The Ghulahans

My father was a blunt man, blunt in his attitudes and his thoughts. Oh not stupid, not by any means, he just came from a time when people were poor and people had to work, REALLY work to survive. And this had made him…blunt. Being blunt, he was not given to flights of fancy – he once told me he didn’t believe in ghosts, or aliens or the para-normal. Why? I asked. “Because, where are they?” He replied. “Of all those people who have died, many in pain and in fear, where are these millions of ghosts? If aliens were real, then why didn’t they make themselves known to us as either teachers or more likely conquerors? After all, ranchers didn’t fight range wars so they could teach bulls to wear jeans and not to fuck in public. They fought these wars for land, territory and wealth. This is the way of the universe, not some little green men helping people for no good reason”. So that is why he did not believe. Because he could not see it. Being a disrespectful smart ass, I countered with “what about God? You can’t see him, don’t you believe in him?” He looked at me with his stern, annoyed face and simply said: “that’s different”.

But it was some time later that I discovered that he didn’t believe in God after all. Once while he was “in his cups”, the topic came up again. That’s when I found out that he had lost his faith long ago. You see my father, the blunt man, had once been a soldier. A soldier for 30 years and he had served in both Korea and Vietnam. I knew from my uncles that he had seen action…lots of action, both in the cold hills of Korea and in the Mekong Delta. When I discovered that we only went to church to placate my mother, and that he did not pray, I asked why? He told me: “I have seen many boys die. And too many I have murdered myself. And almost all who still could did the same thing…they prayed. White, black, yellow, brown…they prayed. Ours or theirs…they prayed. I have heard prayers in English, Spanish, French and the mumbo jumbo they spoke. Not one prayer was answered. NOT. EVEN. ONE.” This is how he lost his faith…desperate unanswered prayers…

So why am I telling you this? Simple: background. See when I was a little boy I once asked my blunt, no nonsense father to tell me a story. He never told me stories before – NEVER – and he never told me another story again. So he proceeded to tell me the one and only story I ever heard from him. He told me the story of the ghulahans…

The ghulahans? What are they Daddy? I asked.

The ghulahans are those things who live in the places between places, he answered.

Daddy, what do the ghulahans do?

They take.

Daddy, what do they take?

What they want. People, things. No one knows why or where they take them. They just do. All I know is that they never give back.

Daddy, what do the ghulahans look like?

They look like cats –

Cats? Why would they be cats?

I did not say they WERE cats. I said they LOOK like cats. Cats with four eyes.

So they are kitty cats with four eyes?

No. You are not listening. They are not cats with four eyes. They simply LOOK like cats, cats with four eyes. They look that way because the truth…well, the truth would be too much for us. But that’s enough for tonight.

I know, I know. It wasn’t much of a story. Maybe even a little stupid. But for almost 20 years, when I walked alone at night and I felt that…feeling, you know the one, the sixth sense, or the primitive animal fear. The feeling that something is…there. I would look around and there it was: a cat. A beautiful cat, grey and black tiger striped. It shadowed me, never getting close. And then it would slink away…maybe it just was not my time to be taken? And then I laughed and said to myself: “Stupid fucking story!” I laughed some more, and I just kept walking.

But there’s more to my tale, just one more wrinkle. My father died almost 22 years ago. But the day before he passed I was with him at the old Walter Reed. And I said: “Hey, remember that story that you told me when I was a kid. The ghulahans?” And the blunt man, the man who was never given to flights of fancy, the man who had lost his faith, turned his head to look out the window and softly said: “yeah. Not much longer and then I will see the places between places.”

That’s the last conversation he and I ever had – it was a Sunday night. The doctor’s told my mother and me that he could go home in the morning. Then just after midnight on Monday, my mother called me to tell me some of the worst news I ever heard: “something terrible has happened. Dad died.” Through my numb feeling of shock, as I was listening to her devastated voice on the phone. I looked out the window of my small, first floor apartment…and I saw IT in the street lights…a cat, a beautiful grey and black tiger striped cat. And I guess it was the tears in my eyes, but I could swear I saw the smile and those four green eyes…

Like I said earlier. That was almost 22 years ago. And when I walk by myself at night and I get that feeling, I don’t stop. I don’t look around. And I certainly don’t laugh and say “stupid fucking story”. I do however keep walking. I keep walking, I pick up my pace and I whisper to myself: “Please. Please don’t let this be my night to be taken”.