October is the season of things that go bump in the night so it’s fair to say that this is something of a companion to Greg Ruth’s post last Friday on the subject of “Ghosts.”

Like many, I grew up loving ghost stories and monster movies. My dad used to tell us about his older brother, Price, who encountered the spirit of someone that had been killed by a train near their farmhouse; instead of running with the other boys, Price stood on the railroad tracks and threw rocks at the apparation until it disappeared. (He was braver than I would have been.) And, of course, whenever I went on camping trips with the scouts we’d sit around the campfire at night and try to scare each other with yarns about phantom hitchikers or a spook searching for their missing arm. Movies like The Innocents (which the photo above is from), The Haunting, or, later, The Legend of Hell House, Poltergeist, and Crimson Peak were favorites that raised more than a few goosebumps on my arms when I first saw them…and still do if I’m in the right frame of mind.

Of course, in some ways it could be argued that the idea of ghosts is a hopeful, happy, even religious thing and not frightening at all.  The belief in spirits—and the stories surrounding them—suggests that there’s is something else for us and that death, even a tragic one, is not the end.

To all that I say, “Phooey!” I don’t want feel-good haints (though I do like The Canterville Ghost and Beetlejuice), I want ghosts that scare the crap out of me and raises the hackles on the back of my neck, thank you very much.

I know I’m not the only one. I had mentioned some years back here on MC that when Cathy and I were running the Spectrum competition we’d host a dinner for the jurors at the conclusion of judging in a swanky (supposedly haunted) restaurant and one of the traditions was to each tell their personal ghost stories over drinks. And, boy, did we hear some good ones: Bill Stout’s tale of watching the spirit of a little girl enter his apartment through a closed door and walk past he and his girlfriend before disappearing in his kitchen gave us a shiver. And then there was Heidi MacDonald’s terrifying encounter with an invisible spectre who climbed into bed when she was house-sitting for a vacationing friend and spooned her! Heidi jumped up, turned on the lights, and said she saw the shape of both her body and that of another beside hers in the sheets and mattress! Holy cow!

Other creative friends have shared their experiences with us over the years, too; when she was in the right mood, Ellie Frazetta would tell stories about the apparations she’d see in her house in East Stroudsburg (Frank, on the other hand, would snort at the suggestion that the place was haunted) and we included three of The Rocketeer’s Dave Stevens’ tales of his ghostly encounters—with an unknown spirit in his attic, with artist and mentor Doug Wildey, and with his father—in his book Brush With Passion.

So…have we had any brushes with the paranormal? Well…actually, a few. Cathy is much more sensitive than I am and has had a lot of experiences, both while I was present (and mostly oblivious) and when she was traveling with her friends…but me? Look, when I’m tired, I’m damn tired and can sleep through an artillary barrage once I close my eyes; over the years I admit that there have been a few of times when I was sawing logs while she was being half-scared out her pants (ask her sometime about the Hotel Del or the Rock Garden Cottages). But one of our more recent encounters was at The Crescent in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, (shown above) which has been called “America’s most haunted hotel.” Why is The Crescent reputed to be haunted? Well, you can read a little about its history here.

Anyway, when we stayed there several years ago I reserved a suite that (unbenownst to me) supposedly had a history of a lot of “activity.” What kind of activity, we didn’t know beforehand, but we found out.

That day we explored the town’s shops and galleries, ate at a great restaurant—Le Stick Nouveau, highly recommended—went on a ghost tour through the hotel (which concluded in the old mortuary when the hotel had been a cancer hospital run by a crooked quack), and settled into our room. But something was busy that night; first there was the sound of of what seemed like a squeaky gurney rolling down the hallway that got me out of bed to see what was going on. Nothing there, no noise…until I got back into bed and it started again. Great. Then something started rattling the wooden window blinds, first next to the bed, then in the adjacent room; I got up to look, a bit peeved and…nothing. The windows weren’t open and I didn’t see an AC ceiling vent blowing on the blinds so I sorta shrugged and climbed back into bed.

I always try to find a rational explanation when these sorts of things happen and, figuring the noises were just part of it being an old, creaky building—or maybe, maybe, that it was a prank by the hotel to play up their haunted reputation for the tourists—we went to sleep. (I think Cathy might have had the covers pulled up over here head.) But the odd thing we discovered in the morning was something that couldn’t easily be dismissed.

Cathy’s glasses were gone.

She had carefully laid them on the lamp table beside her side of the bed before we turned out the lights and now…they were missing.

We searched high and low, she emptied her purse, looked in her jacket pockets, shook out her clothes. No luck. Finally, out of desperation I began crawling on my hands and knees looking under the bed, under the lamp tables, under chairs, under the desk—and on the opposite side of the room, far away from her side of the bed, a spied her glasses underneath an antique dresser. The legs on the dresser were short and I could barely squeeze my arm under to retrieve them; there was no way they could have been accidently tossed across the room from the lamp table or kicked across the carpeted floor to land perfectly beneath the furniture. Cathy’s glasses had been picked up and carefully placed there.

And my thoughtful, reasonable, absolutely rational explanation for how that could have possibly happened?

A goddamn ghost. The sneaky bastard.

Yep. Ghost stories. We like ’em. And today (or tonight, depending on when you’re reading this), instead of artsy talk…it’s October and I want to hear yours. Post your best, true-life encounter with the unknown, just for seasonal fun and the sense of community (community is, after all, about sharing stories and experiences). I’m going to monitor comments and will studiously be deleting all of the you-can-make-$500-an-hour bot spam, so no one’s story will get buried (I’m retired, so I’ve got the time). Come on: tell us your spooky story. Share. Who knows? It might very well inspire someone reading to create a chilling piece of art.