Johnny, Don't Go!

"The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window…,” Lynn whispered as I sipped on a sloshy, half-melted margarita. It was a balmy, September night at Lake Santee, illuminated by the glow of the full moon. I held tight to my tiger’s eye necklace, like any good witch would do when there’s blood on the moon. As a kid growing up in the 90s, Practical Magic taught me so much.

Every hour or so, a boat would drift slowly across the water, cloaked in a hazy fog, like mere ghosts of the summer that was coming to a rapid close. Endings have always been difficult for me, even something as routine and banal as the ending of one season as it blossoms into the next. But I felt a certain kind of magic that night as the spirit of Halloween felt near and palpable. I’ve always had an affinity for the fall. I find it comforting how all living things agree to die at the same time. There’s a deep trust and loyalty in that.

Lynn predictably concluded his story with, “…and she was never, ever, seen again,” holding his breath for our reaction. I widened my eyes and feigned fright. “Wow Lynn…,” Suki cooed with the kind of support only a wife could muster. “That was terrifying, honey,” she assured him. He smirked and took a swig of his beer.

Earlier that day I proposed that we all take turns telling ghost stories by the fire that night. It was our last weekend of the summer at the lake after all. I felt we needed to commemorate the occasion in a spooky way, but only under the condition that the stories were true events that we personally experienced. I’m the type of person who will unflinchingly listen to someone’s traumas within seconds of meeting, so this makes sense for me. I’ve had my fair share of paranormal experiences to choose from since I was a kid, and I have to remind myself that not everyone experiences visits from the dead as a part of their normal day-to-day life. But to my surprise and delight, everyone agreed to participate. My dad, being the stubborn competitor that he is, upped the ante by suggesting that we also make it a contest and choose a winner at the end. Eye roll.

It was quickly approaching midnight, and everyone had gone around the circle and told their lackluster stories. It didn’t really matter that the content was seriously lacking. I successfully traumatized everyone with my story of breaking and entering at 432 Abercorn St., the most infamous haunted house (and active crime scene) in Savannah, Georgia the previous Halloween. The events that transpired that night would make anyone with a pulse shudder. It was not my aim to turn this night into a contest, but nonetheless, I felt confident that I would be winning this round. Dad decided to go last, which I knew was all strategy. He wanted to size up the competition and determine what he was up against. He had always been a great storyteller, but I still felt very confident.

His demeanor turned serious as he began his story. It was as if he was mentally untangling some dark secret he had buried long ago. I sipped what was left of my margarita and braced myself. He told us of his time as a young cop in 1976, when he was just embarking on his career and doing everything to earn his rank at the department. He wasn’t prepared to see some of the horrific crime scenes that he was called to, but he quickly learned to compartmentalize these things as an act of survival.

I had already heard a lot of this growing up, but what I didn’t know is that my dad was plagued with a recurring nightmare that followed him from childhood into adulthood. The details of the dream were ever-changing and a bit fuzzy, but it always culminated in him being locked in a burning house with a nun charging at him, screaming “Johnny! Don’t go!” She was on fire, being burned alive, and she relentlessly followed him from dream to dream. Always screaming. No matter how hard he prayed and pleaded with God to make it stop, she wouldn’t go away.

Growing up Catholic, he believed this was his fault; that he must have done something sinful and this was the punishment he had to endure. He never told anyone about this, for fear of judgment, even though he often lost sleep over it and suffered greatly. He became so desperate for relief that he ultimately sought help from a therapist, but it was short-lived. Therapy was not discussed much at the time, certainly not among cops. It was taboo. If you sought therapy on the job and someone found out, they may find you unable to withstand the pressures of being a cop. This was my dad’s fear. So he buried it.

One night when he was out patrolling, he was called to a house where a hysterical woman suspected her neighbor, Ms. Ann, was in danger. Ann was an old woman who lived alone, and nobody had been able to get a hold of her for days. When my dad arrived with his partner, he noticed that the door felt hot to the touch. He could smell smoke. In a panic they alerted the fire department and busted through the door. The smoke was so thick inside the house, that he could not breathe. He felt that he could easily get lost in the suffocating thickness of it, but he needed to find her. They heard a small cry and whimper coming from a nearby room. Covering their mouths and noses with their elbow, they trudged through and found her lifeless body on the floor.

It was then that my dad’s voice cracked as he recalled the way in which her hair was all aflame, yet her eyes were wide open in a sort of fixed, eerie calm. He brought his hand to his mouth, triggered by the haunting memory of it. He collected himself and continued on with the story.

She was murmuring softly to herself in Latin, something my dad recognized from his Catholic upbringing in the 1950s. It was as if she was making her transition to the spirit world right in front of their eyes. They swiftly picked her up and pulled her out of the house. She was badly burned and covered in soot, black wetness lining the corners of her mouth as she gasped for air. My dad fell to the ground, struggling for air himself. He administered CPR as best as he could while they waited for EMS to arrive. He detailed how he kept trying to save her, despite knowing deep down that she would not survive. He had a hard time accepting this and did not want to lose her. Just as he had to break for air momentarily, she turned and looked directly into his eyes in an eerie stillness. He stared back at her in disbelief as she slowly murmured, “I know you…I know you…” He froze. Her stare intensified as she grew increasingly incensed and began shrieking, “Johnny! Johnny! Johnny!”

I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise. The melty mix of ice cubes that were once in my glass were now on the grass by my feet. It was then that my dad started to sob, as we sat around the crackling fire, quiet, while he struggled to recall the terrifying way in which she screamed while looking him dead in the eyes. I debated telling him to stop the story. I could see how disturbing this was for him, and honestly for all of us. But we were in too deep.

He continued with the story. Just as her shrieks reached a crescendo, her glassy eyes turned from rage to sudden surprise as she took one last haggard breath, and slowly released the remaining bit of life force into my dad’s gasping mouth. “And then… she was gone,” he whispered, tears streaming down his face. He was shaking. I felt a knot form in my throat.

He continued to tell how he attended her funeral shortly after. But he could not bring himself to look at her in the coffin. Against all reason, he feared that he might see her eyes staring back at him in that same terrifying way. It wouldn’t be a couple weeks before he found out, upon further research, that she was actually one of the nuns at his Catholic school when he was a child. Sister Ann Margarette.

The sound of cicadas filled the air, along with the crackling firewood and my dad’s sniffles. We were out in the vast nature of Greensburg, Indiana, but it was as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Just as I was letting it all sink in, mouth agape, I heard the faint sound of… a laugh? It felt cruel, like a mocking ghost. Surely nobody here would be laughing after such a story. The laughter continued to grow. I sat up straight as I realized how close it felt. I turned my flashlight on and pointed it directly at my dad, whose face had contorted into a laughing, crying mess. Cackling he cried, “Got you! I got you! You should’ve seen your faces!”

I mentioned once before that my dad is a great storyteller. He also happens to be a great actor. Never trust a highly competitive man, even if it’s your own father.