The One with the Ghosts

photo by the author

My first memories of visits by ghosts go back to me being around three or four years old. They came at night when my sister Selma and I were lying down in our shared room. Selma always slept at the top of the bunk bed. Selma was fast asleep. I was staring into the darkness. I remember seeing spread-out toys and clothes in the grey light. Then one night, this Egyptian boy was suddenly sitting on my rocking horse in the middle of our untidy room. At first, I was scared. I did not dare to move, not to imagine saying something. I remember holding my breath with awe. Why do I know that he was Egyptian? Probably I recalled his hairdo and his outfit from a children’s book from our public library. Then, on other nights, I saw this older sad man in uniform, also sitting on my rocking horse. Years later, while looking at family photographs in my grandmother’s house, I re-recognized my nightly ghost as my own great-grandfather, wearing exactly the same uniform, he was wearing during his nightly visits. First world war general. No wonder he always looked so sad sitting on my too-small horse. He died in a mine in France with hundreds of his soldiers.

Since then, the ghosts never left me. I learned how to meet my maternal grandfather, whenever I needed him. We always meet in black and white, in a 50s bungalow with big windows by a lake. That is his style. He never talks, but I can read his gestures and his smiles.

After her death at 99, I met my maternal grandmother. I saw her in complete childish bliss in a 70s golden dress. She was hanging out with my mother-in-law, who died in a car accident a year earlier. I was relieved to see them both happier and more relieved, than in real life. 

These are examples of my European ghosts’ experiences. The ghosts I meet when I am in America are scarier. One night in a small hotel in Maine I met my husband’s paternal grandfather. Another case of recognizing the person only later when I saw a photograph of him. He has an evil energy, hate, and restlessness that I could not handle. But with that incident, I also understood, that there are ghostly tasks waiting for me, that the ghosts visit me for a reason. 

This fall while on vacation in Maine, my father-in-law took us on a boat tour. Our destination was a remote and deserted island, that was converted into a state park in the 1970s, after the last people left the island. We were the only visitors on the island that late October afternoon. We walk over the island. It is a peaceful place, but I cannot enjoy it. We see the leftover walls and pipes of a former homestead. But also, a macabre joke, a rope for hanging dangling from a tree in the wind. Later when we untie the boat ready to go, my father-in-law realizes that he lost his phone in the woods. Me and my son have the best photographic memory. We go back into the woods, past the old walls, and down the hill. I rip my pants on rusty barbed wire. We find the lost phone by calling it. I feel a creepy sensation, the urge to leave as fast as possible. 

That night we sleep in my father-in-law’s trailer on a camping site in the woods close to the ocean. It is very cold. I am jetlagged. I sleep in my clothes with my coat as a blanket. I share a small fold-out couch with my daughter. My daughter keeps falling out of bed. I have to hold onto her and onto my coat. That night I cannot sleep. I have ghostly visitors. A woman and her daughter from the island. As far as I sense, they both must have died there. Their souls are still there, struggling to move on. This time I know, that they have come to me for a reason. They want my help. I use all my energetic powers and positive vibes to convince them to move on. We do not talk. I am in sending mode for what feels like hours. Finally, mother and daughter feel safe. They vanish into something better. The next morning, I feel totally drained, but something shifted. I am aware of my powers and the duties that come with my ghost connections. Before breakfast, we go for a walk to the ocean. The wind is ice cold. The sea is beautiful. I wonder which ghosts are still lost. Later that morning, we drive to the next small town. At the hip and warm coffee shop, I begin to feel like my normal self again. I research the island on the internet. I read about one of the former owners who kept his mistress and their common daughter on the island. My tasks always come back to feminist activism. Even in the spirit world.

—

Thanks for reading. Also published in medium: https://dorotheeking.medium.com/the-one-with-the-ghosts-9745335a1e43