Spooky

Despite my aversion to most major holidays, I actually like this time of the year, the whole season of Halloween and Dia de los Muertos, when the veil thins. I enjoy the reminders to think about spooky things and tend to the sense of supernatural wonder I began cultivating when I was ten. 

In 1974 I walked into my elementary school library to peruse the offerings of The Book Fair. There I spotted a book on the occult and I immediately wanted it. I had no prior exposure to or knowledge of the otherworldly topics addressed in the little paperback but my feelings were very strong. My mother put the kibosh on this request, probably blaming it on a lack of money, but likely fearing the contents. 

And so it was to my great surprise that when Christmas rolled around, there it was—a copy of the book, which truly changed the course of my life. Forever after, to this day, I have been curious about what lies on the other side and what tools I might use to access such information, beginning with the I Ching I created from popsicle sticks and India ink, as laid out in my beloved little guidebook. 

Yes, as I grew older, I stopped to consider that, as I moved further from the religion in which I was raised and closer to New Age offerings, I was simply swapping out one set of Superstitious Explanations for The Mysteries of Life for another. Steeped in rituals like incense, candles, making the sign of the cross and praying to Sky Daddy, it wasn’t a big leap to embrace another set of props and actions to feel connected to something greater than myself. Though I fully rejected Catholicism at 19, I suspect a lingering desire for some instruments of control over the chaos of my life kept me diving deeper and deeper into the mystic, with an especial fondness for Tarot cards. My approach was very X-Files—I wanted to believe.

I don’t read my cards much anymore, though there have been times when I consulted them on the regular, as I did with astrology. Those times of heavy consulting coincided with times I was very troubled and wanted reassurance on one matter or another, mostly the usual suspects: Does he love me? Will I ever not be broke? Any fame on the horizon? 

Those questions don’t interest me anymore. And yet, my memory holds indelible instances that utterly convinced there really is something to all this magic, that ghosts exist, that there are some truly gifted intuitives who are connected, who can tap into information, see the future with alarming clarity. 

Let’s start with ghosts. For many, many years I was frequently visited by the spirit of one of my older sister’s high school boyfriends. Fred died in 1978 when he was 19. I had harbored a huge crush on him and he was always so kind to me. I was 14 when a car crash took him, a loss I never got over. Often over the years when I was driving, especially long distance at night, I could feel him beside me, palpably. I did not think of him, then convince myself he was there. He simply showed up and rode along for a while.

Bob remains a hovering figure, too. His ghost is so present in this house. I have one regular guest who has, more than once, felt him sleeping beside her in The Bridal Suite, which was Bob’s bedroom when he lived here. I have felt him, too. And once, Chad was in the kitchen getting something out of the fridge when he heard a voice so clear—“How you doing?”—that he spun around, startled. No physical body was there. Just that voice. Bob checking in.

In 1988 I was living in Knoxville when I was assigned to write a story about Tennessee psychics and their predictions for the new year. This landed me appointments with five mediums, four of whom were as you might expect—pleasant but vague. And then there was Bobby Drinnon, mysterious and renowned, with a years-long waiting list despite not advertising or appearing on TV shows. Bobby said he might not have anything to contribute to the article but he sure had some things he needed to tell me about my own life. 

When I reported back to my skeptical editor what went down, he mused that the psychic likely had a research team. Considering there was no internet then and the fact he saw me within days of my phone call, that didn’t ring true. But somehow, Bobby knew things about my past that I was unaware of and only confirmed later. Chief among these was that an adoption had broken up the family many years before. As it turned out, I discovered my maternal grandmother and her siblings were brutally split apart upon being orphaned around 1920.

Thirty-six years have passed since that conversation. I still have the notes I transcribed from the tape of our session. Bobby’s predictions were nothing short of remarkable. He knew I was going to have surgery relating to my left ovary and my uterus. In fact, nine years after I spoke to him, I had a massive malignant ovarian tumor excised, along with my left ovary around which it was wrapped. And then, fully twenty years after we met, a hysterectomy. 

He also predicted that a lump would be found in my left breast, but that it would be inconsequential. I remember taking comfort in this when I found out on a Friday that I’d gotten a bad mammogram read and had to wait until the next week for a follow-up exam which, yes, proved to be nothing at all.

And seven years before the world wide web became readily available, he said to me that my work would eventually be less about writing for magazines and more some sort of live media “like television or documentary,” only different. “Healing through writing and pictures,” was how he put it and I am confident this was a reference to the world I would come to inhabit, an early internet adopter, someone who has made much of my living online.

When Bobby popped into my head recently, as he often does, I had a eureka moment. He had told me I have a “pointy aura,” that this was very rare, occurring in 3-4 people per 100. He used the word hyper to describe it, and talked about how the points were like radio antennae pulling into my orbit children, dogs and lots of crazy humans. He said people like me, you could give us a brand new Mercedes and we’d grow bored with it in no time. He noted that one of the greatest afflictions experienced by we Pointy Aura types was an ongoing restlessness, that we are driven to seek out the next thing and the next.

As these words revisited me decades after he spoke them, it dawned on me that he was describing ADHD without realizing it, a condition even I didn’t know I had until a few years ago, when learning so solved a whole lot of mysteries about my life and set me on the path to discovering and deploying strategies to help me enjoy the fun parts of the disorder while holding the challenging ones at bay. (I’m looking at you reckless impulsivity) . 

There was so much more he said. He knew I was going to meet Jason—and no, it wasn’t like he ticked off two hundred random names for me to watch for in the future. He said my four greatest gifts are creativity, counseling, teaching and healing. I’m going to go ahead and say BINGO across the board on that observation. He said in 1990 I would finally find a job with roots—this was the year my son was born. And that in 1991 I would start to center on one path. Turns out that was the year I moved to Austin. And, oh, by the way? He did tell me I was going to move to Texas, too, which, when he said it, I recoiled, like Yeah, and the monkeys are going to fly out of my ass and pack the moving van. And yet, here I am, thirty-four years later, right where he said I would be. 

Fifty years into this exploration I have become less of a seeker and mostly settled into embracing the lyrics of Iris DeMent, who sang about preferring to let the mystery be. The older I get, the younger I get, and I am mostly content to take in whatever wonders visit me with childlike awe, my need to seek explanation diminishing, yielding instead to pure wonder. Nature tops this list and I do make time not only to smell the roses but to examine them, take in details, not worry about the source of these details but instead be grateful simply for their miraculous existence. 

And yet, each year October arrives and I hear the call again, as the veil morphs from impenetrable to transparent, and I revisit the old passion for wanting to know, even knowing I will never really know, equally fascinated by my renewed desire to understand the inexplicable and understanding this can never truly be. 

What about you? Got any good ghost stories? Do tell.

NOTES:

Thanks for reading y’all. If you have five bucks to spare for a monthly subscription, The Ghost of Bob encourages you to do that. If that’s not an option, you can also help by sharing this with others.

My next FREE Writing Workshop at the Hampton Branch Library is tomorrow, Tuesday October 15th from 5:30-7:30. It always fills up so it’s a good idea to REGISTER HERE to hold your spot. 

If you haven’t yet ordered my new book, Grok This, Bitch, what the heck are you waiting for? You can get a print copy if you Venmo me $30: @spike-gillespie. Or you can get an e-copy for ten bucks.