Do You Believe in Ghosts?

As a kid, I loved ghost stories. I don’t mean Casper. The scary stories. The ones that put me on super alert. My skin turned ultra sensitive, my ears became tuned to hear the slightest noise, a creak, a whisper. My lungs lacked oxygen for fear a small intake of air could be heard by some unearthly presence. My heart thumped in my chest and drummed in my ears. Thump. Thump. Thump. Raw, nerve-tingling fear.

I still love ghost stories. While they don’t scare me as much, they still make the back of my neck feel prickly.

My writing partner is addicted to this show on the SciFi Channel called Ghost Hunters, about a group of paranormal investigators, and since I’m going to be rooming with her at RT, I’m preparing myself for her wanting to watch an episode tomorrow night. Now, I love Faye and all but I’m going to be honest with you. I can’t tell you I believe in ghosts 100%. (Especially the ones on that show.) But I’m probably more of a believer than a non-believer. Especially after what happened to me, my husband, and his “boys.” Yup, I mean those “boys.”

It was several years ago. I write travel pieces and work with several PR firms that provide travel to press-worthy destinations. This one was in Fredericksburg, Texas. The event was the anniversary of WWII happening at the Nimitz Museum.

I’m not much on wars or war museums. But I’d received five “writing” assignments from magazines about the museum. So off I went, camera in hand, with a press group. When I stepped into the museum, I had the strangest mood-altering sense of sadness overcome me. And no, it wasn’t that time of month.

Everything in the museum tugged at my heart. The thought that ran through my mind was “War is so ugly.”

Then I came upon a blood-stained kimono on display. A sign stated that an American soldier had removed it from a dead woman, a victim of war. Tears filled my eyes. How sad. This war really was ugly.

Planning on writing this piece with lots of emotion, I pulled my camera to my eye and snapped. Oddly, my hand-held flash didn’t work.

It was fairly new, too, so I didn’t understand. Frustrated, I used all my mechanical knowledge to fix the problem. Which basically means, I turned it off and on. Still nothing.

Unhappy, I walked away, but as I did, I heard a soft but annoying noise. “EEEEE . . . .”

I stopped and listened, it sounded close. Too close. I pulled my camera to my ear. Nothing. I pulled my flash to my ear, and realized the noise came from it.

I made sure the flash was turned off. It was. But the noise continued. I started investigating. I opened the battery compartment and was shocked to find that several of my batteries had burst. This had never happened. The batteries were the expensive ones.

Okay . . . this was strange, right? But I figured it was probably just faulty batteries. Ahh, but I needed those pictures. Nevertheless, the press group was leaving. Frustrated, I left imageless. When I arrive home, I told my husband we would have to return to Fredericksburg to get pictures next month.

He loves war museums and was happy to go. The next month, several photo jobs later, and with a now functioning flash with new batteries, we head off for the weekend.

We arrived at the museum. The moment I stepped inside, I get the same heavy feeling deep in my chest. I didn’t like it. I wanted to get my images and leave. I snapped a few shots, walking quickly. I went to the kimono, to capture what I foresee as my leading picture. I pulled the camera to my eye, pushed the button, and . . . nothing.

I did my mechanical trick again. On . . . off . . . on. Nothing. My husband, totally immersed in reading the displays, stepped into this small room of the museum.

I turned to him. “I can’t believe it. My flash won’t work!”

“Probably need new batteries,” he muttered.

“They’re brand new,” I insisted, still standing by the kimono.

“So they were bad. Don’t you have some extra ones in the car?”

“I need these pictures,” I said in my help-me voice.

He took my camera--did his mechanical check. Which of course, is much more inept that mine. On . . . off. . . on. He frowned, then removed and slipped the batteries into his trouser pocket. “Let me finish looking and I’ll go get your batteries from the car.”

Feeling jittery, I considered waiting outside on him. I so didn’t like that museum, but I still didn’t see a connection. We took a few steps away from the kimono and that’s when I heard it. “Eeeeeeee . . .”

“What’s that?” Hubby asked.

“I don’t know.” Then it hit me. Chills ran up my spine to the base of my neck and then crawled down my arms.

I pulled the flash to my ear. Nothing. I relaxed—then remembered.

I looked at the front of my husband’s jeans to his crotch, which was growing darker as the noise grew louder. “I think you’d better go empty your pockets.”

“Why?” he asked, clueless.

“Because I don’t think “your boys” like battery acid.”

He looked down and shot off to the bathroom. Four of the six batteries had burst.

I looked at the kimono and felt it again—the strong emotion that I can only describe as the ugliness of war. “Okay,” I whispered, “I won’t include pictures of your dress.”

I wrote the articles, and kept my word; no pictures of the kimono appeared in the magazines. I simply don’t think it was meant to be.

So that’s it. The reason, I sort of believe in ghosts. Do you think I should share this story with Faye when she starts in about watching Ghost Hunters? And speaking of GH, how many of you out there watch it? What about Ghost Whisper? Or Medium? Do you believe? Sort of believe? Do you like books that have ghost themes?

Oh, by the way, I know you all are worried and wondering, my husband’s boys were okay.

Crime Scene Christie