The “Visitor”

If a man harbors any sort of fear, it percolates through all his thinking,

damages his personality, makes him landlord to a ghost.

—Lloyd C. Douglas

__________________

It was kind of odd, the thing that came at me just a few weeks back. Over Labor Day weekend, was when it happened. And it was a little unsettling. I’m not sure where to go with it, so I guess I’ll just tell the story.

I live in a fairly old house. Well, not old, as they think old in Europe, or anything. Near as I can tell, my house was built in the 1920s, sometime. It’s made of brick. Two full stories. A full basement. And a full attic. Lots of old wood, to creak and groan around at night in the wind. I’ve lived all alone, too, here in the old house. Tenants came and went, over the years, and most of them were a good riddance when they left. This time, before the current tenant came wandering along, I had lived alone for two-plus years. It never bothered me. Actually, I liked the solitude. No fuss or hassles. No one around, to worry about. No one around but me. But I sure did miss that rent money.

The tenant got here last year, in the spring. The man has been real good for my place. And totally fine, to have around. He doesn’t bother me. We talk, when we see each other. Now and then, we’ll sit out on the front porch, outside his door, and drink a beer or something I mixed up. He knows the territory, he’s been around. If I need a contact of some kind, he usually knows who to talk to. He’s not religious, that I know of. We’ve chatted, now and then, about it. He gave me his sympathies, back when Mom passed away last spring. And told me in detail of how his own Mom had passed. I never told him I write. As far as I know, he still has no idea I ever wrote a book. He never even knew I was an attorney, until I mentioned it offhand, a few weeks back. He about had a fit. I figure when and if he ever finds out about the book, he’ll probably have another fit. And I’ll give him a copy. That day might come, or it might not. So far, it hasn’t.

What I’m saying is, the man is a solid, rational man, who’s been around the block a few times. Not given to telling wild tales. But it was kind of strange, back in July, when I got back from my road trip. I had been gone for ten days. No worries, though, about things at home. I just tell the tenant the dates I’ll be gone. He gathers my mail for me, and keeps an eye on the place. I feel very good about having someone like that around when I’m gone.

When I got back that Saturday afternoon, he was around. He brought my bag of mail to the door, and knocked. I opened it, and we stood there and talked. Thanks, I said, taking the mail. “No problem,” he said. Then: “Man, I’m glad to see you back. This old house makes some very strange noises at night.” I’m sure it does, I said. It’s old, and creaks and groans some. But at least the furnace is turned off, downstairs. It doesn’t clank and rattle, at least not during the summer. “It makes some very strange noises,” he said again. But he didn’t seem all that perturbed about anything. And we left it at that, as far as any strange noises the house makes. But I thought about it later, what he had said. It was just an odd comment, I thought.

Labor Day Saturday, early afternoon. I was fixing to leave to run some errands, see some friends. A beautiful sunny day. The tenant had the big garage door open, his car parked outside, the front wheels up on ramps. He’s always tinkering with that thing. I ambled out to chat a bit. He told me what he was doing, some little repair. He was sipping a cold beer, and offered me a can. Nah, thanks, I’m driving here, shortly, I said. He stood there and took another sip. Then he looked at me very strangely, kind of sideways. And then he spoke.

“Have you ever considered the fact that your house might be haunted?” He asked. A question I sure wasn’t expecting. And as I like to say now and then. Well, what do you do with that? He kept looking at me, half sheepishly. And then he got to telling me a few stories.

“You know,” he said. “I’ve never been one to pay much attention to such stuff. But I’m telling you, there is something in your house. I’ve heard it walking, clear as a bell, when no one else was around. Usually of a morning, after you leave for work. The steps are as heavy as yours, so I figure it has to be a man about your size.”

Ah, are you sure? I was a little dubious. I’ve never felt anything like that, except once. I can tell you a pretty freaky story. But I’ve never sensed any presence around me downstairs, ever. And I’m up late, often, on my computer. You know that, you probably hear me when I go to bed. Are you sure it’s not the cleaning lady, of a morning like that? She comes around once a month, and she has a key to get in.

He shook his head. Dismissively. “No, it’s not her. I hear you walking down there all the time. And I know what footsteps sound like. I know when I hear them. And it’s someone as heavy as you. And I haven’t heard it that often. Maybe ten, a dozen times. But the one morning, it was so clear that I thought it must be you. I actually walked around and looked out all the windows, to make sure your truck wasn’t parked where it usually isn’t. It wasn’t. You were gone. Those footsteps down there were as clear as yours ever are.”

And we talked about it. Strangely, there was one emotion that didn’t come to me. And that was fear. I felt none. This was my home. I won’t be afraid in my own home. The tenant told me he had felt a presence of some kind, upstairs, on different occasions. And once or twice, in his little living room, he caught movement out of the edge of his eye, as if someone were there. I wasn’t sure what to make of it all. The tenant is a calm and steady man, from all I’ve ever seen of him. Not given to hallucinations, he has no habit of excessive drinking that I ever saw, anyway. I drink way more than he does.

I’ve never felt any presence like that, I told him. Never. Never felt any malevolence from anything in that house. But I’ll tell you a little story. I’ve ever only told one person before. A thing that happened about three years ago. He looked at me, very interested. And I told him. I got home from work one day. Normal day. And I noticed the round wall clock, up behind the TV. It was stopped. I forget the exact minute, but sometime earlier that day. No big deal, I figured. The battery had just died. I’d just change it. The clock is hard to get to, up in that corner. I struggled around and finally lifted it from the nail it hung on.

It was a clock Dad had given me, years before. A “bird” clock. Every hour had a picture of a different bird. And if you put two batteries in the lower slot, you’d hear that bird singing or chirping on the hour. I never was interested in hearing those birds. So I never put any batteries in the bottom slot. The clock was just a clock, with a single battery in the top slot, to make it run.

I looked at the clock in my hands. Turned to the back, to remove the battery. And a chill shot through me. The battery had been removed from the top slot, and inserted into the bottom slot, where it took two, to make the birds sing. The battery had been removed from where it was that morning.

That freaked me out pretty bad, I told the tenant. I could find nothing else out of place, in all the house. I mean, I looked. I had stuff lying around, stuff you could easily pick up. Everything was exactly as I’d left it that morning, except for the battery in that clock. And for some reason, I thought of a ghost, a spirit, right then. Something had done that. I was pretty freaked out, at that moment. Oh, yes, I was. And I was a little jumpy for the next week or so. And I wrote a little note, and stuck it on the clock. Whoever you are, whatever you are, stop it. I will come after you if you don’t.

The tenant looked all wise when I finished. “It hasn’t happened often, that I heard something,” he said. “But believe me, I heard it.” I do believe you, I said. And he told me more. He woke up in the middle of the night, once. His bedroom door was cracked open, about a foot. “And as sure as I’m standing here talking to you, I could feel someone behind that door, looking at me,” he said. “I got up with a flashlight and walked over and opened it. Nothing was there. Do you know what the history of your house is? Did anyone ever die in there, in a bad way?”

I don’t know, I said. I know a previous tenant tried to overdose once, with pills, in my bedroom. He didn’t get it done, though.

“Well, it couldn’t be him, then,” the tenant actually chuckled. “If he didn’t get it done, it couldn’t be him.” I agreed. It’s usually a suicide when the spirits stay. Or often, anyway. I don’t know anything about the history of my house. I left then, to see my friends, and run my errands. The tenant was working away, at his car.

I got back around five or so. And I had it on my mind, what he’d told me. I wanted to talk to him some more about it. So I texted him. You got a minute? He came right down, handed me a cold beer, and we sat out on the front porch and talked.

I asked him a lot of specific questions, about what he had heard. And he was adamant. Well, I said. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll mention it to my pastor. See what he thinks about it. Maybe I can have him come over and put that spirit to rest. The tenant looked at me. “I have no problem with that, if he knows what he’s doing,” he said. Oh, I trust my pastor, I said. If he tells me he can do it, he can do it. We sat there and sipped our beers, and got to talking about a lot of other things.

I believe places can be haunted. I totally do. I believe there are ghosts, and such things as spirits, mostly unseen and unheard. I don’t know how you can be a Christian, and not believe in them. They are there, in a spiritual world. Thing is, all my life, I have never, never “tempted the spirits.” I’ve never dabbled in anything even remotely, that would make such entities show up. I’ve never visited a fortune teller, never consulted a medium. I would never play with any Ouija Board. That kind of stuff is not for me. I would never walk into a “haunted house’ at night to see what I can see. I just don’t want to go there, I never have. It’s best to leave alone what you don’t understand. That’s how I’ve always felt, what I’ve always believed.

And now, here’s my tenant, a totally rational man, telling me he’s hearing things in my house. Below him, right where I live. I don’t know. I can’t help but believe him. Or at least I believe he’s telling me what he believes he heard. This is an older house. There are all kinds of pipes running through it. Hot water, cold water. And those pipes make all kinds of noises, when they contract and expand. Rational thought, to me, goes like this. I take a shower, every morning. And then I leave. Who knows, what kinds of noises the water pipes make, after all that hot water just flowed through them? Not saying it’s one way or the other. Just saying, that’s where my mind goes, trying to rationalize what the tenant’s telling me. But on the other hand, he’s telling me he heard those footsteps only ten to a dozen times, in the year and a half he’s lived here. It’s all kind of weird.

Other than that freaky clock battery incident, I have never, never felt any presence down here in my part of the house but my own. Never. I’ve never sensed anything. Never seen any “movement” out of the corner of my eye. And I’ve never been afraid. This is my home. This is where I live. You can’t live in fear in your own home.

The next morning, after church, I didn’t get a chance to chat with Pastor Mark. I had to leave a few minutes early, for a cookout more than an hour away. The next day, Labor Day, I was just lounging around that afternoon. And I decided I’d call him. So I did. He didn’t act all that surprised to hear from me, until I hemmed around a bit. Do you believe a house can be haunted? I asked.

“Yes, I believe that,” he answered. “Why do you ask?” Well, I’d come this far. So I plunged right on in. The tenant swears my house is haunted, I told him. A slight pause. He was still on the line. At least he hadn’t hung up on me. Or called me crazy.

“Well, tell me about it,” he said. And I did. Told him all the stuff the tenant had told me. How he had clearly heard footsteps, right down here where I live. Right here, in my house, when no one’s home.

I give the man a lot of credit. How many pastors get a call like that, from anyone attending their church? My house might be haunted. Pastor Mark didn’t blink an eye. He engaged. First, of course, he went through all the rational things. Old house, creaking timbers, creaking floors, thumping pipes. Things that go “bump” in the night. Combine all that with the human imagination, and it’s very real, what you hear. Yeah, yeah, I said. That’s what I told the tenant. I’ve never sensed any presence here, except once. And I told him about the clock battery. He absorbed that. Someone snuck into your house and did that. He didn’t say it. But I could hear him thinking it.

It all doesn’t matter, I guess, I said. I feel no fear. I’ve never felt any fear, living here. But I’m intrigued by what the tenant’s telling me. He’s a rational man. And he’s not leaving, or anything. But I believe him, when he tells me what he heard.

And Pastor Mark told me. There has to be a portal, somewhere, for a spirit to enter and settle. He took the worst case scenario. “Let’s say there was a mass murderer, down there in the basement. And let’s say he slit a whole bunch of victims’ throats, then committed suicide. Right down there, in your basement. Yes, I could see where evil spirits would enter and stay, and haunt your house. But they have no authority, to physically hurt you. They don’t.”

There’s no record of any such thing in my basement, that I’m aware of, I told him.

“That’s the most extreme example,” he said. “There are lesser ways, lesser portals, for a spirit to enter.” And he mentioned an example. I don’t have a problem with that particular thing, I said.

And then I thought about it, and I asked my pastor. Could that portal be alcohol? I drink. More than I should. (I’m fixing to do something about that real soon, now.) Which he already knew. Because I told him. And now I was asking. Could that be it?

He didn’t hesitate. “No,” he said. “That’s a chemical thing, alcohol. That in and of itself will never open your house to any spirit. What you do when you’re under the influence might. But not the alcohol alone. It’s a chemical thing, by itself.”

We chatted for a few more minutes, then wrapped it up. “It could be something natural, like imagination combined with the house creaking. It could be a spirit, or it could just be a mystery,” he said. “We live free in Christ. And in the end, if you want, we can walk through the house and rebuke whatever it is that’s in your home. In the name of Jesus. I’ll be glad to do it. That is your home. You own it. And you can tell anything that shouldn’t be there to leave, because Jesus is Lord over all.”

His words were calming. But still, I wasn’t quite ready to go that far, right now. Look, I told him. I’m leaving soon for a week. The tenant doesn’t want a lot of hassle. So let’s leave it as it is, for right now. I’ve never felt anything, any malevolent force in my home, except maybe for that clock. And the tenant doesn’t seem all that eager, to get anyone else involved. I’m leaving for a week, for the beach. Let’s just wait until I get back, and we’ll go from there. If the tenant keeps hearing things, I’ll get back to you, and we’ll do the walk-through. “Certainly, that’s no problem,” he said. And that’s how we left it.

And that’s where it all is right now. Just resting. Waiting.

*****************************************

And yes, that beautiful magical time is here again. Beach Week. We head out tomorrow, for a full week of relaxation and no drama. And I am beyond ready for it. This has been a tough, tough year. In more ways than one. It’s been a while, since I’ve seen one like it. There have been hard things, there have been sad things, and real joy has been sparse. I have never claimed more than a mustard seed of faith. This year, sometimes, even that tiny little seed seemed to be slipping away. But I grasped it, held on to it, because there was nothing else to do. God is always there, even when He doesn’t seem to be. I know that, and I hold on.

I am so, so tired. Weary, right down to my bones. And I am ready to breathe again the salt air of the sea, to absorb the sound of those crashing, calming waves. Ready to relax and let it all sink in. Ready to rest my heart and cleanse my soul.

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