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The Ghost of New Street |
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| 104 New Street - When I first
moved into the basement apartment on New Street, I had only the clothes
that could fit into two suitcases, a sleeping bag, and a briefcase
filled with scribbled notes, a half-dozen yellow legal-sized writing
pads, and twice as many pens. The rest of my belongings and furniture,
I discovered a short time later, would be arriving within "a week
to ten days." In actuality, it took closer to a month for everything to arrive, but I barely noticed. I kept myself busy by writing long-hand during the days and trying to sleep on a borrowed mattress at night. Most nights, however, found me wide-awake and listening to the sounds of the house settling. I was aware of New Hope's reputation for hauntings, by this time, but didn't think I was sharing my apartment with any non-corporeal roomy. Nocturnal creaks and thumps were common, but these I attributed to my either my landlord or his cat, a hefty tom named Phillipe. I have to admit that I was a bit disappointed with the aspect of living in one of the few un-haunted houses in New Hope, but I adjusted as well as I could. Less than a month after moving in, however, I discovered the apartment was, in fact, haunted. I was being interviewed for an on-line magazine, but since my e-mail was experiencing some difficulties, my part of the interview was conducted over the phone by a friend who would then act as the intermediary and transcribe my answers to the internet via her home computer. It was a rather make-shift solution, but it worked. While we were waiting for the next question to come in, my friend, who had already heard me say that New Hope was the most haunted township on the Delaware, asked if I had a ghost living with me. I told her the sad truth, "No. No ghost here." When the interview ended an hour later, I went to bed only to be woken a few hours later by a loud "thud". My first thoughts focused on Phillpe. It was exactly the sort of sound a large cat would make by leaping from a chair to the floor. I muttered something about suggesting Phillipe go on a diet and went back to sleep. The next morning I realized the thump in the night had nothing to do with a chubby cat. Both the bedroom and kitchen in my apartment were part of the building's original basement. When the living room was added later, the basement door was blocked with a sheet of plywood and made into bookshelves, one in the new living room and one in the bedroom. This was where I kept most of my research books while I was staying there. The morning after my interview I discovered that the top shelf - books and all - had somehow come to rest on the top of the books on the second shelf. It couldn't have simply fallen since the shelf rested on two wooden brackets. It looked as if the entire shelf had to have been lifted out and then set on top of the second shelf. There were no books on the floor or the couch that rested beneath the shelves . . . at least not until I tried to pull the shelf out. I wasn't able to move the shelf without either causing a minor avalanche or straining the muscles in my back. It was just too heavy to move. I had to remove all the books before I was able to set the first shelf back on its brackets. It was then that I began to wonder if I really did have a heartbeat-challenged roommate. I hadn't experienced any of the "usual" indicators - the roller-coaster feeling in the pit of my stomach, a sudden chill brushing against me, the sensation that someone was watching - so I was still careful not to jump to any conclusions. I did, however, while re-shelving the books, mumble something of an apology to "whoever" was there. And thought little more about it . . . . . . . . until I began noticing other things, like coming back from my morning walks to find my closet doors open and my clothes obviously rifled through. I always locked my apartment door and my landlord - although I doubt if he would have come down to paw through my clothing - was at work, so who could it be? Or was it anyone, at all? Because of the humidity, I usually had to shove the closet doors in order to get them closed - maybe I just hadn't shoved hard enough. It was a reasonable explanation, so I accepted it. Then I decided to hang a mirror on the inside of one of the closet doors and would come back to my apartment to discover only that door opened. Hmm. Explanation: The mirror was heavy, so it pulled the door open. But why wasn't the other closet door open? Explanation: Shut up, you're thinking too much. This went on for weeks - I'd make sure both closet doors were closed before going out for my morning walk and come back to find only the mirrored door open. And let me tell you, walking into a darkened bedroom and coming face to face with your own image can be a startling experience . . . even if you expect it. I couldn't figure it out and then one day, while I was coming back from one of my walks, I met the next door neighbors, Rick and Joe who, upon learning I had rented the basement apartment, asked me if I'd met Mary-Margaret, yet? I asked if Mary-Margaret was one of the many neighborhood cats who'd discovered I was "an easy touch" for treats. No, they said, Mary-Margaret was the ghost of the man who had lived in the apartment before me. Both Rick and Joe seemed more worried that I'd be bothered by the fact Mary-Margaret was a transvestite than that she was a ghost, but when I thanked them and said this explained a number of things that had happened in the apartment, they relaxed and told me to tell her "hi" from them. Which I did . . . after coming in to find my closet door open again. I also apologized for doubting her existence and told her (I've never thought of her as male) she could continue to look at herself in the mirror for as long as she liked, but would she please close the door when she was finished. I also told her she didn't have to "hide" anymore and that I was comfortable with knowing she was there. Almost immediately after I said that, I felt her presence - a warm, loving spirit who, I was later to discover, has a fondness for Elvis and "Golden Oldies." I didn't close the closet door when I left the bedroom, but a few minutes later, while I was sitting at my computer, I heard a soft creak and then the distinct click. When I got up to check, the closet door was shut. |
