Just about through my crazy-busy work stretch! I’ll make it! About to go get some much-needed sleep. Here’s hoping I wake up without any unwanted guests…

I used to call them the “waking ghosts.” At least that’s what I used to say to my mom when I finally got away from whatever it was that came into my room at night and sat on my bed.

“Mom! The waking ghosts came again! Mom!”

“Julie, you were just having a nightmare,” she’d say. But I knew it wasn’t a nightmare – I was definitely awake.

When the Waking Ghosts persisted for years my mom finally took me to a sleep therapist. I described the Waking Ghosts and told them about how they would come in my room in the morning and sometimes they would just sit on my bed and watch me or walk around the room or – in a few cases – one would put its head close to mine as it pet my hair. I don’t know what that one looked like because I was too scared to open my eyes, but I know the hair petting was real – not a nightmare.

The therapist listened and took notes. He didn’t seem surprised or disbelieving. Pretty quickly, though, he said, “Julie, what you have is called ‘sleep paralysis.’ It’s what happens when you wake up during the dream phase of REM sleep. Normally, during this phase your brain turns off the signals that let your body move so you don’t act out your dream. But since you wake up you’re now fully conscious but you’re still dreaming. It’s what we call hypnagogic or hypnopompic hallucination.”

With every term or big word I felt more and more relief. I wasn’t being held down by a ghost – it was “sleep paralysis!” And it wasn’t a ghost petting my head, it was a “hypnopompic hallucination!”

The next morning when I woke up and the Waking Ghost that sits on the bed and leers at me was there sitting on my feet I actually smiled as I thought to myself, “You’re not real!”

Then the voice came right next to my ear, cold and dangerous, “Wanna bet we’re not real, Julie?”

“Miss Taylor?” Michael asked still giggling.
“Yes, Michael,” I asked.
“Your aunt is funny!” he said with a smile.
Michael was one of the kids in my kindergarten class. He could act up a bit, but on the whole wasn’t a bad kid. But I had no idea what he was talking about.
“My what, Michael?”
“Your Aunt. She’s right there!” he pointed to the empty chair across the table from where he was coloring.
Now the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “Michael, what does she look like?”
“She’s got these great big glasses on. And…what?” he leaned towards the empty chair. “She said they’re her Elton John glasses? I don’t know what that means.”
My breath caught in my throat. I had always referred to my late aunt’s glasses as “Elton John” because they were oversized and always a little outrageous. I’d never mentioned my aunt in class, certainly never mentioned her glasses…
Was my aunt here? I got goosebumps. And then waves of emotion – sadness because she was my favorite aunt and we always laughed together. And then anger at my cousin, who I am certain killed her mom. She had made her change her life insurance policy a month before she “fell down the stairs.” I confronted my cousin about it and of course she denied it, but, worse, cried her crocodile tears to the whole family. Now I’m a pariah – my own mother said she wouldn’t talk to me unless I apologized. But I wouldn’t. She killed my aunt. I didn’t have a way to prove it, but I can’t pretend I don’t know what really happened.
“Miss Taylor?” Michael asked, snapping me out of my reverie.
“Yes, Michael?”
“Miss Taylor, your aunt said to tell you you’re right.”

Down in the South Bay for a conference and looking at all the big shiny buildings (and stadiums) where I grew up definitely make me nostalgic. What about the ghosts still around?

The woman in the flapper dress stood on the corner and stared at the gleaming office building as cars drove by without noticing. A man in khaki pants and Patagonia vest over a polo shirt zoomed dangerously past on an electric scooter without paying her any mind.

“Margaret? What are you doing out here?” a man with an unkempt long beard asked. He wore dingy jeans, worn boots and a dirty shirt under a rough leather coat.

“Henry?” She asked. “Is that you?”

“Yep, it’s me,” he said as he let out a huge yawn.

“Where have you been?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you in… I don’t know… ten years?”

“Well, I took a nap,” he scratched his beard.

“For ten years?”

“Did I mention how hard working the goldfields were?”

“Every chance you get,” she rolled her eyes.

He scowled through his overgrown facial hair but the overall effect was more comical than gruff.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked.

She tilted her head at him. “Henry, a lot has changed while you’ve been napping!”

“Yeah? Like what?” he asked oblivious to the Uber that pulled to the curb beside him and two interchangeably dressed tech workers got out and walked right through him on their way to the office building entrance.

“Look at our house!” Margaret gestured at the office tower.

Henry turned slowly and upon eyeing the glass and steel building he let out a low whistle. “Well, ain’t that something!”

“That was our home!” Margaret said, her voice cracking with emotion. “That boarding house is where I was killed!”

“Me too!” Henry nodded. “Shot while playing cards.”

“Cheating at cards, if I remember correctly,” Margaret corrected him.

“Who told you that? They’re a damn liar!” he said defensively.

“It doesn’t matter…” she wiped at her eyes. “It’s all gone!”

“Welcome to my world,” the dark-skinned man wearing deerskin leggings and a bare chest said ruefully.

“It’s the injun!” Henry said in mock surprise.

“Muwekma Ohlone, asshole,” the man said.

“Henry, stop being mean to Asatsa. We’re all upset here.”

“I don’t see what y’all are upset about! That place was a shithole!”

“But it was our shithole!” Margaret said “And now we have… nothing.”

“Well… that’s not quite true…” Asatsa said.

“Our house is gone!” Margaret said.

“Do you know how long my house has been gone?” Asata asked. “But I haunted that lousy flophouse for decades!”

“Your point?” Margaret asked.

“Yeah,” Henry rubbed his beard. “Our Muwekma Ohlone friend has the right idea.”

“Which is?” Margaret asked exasperated.

“We march into that metal and glass monstrosity…” Asatsa started.

“And haunt the holy living shit out of it!” Henry said.

“But it’s so… cold,” Margaret stared at the anonymous façade.

“We’re dead,” Asatsa said. “Let’s go be colder and scare some tech bros!” He started for the entrance then stopped and looked back at the two standing on the sidewalk still. “Coming?”

“We can’t bring it back,” Henry said. “Might as well scare the living that are here.”

Margaret sighed. “Oh, alright,” she said. “Let’s scare the khakis off them!”