My Ghost Story

I love a good ghost story. I'm not sure I per se believe in ghosts. Rather, I tend to think there is not yet a good explanation in our current science as to whatever it is that happens to the life energy (or soul or spirit) of a human as it transfers out of a person's body when they die. Our understandings of thermodynamics may begin to explain some of it. (Ok, so I'm not expressing these thoughts as clearly as I should. Having just typed that and read it back to myself, I think it even sounds a little ridiculous. But it's what I happen to feel, so I'm just going to go with it.)

Do I believe in ghosts? No, but there is certainly a part of me that really wants to, because I think the idea that ghosts are real makes for a much better story. And certainly, people all over the world have been seeing ghosts since antiquity. Maybe it is how we as humans have developed a strategy to cope with our fear of death: if we think death is not really the end, it is a little easier to accept.

While I have never actually seen a ghost, I'm pretty sure I witnessed a very specific communication between grandparent and grandchild from beyond the grave.

Here's my ghost story.

In the winter of 2004, I was at my dear friend S's house one night, a few weeks after her grandmother had died. She had had a 3-month-long battle with cancer. As a child, S had lived for a time with her grandmother, and they were quite close. Her grandmother knew her cancer was terminal, so she often talked frankly with S about her inevitable death and about her thoughts on the afterlife.

They were both fans of Sylvia Browne, a psychic who used to appear every Wednesday on The Montel Williams Show. Sylvia Browne offers a positive view of ghosts (they're nothing to be afraid of, they don't always know they're dead - so if you see one, tell them the current date, that they're dead, and that they should go to the light...). Browne insists that sometimes people who have died will send their living loved ones various signs in order to say goodbye, or perhaps to let them know they're ok on the other side. The "signs" might be things like birds that will appear at the surviving loved one's window; unusual birds, or a large number of different kinds of birds. Or a special song that has not been popular in ages that will randomly play on the radio. Or the sign could take the form of flickering lights, or brief lapses in the electricity in the home.

Or in S's case - it was all of the above.

Before her death, S's grandmother had promised her that she would send S the kinds of signs Sylvia Browne talked about to let S know she's ok, and that there is an afterlife. And boy, did she. At the funeral, all kinds of rare birds showed up and apparently put on quite a flying display. For weeks, anytime S did the dishes at the sink under her kitchen window, a little bird would show up and tap lightly on the glass.

There was this old Dolly Parton song S used to listen to with her grandmother in the early 80s, and that she hadn't heard in years. Suddenly it was playing on every radio station, and for no discernible reason.

And there was the night I went over to S's house to visit. S was telling me how much she missed her grandmother, but how she felt very comforted because she perceived her grandmother's presence all around her. She knew her grandmother was watching over her.

Eventually the conversation turned to S's uncle's wife, who apparently went into grandmother's house and helped herself to some of grandmother's jewelry without asking anyone in the family. S was visibly incensed.

"If my grandmother knew about it, she'd be rolling in her grave."

Then the lights in our room suddenly flickered. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. On.

S turned to me and laughed, "Well, I guess my Grandma knows and she's not having any of it!"

And the lights flickered again. On. Off. On. Off. On. Off. On.

Again, at the exact moment. How on earth could this be?

Nothing happened with the lights in the other rooms, as we could clearly see, just the lights in the room we were sitting in.

I had goosebumps. To this day, I can't explain any of it. People I've told this story to have suggested it was an older home and there were some issues with the wiring. Nope. Their house was only 2 years old and here's the real kicker - S's husband is actually a journeyman electrician. There was nobody else home except me, S, and S's infant baby sound asleep upstairs.

Eventually, after about 2 months of getting sign after sign after sign, S told her grandmother out loud - "Grandma, I hear you. I've seen all the signs, and they were just like what you told me you were going to send, and so I know you're ok. Thank you. It's ok for you to move on now. I love you and you'll always be in my heart."

Then the signs stopped.