“Death Does Not Exist” A Short Ghost Story and Commentary
Most people say they don’t believe in ghosts, but if you ask the right questions and are friendly enough with your audience, you’ll discover that even the most hardened skeptic has at least one family ghost story at his disposal. With the Charlatanism of the last Spiritualist craze, it’s no wonder that the Rationalists resist ghost stories. In order to not be taken advantage of, it makes sense to dismiss the improbable as impossible, especially in a world of sharks. With more than one generation drinking the atheistic Kool-Aid, however, we are at risk of losing our family ghost stories. I don’t know about other people in other lands, but the ghost story is part of the very cultural fabric of the United States. It doesn’t matter if the family is white, black, Asian, or mixed, I’ve met Americans of all backgrounds who happily participated in the ghost story bonding experience. I’ve also met plenty of new immigrants who may have sensed the vibe and had their own tales of sprites from the underworld to throw in. Yes, one could argue the ghost story is part of the collective unconscious rather than specific to one nation’s culture, but you’ll find very few people who wouldn’t agree that the ghost story genre is popular among the American people. What better way to feel a part of your community than sitting around a fire on a dark night speaking of all the mysteries that could potentially be, all of the phenomena of shades, of entities that resist the enfolding finality of death.
Although healthy skepticism is a good thing, protecting us from the exploitation of others and our own susceptibility to childish fantasy, I would argue that giving up ghost stories is a mistake. Dismissing great grandmother’s tale or the improbable story your father tells you just because it involves things beyond the explanation of science makes for a drier, sadder world, one with less open doorways to connection, one that imagines itself as master of all known information while sacrificing the infinite hints of something more. Besides, hating on ghost stories makes for a brittle culture. The unifying elements are often forced or superficial. Without the ghost story as a medium for bonding, we sacrifice a bit of our own humanity, rejecting opportunities to share in the infinite potentiality that is woven part and parcel into American culture whether in the literal vein of traveling to a new expanse or the symbolic where the undiscovered country takes a breath and sends a representative to that new land that still must stand the test of time in order to make a lasting impression on human history.
In the spirit of bonding and as part of the grand tradition of the American ghost story, I hereby offer you mine, a fictionalized account of a story that if not true might as well be.
“Death Does Not Exist”
It was a dusty town in a dusty region, a symptom of the sprawl of Los Angeles. That’s not to say it was too bad. Trees decked the streets of these 1940s track homes. They had proper porches, front windows, fire places, and large yards. Not too far, the infestation of the modern world was everywhere manifest, but in the shelter of the suburban streets, it seemed just far away enough to not despoil the idea of Heaven.
The pamphlets, the radio, word of mouth, they all promised rivers and sunbeams of radiating, healing light. That’s how he got here, following the promise of the golden touch of the mighty southern California sun, for even though the tuberculosis epidemic was before his time, the family knew its toll all too well. California promised health, the right atmosphere, and a climate for healthy lungs. After tuberculosis raged in Kalamazoo, the family who had survived had changed. The new babies were different. They had an inflammation of the bronchioles, asthma, allergies. He was one of them. Being highly intelligent, well-read, and of an educated family, he was certain it was a genetic mutation. Whatever switched in the DNA to make them immune to tuberculosis had its price. The body was quick to inflame and the immune system too fast to strike, waging an intense war on the most innocent of pollens. He could have stayed, but after the war, things were different. There was a larger world, open opportunity, and a deeper understanding of the cold gates of death. He was drawn measure for measure toward the sun, away from the ice-cold winters of Michigan and even Colorado where he had met his wife.
Sure, they didn’t get to California overnight. It took years of saving and some moving around in states near Colorado, but eventually they made it and bought their home. It wasn’t so bad in the beginning. It wasn’t yet a catastrophe of population. Instead, California offered a blend of the domestic yet stimulating. The rivers of gold, the sun beams illuminate, however, turned out to not be as ideal as they had been described. The truth of the matter is that the property by the sea with the fresh air and the gentle sun was astronomical. In the valley adjunct to Los Angeles, the sun was rather a brutal thing, burning, searing, oppressive. The domestic charm of the home was fine though, but of course, that it was built on an Indian burial ground wasn’t mentioned in the purchase.
They found that out later. If anyone was to live in a home haunted by ghosts and deal with it just fine, it was them. They were both Christians, of differing denominations, but they were pious. However, Arthur was a Scottish Rite Mason and knew that mystical rituals connected one to divinity. He knew the universe was more complex than what his religion communicated. He followed the teachings of the Masons, despite his devout Episcopalianism, which explained that the Druids’ magical bloodline had been passed down, their secrets not forgotten despite their conversion. When strange phenomena started happening, he took it in stride. Laura, on the other hand, though completely devout with her Catholicism and raised for the most part by nuns, believed in watching the signs of nature for evidence of God’s will. She believed that there were spirits of the dead who came to communicate with the living. She had lost her mother at a young age, but she believed her mother’s spirit had come to her to extend signs of comfort along the way. She was used to phenomena. It had followed her from her father’s house, to the nunnery, to the various apartments she had shared with her lady friends. It had followed her here. To her, it was a matter of course. To both of them, the key was attending church, espousing those teachings, and then if strange things were happening, they didn’t need to mention that to anyone.
It wasn’t as if the hauntings were so bad that it was a danger to anyone. It was just eerie. The temperature would drop to that of ice, and whoever was in the room would feel the hairs at the back of their neck or on their arms lift. Then a voice might echo out, wailing or asking for help. The children were mostly grown by the time they had arrived to California, but they had experienced the hauntings as well. They were too old to fall into flights of fancy, and there’s something to be said for multiple people experiencing the phenomena all at once, witnessing the impossible made possible. Most of the time, nothing too intense happened. Music boxes going off into their stretches of melody with no one touching them was the most common phenomena.
The news that the house sat on a burial ground was a bit of a surprise. It seemed to explain the situation well enough. They heard about it from Mr. Magoni who had found out at city hall when applying for a permit to build an extra room.
It was there, at her grandparents’ home that Leda interacted with a ghost at the age of three, but she didn’t know it was a ghost at the time. There was a nice big kitchen with a breakfast nook right next to the back door. Grandmother was busy cooking dinner with mother, and grandfather was out in the front room watching TV.
The back door called to her, and she dashed out down the back steps. Once outside, the yard extended far off. She stood there looking at it but not venturing into it. In a child’s mind, even a small distance can appear like a journey leading to a vast and endless forest. As she stood there, a tall old man with spectacles materialized and started walking from the back of the yard. The yard extended so far, it seemed natural that he had materialized. She was so young anyway, what was possible or impossible didn’t really register so much as she hadn’t fully learned the rules governing possibility.
He walked at a slow and steady pace toward her. He wore a gray suit with a burgundy brocade vest and a pocket watch. When he reached her, he bent down and picked her up into his arms. “Hello, little one. I just wanted to say hi.” He held her, and she felt perfectly natural and safe. “I want to tell you something. Don’t ever forget. There’s life after death.” She was so small, and she just gazed into his face, not really understanding the significance of his words or the implications. It was a simple moment of bonding. He held her there for a long moment, and then he bent down and placed her on her feet. He said, “Now you go on back in to your grandmother, and tell her what you saw out here.” He smiled at her and turned around walking toward the back of the yard, slowly vanishing before her eyes.
She rushed in, not feeling in anyway spooked. “Grandma, grandma,” she squeaked, pulling on her grandmother’s apron strings. “What honey? I’m cooking dinner” Grandmother looked down. “Wait, did you go outside?” Grandmother was now focused on her. “Grandma, grandma, I saw a man outside. He picked me up and told me there is life after death. Then he disappeared.” Laura was used to the tales of children. She was also unphased by the supernatural element. That the child was so articulate didn’t surprise her either. She was used to Leda. “Well, I want to go outside and find that man. Maybe he’s still there. Maybe he wants something. Go find your mother.” Leda ran off, and Laura walked to the back door and let herself out.
No one was there. Laura looked around. “Hello?” she called out.
Nothing.
She walked around the yard even to the far back where the trees were overgrown. She went over to the garage and pushed the side door open. It smelled of dust. She pulled the light string, and scanned the room.
Nothing. There was nothing but the usual. Buckets of paint. Shelves filled with boxes full of Christmas ornaments and sailing supplies, yard tools, camping gear. The garage was bustling with stuff but all on shelves. The center opened to empty floor. She turned the light off and went back out. She wasn’t scared. Garages scare people, but there was nowhere to hide in there. She went back by the overgrown trees. She looked closely at them and then directed her gaze to behind the garage. Things were a bit overgrown, the grass dry and a bit long, but it was clear no one was there. She looked up at the evening sky and headed back in.
At dinner, however, there was a problem. They were all seated at the grand oak table. Little Leda had helped by placing the napkins on the table, and her mother Darla had set out the silverware. They food was brought in steaming hot, and it was time to eat. Everyone helped themselves. The scent of roast chicken was delicious, and everyone was looking forward to the macaroni and cheese. Except that when everyone started eating, Leda started shrieking.
“What’s wrong now? What’s the matter?” Laura asked. Arthur took a swig of beer. Having had five children and more grandchildren besides, he was used to outbursts, but if he didn’t have to deal with it the better. The beer tasted fine. Darla looked over at Leda. “Leda, what’s wrong? Don’t you want to eat your dinner? Aren’t you hungry?”
“Mama, there’s bugs in it.”
“No, no there’s not. That’s just your imagination. Now eat”
Leda screamed, high pitched, “No! There is! Look.” Leda pointed down at the macaroni and cheese. Darla’s eyes followed her finger, and there it was: a maggot and then another. She snapped her eyes to her own plate. Maggots.
“Okay, stop! Everyone stop! There’s maggots in the macaroni and cheese.”
Laura dropped her fork and looked down. “Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see anything wrong when I was cooking. It must have been the cheese mix. I didn’t look at it closely.”
She got up and started collecting plates. Arthur looked down and frowned.
Darla started helping.
“It’s okay, mom. I’m going to go get us some take out. We can get some fried chicken from down the street.”
Laura was cleaning up. She was unsettled and disappointed, even embarrassed, but what was there to do but go on? Arthur was annoyed. He got up and strode to the TV, beer in hand.
