Post by Salzmank on Mar 19, 2019 22:39:58 GMT
I’d like there to be, but I’m agnostic on it. On the other hand, I can’t quite say “no”… Gah. This question always gets to me. At the risk of repetitiveness, here are my two “ghost stories”—the only two possibly supernatural events that have ever happened to me (I’m leaving out the time my mother and I had the same dream 40 years apart, or things like precognition—those don’t involve ghosts, or possible ghosts):
Attempts at debunking are more than welcome (as long as it’s not “your dad is lying.” He resolutely does not believe in anything supernatural and would not have started or kept up such a ruse).
The first one happened the first time I traveled to Italy—along with my parents and a few other family-members. One of the places we visited in Venice is San Michele, a cemetery-island. It’s not really where most tourists would go, but it was pretty interesting and even calming compared to the rest of the city.
Well, when we arrived there was this funeral procession just leaving, with everyone dressed up the way you’d imagined they did 100 years ago. It was like going in back in time.
I was there with my father, my uncle, and my cousin (the rest of our party were off shopping) and after looking into some of the creepy, horror movie-esque tombs I went exploring the other side of the island (it’s small enough that there’s no real chance of getting lost).
I walked into one above-ground crypt (or whatever the right word is—it was modern-looking, not like the tombs near the entrance), and suddenly I heard my father screaming my name.
So I ran back towards the entrance, and I saw my dad rushing towards me like I was rushing towards him. I said something something like “Is everything OK?” and he said, “What do you mean? Why were you yelling, ‘Dad!’?”
I explained what had happened to me, and he said that at the some moment he had heard me screaming “Dad!” over and over again. He swore he hadn’t yelled my name. My uncle and cousin were near the entrance. There was no one else on the island after the funeral procession had left. I still can’t figure it out.
Well, when we arrived there was this funeral procession just leaving, with everyone dressed up the way you’d imagined they did 100 years ago. It was like going in back in time.
I was there with my father, my uncle, and my cousin (the rest of our party were off shopping) and after looking into some of the creepy, horror movie-esque tombs I went exploring the other side of the island (it’s small enough that there’s no real chance of getting lost).
I walked into one above-ground crypt (or whatever the right word is—it was modern-looking, not like the tombs near the entrance), and suddenly I heard my father screaming my name.
So I ran back towards the entrance, and I saw my dad rushing towards me like I was rushing towards him. I said something something like “Is everything OK?” and he said, “What do you mean? Why were you yelling, ‘Dad!’?”
I explained what had happened to me, and he said that at the some moment he had heard me screaming “Dad!” over and over again. He swore he hadn’t yelled my name. My uncle and cousin were near the entrance. There was no one else on the island after the funeral procession had left. I still can’t figure it out.
There is a property near where I grew up called the Gardiner Farm. It is still a working farm, but around fifty years ago it was owned by the Gardiners, four siblings (two sisters and two brothers) who never married and just all lived together, farming and selling their goods from their front porch. When they died, they left the house and grounds to the county, which, as noted, still uses it for a working farm. There is a fun, silly event there every year called the “Pickle Festival.” The farmhouse is closed now, but it used to be open for tours during the festival.
Basically, there was a Lizzy Borden-esque murder that took place there about 150 years ago: the four siblings’ grandparents were murdered by a farmhand. Heads bashed in near the fireplace.
Then we entered another room. I was immediately struck by a terrible feeling of coldness (as clichéd as it gets), a nasty, sickening feeling in the air—like a hospital ward. I had to leave the room. When the rest of the group came out, I asked the tour guide if anything had happened in the room.
She said no, the murder had happened near the fireplace and that nothing had happened in that room. She said no again but asked one of the older tour guides, who said that, no, nothing had happened in that room, but that after the murders that had been where they laid out the bodies for the wake.
Basically, there was a Lizzy Borden-esque murder that took place there about 150 years ago: the four siblings’ grandparents were murdered by a farmhand. Heads bashed in near the fireplace.
Then we entered another room. I was immediately struck by a terrible feeling of coldness (as clichéd as it gets), a nasty, sickening feeling in the air—like a hospital ward. I had to leave the room. When the rest of the group came out, I asked the tour guide if anything had happened in the room.
She said no, the murder had happened near the fireplace and that nothing had happened in that room. She said no again but asked one of the older tour guides, who said that, no, nothing had happened in that room, but that after the murders that had been where they laid out the bodies for the wake.