Once upon a time, when I was five and my sister only two, our parents rented an old apartment in downtown Madrid, Spain. It was a fairly tall building because it had a balcony which sloped downward. I was terrified I would fall through the iron bars to the brick courtyard so far below.
My fear of falling stemmed from this time. Funny. I thought it came from falling off of the cliff, but it appears the roots were buried in my psyche a lot earlier.
The apartment had an aura to it. Some of you may understand what I mean.
It's as if the walls breathed.
The spirit which haunted us seemed to spend a lot of time in me and my sister's bedroom. I never felt any malignant intentions from it, but I'm pretty likeable.
My sister on the other hand told me a different story last night.
See, I was thinking about ghosts. This week has been dedicated to them...an impromptu GHOST WEEK on my blog inspired by Terri Bruce's HEREAFTER. I mentioned the ghost to my sister...she ended up describing the entity who still won't leave my mind after all these years. A tall man. Gaunt. Shadowed. Wearing a felt hat. He didn’t like her and tried to hit her with a broom. He would sit in the rocking chair. And the chair would rock, back and forth. It seemed more than just a drafty room or the tilt of the floor.
Then she said she saw this spirit in her house a few years ago.
Oh, yeah. She said the spirit walked past her bed as she tried to fall asleep. It saw her watching and lunged at her. Arms outstretched.
She said she screamed and closed her eyes. She began to pray, terrified. And the spirit vanished.
To my sister, this wasn't a peaceful entity. It frightened her.
Was he real or a figment of our shared experiences? I don't know for sure. I do know this man exists in our memories, and now, in the memories of those who read and share this post. He will continue to exist each time his story is told long after the tellers leave this earth. Too bad he has to be such a jerk in the afterlife.