I have two ghost stories to offer. They are both true.
I worked in a summer theater in Falmouth Massachusetts. The theater had been built out of a converted horse barn and we used the old mansion for a dormitory. It is fairly generally accepted that most theaters, especially one with as colorful a history as this one, are haunted. Several of the cast and other crew members researched the local history and decided that the theater was indeed haunted by a young woman who had hung herself in the hay loft over the horse barn. It was a classic “he dun her wrong” story and she had killed herself in despair.
Historical accounts left a reasonably good description of the young lady in question and the group decided to try and contact her. They produced a Ouija board and a half dozen people took their places around the board. I was skeptical, but I sat on the periphery waiting to be proven wrong. However, I never got the chance. I was kicked out of the room because I was “broadcasting” and they could not hear over my loud thoughts.
They never did see the ghost, but I did. Or at least I think I did.
Several years later, I was going through a bad time and I returned to the site of the theater. It was a cold, damp, foggy, dismal day. The driveway had been chained off so I could not drive up to the site of the theater. When I reached the end of the mostly overgrown driveway, all that remained of the old mansion were the concrete steps that we trod up to the front door. The theater’s parking lot remained, but the theater was gone.
Theater people like me have a special kinship with the buildings where we work and to see one disappear is like losing an old friend. I stood where the stage door had once been and looked at the mound of dirt next to what had been the orchestra pit. I saw her sitting there.
She fit the description exactly. She looked at me and her expression was one of deep sorrow. I hesitated, wondering what I should say. I blinked and she was gone.
I am a rational person, and I don’t believe in ghosts, but...
The second story also took place on Cape Cod in Massachusetts.
I was visiting relatives who had rented a house on the beach for the summer. I had driven from Boston that day and would drive back in the morning. I had only had my driver license for a few months and was already racking up the miles. Being a geeky, awkward teenager, I was unable to fit in with the other teens who hung out at the end of the street near the beach. Despondent, I went for a walk on the beach. It was the perfect night for a ghost story and since I didn’t know any, I made one up.
I sat on a rock and made foot prints to back up my story and carefully planned the whole story out. I ran through the damp evening air back to where the other teens were hanging out. I looked like I had seen a ghost. If you had run across the sand in that weather, you would, too. I won’t bore with the details of the ghost herself, but the teens, who to this point had not given me the time of day, bought the story. I took them out to the rock and showed them the footprints I had put there.
I told my story several more times that evening. I was not then, and really have never been, a nice guy. I enjoyed the fear I saw on their faces. I was pretty happy with myself. I left for Boston in the morning thinking that was the end of it.
I returned a week later to be greeted by several hostile adults. I was told that forty-two people had reported my ghost to the police and one little boy had a nervous breakdown because he thought he saw it.
Causes Robert Cherny Supports
Audobon, American Diabetes Association