion? Or was he here for a totally different reason, one I hadn’t even thought of?
&n
bsp; Emotion welled up inside me. Not because I was frightened, but because I was so very sorry. That night I prayed for forgiveness, not to God, but to Peter Smith.
Chapter 11
The next morning I awoke, got dressed, and went off to get Grace and the boys. Even though they had only been gone half a day, I had missed them and wrapped my arms around Eddie for a long time and held Charlie next to me until it was time to leave his grandmother’s.
When we arrived home, the house was quiet. It still smelled like sage and sweetgrass. Grace liked it. Eddie almost threw up, but after a few minutes he adjusted to it. Later that afternoon while the boys were taking a nap, I told Grace about everything that happened the day before.
“So you brought this stuff into our house?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s not my fault.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Okay, you’re right, but how was I supposed to know words have such power?”
“You work with books all the time, dingdong. You should know the power of words. Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will send you to hell.”
“Good point.”
“So if we really do have ghosts in the house, does that mean they watch us all the time?”
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
“So that means they watch us in the bathroom.”
“I guess so.”
“Oh, that’s gross.” She was disgusted. “Could you just do whatever you have to do and get them out of here, please?”
“I’m working on it.”
MARY ANN HAD TOLD ME to wait a couple of days after the smudging to give her a call. I did just that. Eddie was playing downstairs and Grace was cooking in the kitchen, so I went upstairs to the back room of the house that we use as a small reading room (though no one ever reads in it). I dialed her number and after a few rings she picked up. I said hello, asked how she was, and she talked to me about Baltimore and Edgar Allan Poe for a few minutes. Then she asked me how I did. I recounted the events of the day before, of how I began in the attic and worked my way down to the basement. She listened and asked if I had done all the windows and doors and all the corners and said all my prayers and I told her yes. I also told her how the smudge stick had gone out on two occasions.
