Saturday, I was reminded of my love of ghost stories when my kids and I met friends at the local historical museum for a ghost tour. Though the guide is a knowledgeable local historian, he kept to the topics of accidental deaths and suicides related to buildings we walked past. Fascinating to me this time of year are stories like these, but only if the tormented souls become earthbound, forever cursed to walk the streets of Downtown Vancouver. I usually keep a positive tone for loved ones, and so it’s fun for me to get a taste of the dark side vicariously through these stories.
It was difficult not to interrupt the guide with additional stories about Downtown ghosts. Having kept a studio in the most haunted building in Vancouver for a year, I had many little experiences. Admittedly, there isn’t really anything too special about my recent stories- just stuff getting knocked over, cold spots, and inexplicable sounds.
I really enjoy hearing people’s stories about the paranormal. Football is the only other thing I find gets folks animated this time of year. The dying light and leaves provides little to feel enthused about.
Why do people never tire of telling and hearing these stories? Maybe it’s some kind of reassurance we live on past these amazing bodies of ours; our fascination with ghosts could simply help us accept death. Maybe it keeps the child within us alive to believe in supernatural elements.
I find the older I get the less fearful and more comforted I am by spirit stories. I wonder if my grandparents are hanging out, keeping an eye on their Momo.
Okay, I guess I have one story to share. I had a dream about my dead grandmother, Margie, a few months back. She was telling me something, but I don’t recall what. When I awoke I had a sense of her. Later, I was looking for something in the closet and came across a binder with photos she sent me a decade and a half ago. On the front of the binder was a typed letter explaining some genealogy. Additionally, she mentioned Grandpa’s health, which was something she obsessed about for sixty years. In the letter she mentioned his cluster headaches and a medicine his physician finally found to help him. It was an anti-inflammatory, which was a little strange. I suffer with these headaches and hadn’t realized Grandpa did, too. I will bring the letter to my doc the next time I get a physical and ask about the med.
Maybe from the grave, Grandma Margie was trying to help me with my headaches.
And this is why I still love ghosts: sometimes they can surprise me.