This Is Not a Ghost Story

The ghosts were there, everyone knew it, and in a lot of ways we all had gotten used to them. There was Mattie and John, an old Italian couple—they guess was they had passed sometime in the early 1800’s. And Frances, who was sweet, but had a tendency to sneak up on people. We weren’t sure if she did it on purpose because she secretly liked scaring us, or maybe just shy and didn’t realize how creepy it was to see a middle-aged English woman in your bathroom mirror while you were shaving. Either way, she was always so apologetic about it we mostly overlooked it.

There were the twins, Jill and Will, who were always together— no matter what. They died young and we figured hand never spent any time apart, from their time in the womb together, up until the time they died.

There was Jackie, Fred, little Jong, Maria, Lisa and a few others I had never really met. All in all, we lived normal lives, dead and living, mostly keeping to ourselves. But recently, over the past few weeks, things were changing.

Part of the reason we all got along so well was because the ghosts were quiet—and not in a scary, what-was-that way! Mostly they whispered when they spoke and hardly made any sound at all when they walked—no matter how squeaky the floor boards might be. But now, something had changed — what started off as whispers were now screams, scary cover-your-ears-and-hide-the-in-the-closet screams, sometimes blood curling screams. Everyone—all of the living that is—had decided someone had to figure out what was going on—and for reasons I’ll get into later—I was the one hired to get some answers.

—

During my first trip I laid down closed my eyes and let my mind open.

A horse without a rider appears…it used to have a rider. It runs with the backdrop of a picturesque mountain, the terrain is flat, somewhere in between desert and forest.

A black horse with a stark white main and a purposeful gallop.

I always wonder why my, well let’s just call them visions, are always so abstract.

They’re not dreams, because dreams are not really things that we know will come true. But I’ve learned that my visions are of past lives. I never know if it’s the past life of one of the dead that inhabit our town or a random person I will never meet. Of course, most of us never meet dead people after they’re dead, but then again, l I’m not most people.

And now, I’m inside the cabin. It’s slightly recognizable, but not from something I’ve seen, it’s a memory—something that has never happened—or has yet to happen.

It might sound strange, but her light was the first thing I noticed. Not bright, or even noticeable really—but it was there. Like something compared to an instinct—that unexplainable feeling one will never truly understand. There was something familiar, no in time or place, but somehow, I knew she held the answers I sought.

As a fire appeared in the fireplace, she beckoned me to sit next to her.

And so, this is when the next chapter began.

A question came to my lips, but before I could speak, she touched my hand.

“Time” she said, “we have time.”

And so I laid back, closed my eyes. and listened to the sounds of the burning fire.

After what seemed like hours, she touched my hand again.

“We did know each other once, in another lifetime,” she said. As she spoke, she went from next to me to directly in front of the fire. She did not move as much as she simply occupied a new space.

With all that I’ve been through, and all that I know, not much surprises me anymore.

But now, I was clearly what is a live person who is telling me that we knew each other in another life. Looking at her face and listening to her voice, all I could think is: How come I don’t remember?