I grew up in South Carolina, surrounded by ghost stories. Some were family tales — heirloom rings mysteriously returned and rocking chairs that creaked and moved on their own. Others were embedded in the culture, stories of Alice and The Gray Man and other spookiness.
Perhaps as a result of these tales — or maybe it is generations of learning stored in the body — sometimes, I am afraid of the dark. And yet in my one encounter with a ghost, there was no fear.
Before I tell you about the ghost, let me talk about the fear.
To say “I’m afraid of the dark” perhaps sounds childish … and maybe that is the ultimate truth, the fear comes from an innocent aversion to the unknown. But here’s how it goes down: Imagine you owned a 200-year old farm house with a steep staircase into a basement of old stone and brick and low ceilings, with a dim, flickering light and shadowy corners … you get the picture.
For a few years, that was my basement. And sometimes at night I’d need to go down there.
So there I was, walking down the stairs. Dark at the bottom, dim light behind me pointing the way. And my body starts to feel this prickly sensation all over. It’s like my skin, my nerves, have gone into high alert.
What am I afraid of? I stand there on the stairs, looking for the threat. But it’s only in my mind — I can stand there and feel the fear, feel the body reacting. I can watch thoughts arise — anxious ideas of ghostly faces coming out of the darkness, scurrying noises, of bumping into an unseen body. Typical ghost story stuff, the images of jump-scare movies and childhood tales.
I pause. None of that happens. But the feeling of my body on high alert doesn’t change.
Eventually, I get what I need from the basement. Back upstairs, the feeling subsides.
I try an experiment. Back to the stairs, halfway down, pause. Look into the darkness below, feel the fear come back. Retreat to the warmth and light of the kitchen, and the fear relaxes. I try the experiment once more, same result.
Am I really afraid? The body is. Am I?
But moving on … This very old farmhouse where I lived had a coal stove in the kitchen/dining room, and so multiple times a day in winter I would crouch down in front of it and shovel in more fuel. A completely common event, adding fuel, adjusting the air intake, shaking the grates to slough the ash off the coals …
And then one night, I’m adding coal to the stove just before bed, when I remember that someone is standing behind me, watching.
I was alone — until I remembered that I was not.
The watcher behind me had already been there, but I had forgotten. How long had they been there?
There was no fear — what would I be afraid of, something I already knew? This wasn’t a hunch or a feeling, but a memory.
I turned around and they were gone. For how long, I wonder?
