2017

31 Ghosts – Day 19: Ghostbluster, Part 1

Unbeknownst to Karen, on the day that she closed on her new house, the selling agent and former owner threw such a raucous party at the bar down the street that the police came… and joined them until dawn. They sold the house at a considerable loss. Their excitement about getting out of the house fell in line with a long history of such celebrations. A century earlier the white settlers negotiated the sale of the lot where the house now stands from the Native Americans living there. John Dale, the man whose name graced the first deed for the land turned to his attorney as the natives danced away and asked, “Look at those savages! Whooping and dancing – don’t they know those trinkets are practically worthless?” One of the Native Americans, meanwhile, said to the other, “Can you believe those White Devils took that land off our hands?!” “Right? Now we no longer have to perform the ceremony to keep the evil spirits in the ground!” They high fived. Really. The first Dale house stood proudly in the center of town. It burned down in an unexplained fire a year later. Undeterred, John Dale rebuilt the house on an even grander scale: a tall, elegant Victorian. So proud of this second house (he referred to the first house as a “rough draft”) he sent for his wife to come from the capital to live with him. House complete, John Dale carried his newly-arrived wife across the threshold into the new house. A week later she threw herself out the third story turret. And the house burned down a second time a week after that. Historians agree that John Dale was a shrewd, successful business man. However, they disagree as to what stupid stubborn streak drove him to rebuild the house a third time, bigger and more gothic than before. Some say he incorporated arcane patterns into the foundation, or the number of rooms pacified the spirits, but whatever the reason, this time the house didn’t burn down. John, however, joined his wife taking a swan dive out of one of the turrets later that same year. Flash forward through owner buying and rapidly selling the grand, imposing Victorian at the corner of Main and Cross. Taken together, the house sat empty (well, not completely empty) twice as long as any people actually inhabited the place. But the series of owners always insured that the house never fell into disrepair. So, when the relator accepted Karen’s offer, she thought she had won the proverbial lottery. Her friends that had helped her move her furniture and boxes didn’t stick around for the celebratory beer and pizza, several leaving without so much as saying goodbye. Only Louise stayed behind. “Karen, I’m going to level with you,” Louise stated, one hand on her hip, the other on the door knob behind her, “This place is creepy AF.” “Did you really just say ‘A’ ‘F’?” “It applies,” she said. “Look, I love you. We’ve been through a lot, and I’m worried about you staying here by yourself…” “But?” “But there’s no way in hell,” a box crashed to the floor in the adjoining room, “HECK! No way in heck I’m going to stay here with you.” Karen stared at the floor and sighed deeply. Then she looked up meeting Louise’s eyes, “Yeah, good thing I got such a deal on this place – I don’t think I’m going to be able to keep any roommates.” A vase crashed upstairs. “You think?” Louise furrowed her brow. “Was that a vase?” “Sounded like it.” “You haven’t unpacked any vases, have you?” “I don’t own any vases.” “Huh… okay. I’m out!” she said opening the door. A crow sat on the railing of the porch and cawed at her menacingly. “Seriously?” She said with an arched eyebrow. Turning back to Karen, “Toodles, Kar. Don’t sleep with the lights off!” Karen remained sitting on her couch, reflecting in the silence about the fact that the amount of furniture she had would barely decorate two rooms of the Victorian. Maybe, she thought, I bit off more than I can chew with this place. A ghastly shriek tore the silence and startled Karen. None of the crashes, bumps, and now, shrieks scared her. Really, they pissed her off. “Hey, ghost! Shut it!” The house seemed taken aback. The box across the room burst open, loose papers swirling around like a tornado hitting Office Depot. “Oh, hell no!” Karen stood up. “Enough!” she yelled and the papers stopped fluttering around and drifted listlessly to the ground. “Ghost,” she demanded, “You’re going to put those back where you found them.” A mocking cackle echoed through the house. Karen clenched her jaw and bit back a curse, then reached down to the cooler next to the couch, opened the lid and removed a firm orange water balloon roughly the size of a grapefruit. Without hesitation, she threw the water balloon down on the hardwood floor. The balloon exploded in a cloud of steam as a shriek that seemed to emanate from every board in the house shook the place. “Oh, I see I have your attention now.” The house was still. “I gotta say, I’m grateful – you have no idea what a pain in the ass it is to make holy water balloons.” A slow clapping sound came from the kitchen. Karen turned to see a middle-aged man in tight black slacks, and an elegant red jacket over his tan vest. Perched on his salt and pepper neatly trimmed hair sat a genuine friggin’ top hat. He slow clapped a few more times as he smirked at her. “John Dale, I presume?” “Sort of…” the man started. “You don’t think the top hat is a little much, do you?” Karen asked. “Really?” he asked removing the hat examining it. “I’m rather fond of it,” he put the hat back on. “You be you, Dale.” “Yeah, see I’m not exactly John Dale.” His voice became sonorous, echoing throughout the room, “I’m the embodiment of an ancient evil manifest upon this plane in the human form of John Dale.” “Ah, okay, that makes more sense.” “Oh?” “I did my research before putting in my offer….” “Hence the water balloon? Nice touch, by the way.” “Thanks.” She continued, “The historical society provided what amounted to a helpful dosier on this pace. One thing that became obvious was that John Dale didn’t exactly leave this place in a… voluntary manner? So, I was a little surprised his form would show up acting – and,” she gestured to him, “looking – like a boss.” He bowed slightly, “Flattery will get you nowhere… well, at least it won’t get you out of here in one piece if you don’t leave soon. Well, soon-ish. I’ll give you…” He looked at his watch, “a month. Does that work for you?” When she didn’t respond immediately, his brown eyes glowed red, “Or do I need to get evil.” Karen crossed the distance between them casually. “Dale,” she started, reaching out and straightening his collars of his jacket, “May I call you Dale?” “Your human voice cannot begin to pronoun—“ “Dale,” she cut him off, “I get that you’re immortal evil, blah, blah, blah, blah,” she showed her teeth, “I don’t care.” “John Dale left through the turret upstairs, you know?” “Well aware.” “And I tossed his wife out before him, yeah?” “Before you burned that place down.” “Thank you for noticing,” he flashed a condescending smile. She returned the smile. “By my count,” he half turned and started pacing the length of the great room, counting on his fingers, “One owner went crazy – institutionalized for the rest of his life. Another shot himself in the stomach and died slowly on that landing there,” he pointed at the stairs. “Eww.” “Yeah, my suggestion,” he turned and whispered, “it hurt more and longer.” Karen rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t forget the Tuttle massacre.” “Killed his wife and kids with an axe before lopping off his own head?” “Impressive, right?” She held out her hand level to the ground and tilted it back and forth. “Like the top hat, a bit over the top.” “And they say I’m evil?!” “Yeah, they do,” Karen said. “And I don’t give a crap.” She crossed to stand directly in front of him, “How many owners, Dale?” His lips moved with the calculation, “25. No, 26 – I almost forgot about Gabe.” He laughed, “he screamed like a little girl. Didn’t last a week.” “Yeah, about that ‘like a little girl’ bit, how many of those 26 owners were women?” “Women? None. Why?” “Because I am.” “My dear,” he donned a patronizing smile, “I’ve killed, maimed, and driven crazy plenty of women.” “Yes, but not any of them were owners. There’s power with my name on the deed.” “You don’t have any clue what you’re getting into.” “That’s where you’re wrong, Dale. I wouldn’t have put my offer in if I didn’t. Look,” she said, “I’m under no illusion that I can get rid of you. You’re literally part of the land – I understand that. But this is my house now and we’re going to be living together.” “You know I’m not alive, right?” “Don’t argue semantics with me. You know what I’m saying.” Dale stared at her, his eyes glowing again, “I take back my offer of a month. You’ve got a week, lady.” “It’s gonne be an exciting week, won’t it?” Karen smiled. To Be Continued…

31 Ghosts – Day 18: Sunnyvale, Part 1

Objectively, if you know I’m writing about ghosts then just the ironic use of the name “Sunnyvale” sounds like it should be especially creepy. Alas, unless you have an aversion to suburbs, egregious real estate pricing, or tech startups, the city of Sunnyvale, California isn’t particularly terrifying. But there are a few true ghost stories that I can tell which take place in this unassuming burb.

If you’re familiar with the San Francisco Bay Area, and the South Bay in particular then you may already be familiar with the history of Sunnyvale. Before it was “Silicon Valley,” the Santa Clara valley was regarded through most of the 20th century as “The Valley of Hearts Delight” owing to its expansive orchards of apricots, cherries, plums, and just about anything else you can think of. Only a few reminders of its agricultural past remain today – Gilroy still clings to its garlic dominance, and a few heritage orchards remain in Los Altos and Sunnyvale. For the most part, though, the trees and fields were paved over in the name of progress.

But some things don’t disappear quite that easily.

One notably haunted destination in Sunnyvale was the Toys “R” Us on El Camino Real and Sunnyvale-Saratoga Road. Paranormal researchers throughout the 70’s and 80’s descended on the toy store seeking to prove the existence of ghosts or increase ratings or whatever. Through the joy of YouTube there’s a few wonderful 80’s-tastic gems to sort through like this Leonard Nimoy narrated clip from “Real Ghosts” or this segment from “That’s Incredible!” The recreations alone are worth the price of admission. Psychic Sylvia Browne performs a number of seances in the stores over the years with varying levels of terrible haircuts and the tale she recited back sounds ridiculous enough that I’m not going to put it here – you can read it for yourself here, or here at Snopes. Or, seriously, watch the “Real Ghosts” recreation. OMG, I’m not overselling this – it’s hilarious. All of this is to say this Toys “R” Us developed a bit of ghostly notoriety.

And I worked there.

Okay, not for a long period of time, but in my short tenure I experienced a terror that makes the undead seem like a Sunday picnic in the park: Alvin and the Chipmunks “The Chipmunks Song (Christmas Don’t Be Late)” played on repeat, every day. Yeah, it was Christmas and I needed to make some money while on college break. Oh, and if Alvin repeatedly decrying his unrequited desire for a hula hoop wasn’t terrifying enough, the must-have gift of this particular Christmas was the talking Barney the Purple Dinosaur. Tell me that hell doesn’t sound more appealing than that and I will tell you that you have no soul.

Taken during a seance in the Toys “R” Us. The figure in back by light wasn’t actually in the room when this picture was taken. He was looking for Barney Dolls.

Going into it, I had heard the lore. I’d heard that every morning the opening shift started their day by picking up the stuffed animals the ghost had played with during the night. I’d seen the séance picture with the supposed ghost leaning invisibly against a wall and realized that was right about where I sat while I filled out my application.  Still, the job seemed tolerable and maybe I’d get some good ghost stories to tell.

I was wrong. Well, about the tolerable part, at least. I can say without hesitation it was the worst place I’ve ever worked. The customers were… well, harried Christmas-shopping parents, but the real drain was my fellow co-workers, all of which had a sob story about how terrible their lives were and just didn’t give a crap. Theirs was a collective psychic morass I felt pulling me down into while the chipmunks sang about planes that loop and that aforementioned goddamned hula hoop.

So about the ghost, I’d been told that there was a section of the storeroom that felt cold and you felt like someone was watching you. I wasn’t told where it was, though. Let me digress a moment and tell you what passed for customer service: I was instructed by my manager that when a customer asked if we had stock on a certain toy in the back our procedure was to tell the customer I’d go check on that. Once I passed through the swinging black doors into the storeroom I was to just stand around for a few minutes before coming back out and telling the customer I was sorry but we were all out. Procedure. This happened a lot. Particularly for Barney dolls. After the fourth or fifth time I decided to use my time productively and actually wandered around the darkened storeroom looking for said toy (imagine that!). I never found Barney, but I found the haunted section pretty damn quickly. It was on the second floor of the storeroom where the Barbie Dolls were kept. The temperature indeed dropped noticeably in this area and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. The storeroom during this time was relatively deserted – just a few other employees standing idly near the doors “looking” for stock. But up there in the unnaturally cold area you knew you weren’t alone.

I didn’t stay there long – by which I mean both that haunted area and Toys “R” Us in general – I lasted two weeks (hey, on my third day my manager had me training a new(er) employee, so I was clearly on the fast track!). I felt kind of ripped off that I never got to experience faucets turning on by themselves in the bathroom, but it was a small price to pay to escape Alvin and the Chipmunks with some sanity intact. The store went through a massive remodeling recently, and I don’t know whether the ghost is still at it, though I’d read somewhere that the Petco in the same shopping center had been experiencing some unexplained phenomena. I can only hope that the Toys “R” Us ghost finally found peace and left that terrible, terrible soundtrack.

A few years later I started dating a woman whose parents lived just a half mile away. I don’t know whether or not their property was originally part of the Murphy farm that spawned the Toys “R” Us ghost, but if it wasn’t this former orchard-land certainly was a close neighbor. The woman I was dating at the time, Anna, and I would eventually marry and divorce, but that’s a different story (filled with ghosts, I should add!). In those early days of our relationship we were sleeping in her room at the back of the house. Her parents and brother were away on vacation, and we were sleeping in one Saturday. On the other side of the wall where her bed was positioned was the spigot and hose used to water the garden – and there was a lot to water. Her parents filled the backyard with a dozen or so rose bushes, dahlias, sweet peas, and several citrus trees. When everything was in bloom you’d be hard pressed to find a more Edenic place. Anna had been given extensive instructions for how to water the yard, and she was starting to move to climb out of bed to do just that when we heard the spigot separated by just the wall turn on with a deliberate creak. The sound of water rushing through the hose could be heard as well as the splashing of water out the diffuser nozzle. And then the sound of the water streaming from the nozzle began to move. We listened carefully, frozen with fear as the nozzle watered each rose bush in turn, then moved around the yard to each potted plant and tree. After a few minutes, when everything had been sufficiently watered the nozzle returned to where it had started and the spigot creaked closed again.

Hardly believing what we had just heard, we both rushed through the house, first checking the front door – locked still. Then out into the backyard. As we expected, every bush and tree had been perfectly watered, and the hose coiled neatly by the spigot. We checked the gates leading to the backyard to see if anyone had come in unexpectedly from those points. Both 8-foot tall gates were padlocked closed from the inside – someone on the driveway couldn’t even have reached the lock even if they had a key. No, we were alone and we had one less chore to do that day.

There’s one other story I have that takes place in Sunnyvale, but for that one I need to gather some testimony. That particular building is no longer there along the railroad tracks and I only hope its former ghosts aren’t currently haunting the condos that replaced the old building. No, actually I hope the ghosts are still there just to piss off the homeowners association.

 

31 Ghosts – Day 17: Down By The River – It’s Not A Dream

Today we rejoin Skip on the search for the body of Mateo Ortiz in the river. If you want to revisit the first part, here it is. And now, back to the river…

Bubbles appeared on the surface of the otherwise still river. The bubles intensified and the neoprene-covered head burst above the surface followed by a diving mask and breathing mouthpiece. The diver eyed the closest shore, oriented himself, then rotated until he caught the eye of the Sheriff on the opposite bank. The diver shook his head negative, then dove back under the surface.

Skip sighed, then raised his radio and keyed the transmit button. “My divers are coming up empty,” he said, looking down river towards the bend and in his mind stared further down towards the dam at summer crossing. “Are your waders doing any better?”

Silence for a moment, then Andy’s voice came across, “Negative, Skip. We’re about 5o yards up from the dam and moving up.”

“Okay, Andy, thanks. Let me know if you come up with anything.” Skip would have preferred the waders further up towards him, but he knew if they were any closer they’d stir up the river and turn the divers’ already murky water completely opaque.

Ahead of Skip another head broke the surface of the water, shook his head at Skip and then dipped back beneath the green water. Skip removed his wide-brimmed hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief and replaced his hat.

“Another warm one, eh Jack?”

Skip smiled at the voice. “Lousy day for fishing, Timothy,” Skip said without turning around.

“No fishing today,” Timothy held out his empty hands in front of his King’s Sporting Goods t-shirt. “I’m here for the circus today. Besides, your guys stirring everything up probably has all the fish scared halfway to Healdsburg by now.”

“Can’t be helped. Trying to do a job,” Skip snapped.

“Whoa, Skip, I know it can’t,” Timothy said. “You doing okay?”

“Sorry, Timothy,” Skip rubbed his eyes. “Had a shitty night’s sleep, that’s all.”

“Shabaikai,” Timothy said quietly.

“No goddamn river ghost,” Skip growled, crossing further down the bank to get a better view towards the waders.

“Where’s the limp from, Jack?”

“Twisted my ankle getting out of bed.”

Timothy cocked an eyebrow at him. “Mind if I see?”

Skip stared hard at Timothy for a long moment. “Fine. Sure,” Skip said, pulling up his pant leg and folding his sock down over his boot to reveal the two, dark, quarter-sized bruises.”

“Oh shit, Skip,” Timothy said, “You got bit!”

“So what does that mean?”

Timothy slowly shook his head back and forth, “I’ve never seen that mark on someone breathing.”

Skip absorbed the statement for a moment until they were interrupted Skips radio crackling to life. He stared at Timothy while he raised the radio, “This is Skip. Come again.”

“Hey Skip,” a woman’s voice came across washed out by machine noise, “Julie here. We’re over Austin Creek checking on a grow site. Want us to buzz the river when we’re done here?”

“Yeah, Julie,” Skip replied, turning towards the river. “That’d be helpful.”

“Roger that, Skip. We’ll be there in probably… ten minutes.”

“Thanks.”

* * *

“Nothing today, Skip?” Leslie asked poking her head into Skips open door.

“Nothing today.”

She nodded. “Need anything?”

“Not unless you can do this paperwork for me,” Skip smiled.

“Fat chance,” she laughed. “That’s why you get paid the big bucks,” she said, disappearing.

Skip growled under his breath out of frustration. A frustration, he knew, outsized from the situation at hand because Skip knew that more often than not these drowning victims wouldn’t be found in the first 24 hours, and often not even in 48 hours. The body from the drowning last month stayed under for four days. One of the bodies last year ended up stuck on a rock down by the outflow at the dam and didn’t come up for over a week. So why was he so tense today? Lack of sleep? He thought about his conversation with Timothy earlier. Shabaikai. No, just a bad dream, he thought.

“Hey Skip, are you going to the candlelight vigil?”

Skip shook himself out of his own head, “Yeah, yeah, Leslie. When is it?”

“Supposed to start in about ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes? It’s not even dark…”

“It’s almost 7, Skip,” she replied a little concern creeping into her voice.

“Seriously?” He verified with watch. “How’d time get away from me?”

“You looked a little out of it,” she told him frankly.

He sighed heavily, then got up started pulling on his jacket.

“Are you sure, Skip?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be fine. Besides, it’ll be good for me to meet with the family.”

Half an hour later, Skip stood on the bank of the river in nearly the same spot he was in earlier in the day watching the family and friends of Mateo Ortiz holding candles in the gathering darkness, singing hymns, and crying. He was heartened to see his deputy Eddy tight in with the family. When the group finally started to break up, Skip made sure to shake the hands of everyone present. Eddy stood close and translated Skip’s words to Mateo’s wife. Skip spoke serviceable Spanish, but was grateful for Eddy’s fluency.

“Are you coming to the potluck at Saint Hue’s, Skip?”

“I don’t think so, Eddy. Are you?”

“I was planning on it.”

“Good,” Skip said, patting him on the back. “Thanks, Eddy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With the last light gone, Skip waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He moved down closer to the water. The moon, just off full, reflected off the still river. From the clearing of the beach, Skip turned upriver and admired the surrounding forest bathed in moonlight. Behind him he heard splashing of footfalls in the shallows. Turning, he saw a figure moving towards him through the shadow of an overhanging tree.

“Hello?” Skip asked.

The man didn’t reply. He came out of the shadows and the moon bathed his familiar face in the silvery light. Skip recognized Mateo Ortiz instantly – his features unmarred by the drowning.

“Mateo,” Skip started, “hablo Ingles?”

The man looked at him then nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said.

“Do you know where you are?”

Mateo thought for a moment, then looked around him. “In the river.”

“Do you know how you got here?”

Again, Mateo thought for long seconds, looking down at the water. “I chased a ball… then…” he looked up, meeting Skip’s eyes, “my leg was grabbed.”

“Grabbed?”

Mateo nodded slowly as the water behind him began bubbling violently, the luminescence of the moon on the water brightening unnaturally. Before Skip could warn him, the head of an enormous snake rose out of the water behind Mateo. Made of water, golden glowing eyes like embers, fangs dripping with water, the serpent lunged forward hitting Mateo in the torso and driving him over into the water.

“Mateo!” Skip yelled, reflexively drawing his gun as the man disappeared beneath the water and the unnatural glow dissipated and the splashing stilled. Silence fell again on the river and on the shore.  Skip stared hard at the spot trying to process what he just had witnessed. He heard a splash across the river. A fish, he thought. Then another splash a little further down. And another splash. Skip looked up and saw a figure across the river splashing slowly towards him. Up river, another splash and Skip turned to see another figure on his bank splashing slowly towards him.  Behind him another splash much closer. Skip spun, again drawing his gun, and came face to face with the bloated, drowned face of Mateo. He didn’t speak this time, but opened his mouth and uttered a baleful moan. Skip staggered backwards in the sand, managing to keep his presence of mind to holster his gun and reach for the flashlight on his belt. He turned it on, shining it at Mateo’s drowned figure and revealed nothing but water. He turned the beam towards the figure upriver and the yellow light fell on sand and disturbed river. Across the river the beam shone on the trees that came down to the waterline.

“What the hell?” Skip tried to catch his breath as he climbed to his feet. Again, he shone the light around him along the banks. Nothing. He backed away from the water towards the line of trees separating the beach from the clearing, parking area, and the road.  He didn’t turn his back until he reached the trees where he finally turned and started hurrying towards his Explorer. Behind him he heard a high plaintive cry: “Mis hijos!”