The only ghost story that happened to me
Over on Bluesky, Georgina Kiersten was asking for folks’ stories of hauntings. I have one, but thought I’d share it here instead. It’s seasonally appropriate, after all.
Last summer, I stayed at the Highlights Retreat with a group of other queer writers. The retreat is set on a historic farm, and it’s an incredibly beautiful spot to spend a stretch of time writing. They have different accommodations, including private cabins, but I was staying in the Farmhouse.
The first thing I thought when I went inside was that I’d somehow stumbled into my grandparents’ old house, the one they’d lived in before downsizing and moving to a condo, then an assisted living community. If you check out the photos from the gallery, you’ll know what I mean: patterned wallpaper, beige and plaid furniture, midcentury tchotchkes, shelves lined with clothbound books printed a hundred years ago, creaky beds framed in old dark-stained wood. It was homey, but in a slightly unwelcoming way. Like I had to be on my best behavior (also like my grandmother’s old house).
After dinner (which was excellent, the food situation at this retreat is incredible), I was carrying my things inside from the car. I had to make multiple trips, because I tend towards overpacking.
I didn’t realize until I’d walked across the house that I hadn’t taken off my shoes.
I grew up in a shoes-inside family; our home was drafty, badly insulated, full of pets, and also full of half-feral white teenagers that did not contribute to keeping a clean house. I’m now firmly in the shoes-off-at-the-door camp since moving to NYC and marrying an Indian woman. The farmhouse even had a shoe mat by the door, but I’d walked right past it in my hurry to put my stuff down.
I knew I’d fucked up. There weren’t actual rules for staying in the farmhouse, at least none that I saw. But the house had a presence, and that presence did not approve of me wearing my boots to walk across the beige carpet. It was an unpleasantly childish feeling; when you’ve screwed up and gotten caught, and now have to wait for a punishment.
That night, I had my first (and only, so far) episode of sleep paralysis. I was in bed, in the hinterlands of not-quite consciousness, completely unable to move. This tremendous pressure dropped over me, crushing me into the mattress. I couldn’t breathe for a second, until it moved through me. I took a breath, braced myself, and it happened again: immense weight bearing down on me, dragging down through my bones and organs, and then releasing me again. I don’t remember waking up, the way I usually do from nightmares. I must have dropped into deeper sleep instead.
If asked, I’d say I don’t really believe in ghosts, but ghost stories always interest me. Colin Dickey has a great book, Ghostland, that’s all about how ghost stories often function as proxies or band-aids for forgotten or uncomfortable histories, and I tend to subscribe to that.
But when I got up the next morning, I went to the kitchen where the shoe mat was, and apologized out loud for not taking them off before walking through the house. I said that I’d be a much better guest from now on.
Nothing else happened, but I did find myself completely unable to work on the time loop novella I’d planned to write during that trip. Instead, I ended up working on notes about a haunted house book. I only am now wondering if there’s maybe a connection there.
When I came back this summer, I elected to stay in one of the cabins. They have en-suite bathrooms, and no ghosts as far as I can tell. At least two of the staff at the retreat made a point of asking if I was staying in the farmhouse, and when I told them no, it was extremely haunted, they agreed with me and told me all about the grandmotherly presence that seems to live (or whatever) there, walking its empty floors and standing at windows to scare/inspire the writers staying there.
[I do also have a story about maybe getting momentarily possessed by a haunted doll, but that’s not technically a ghost story, so it’ll wait for another day.]
News:
I’m doing a pre-order campaign for Dead Girls Don’t Dream, which is out 11/12. Order your copy through Astoria Bookshop to get a free postcard and a zine that I’m writing and Nibs is illustrating.
If you’re in or near NYC and want to come to the book launch event, I’ll be talking with Vincent Tirado about queer horror, folklore/creepypasta, and writing for teens and adults at the bookshop on 11/12.
If you already ordered Dead Girls elsewhere or want to support your local shop, I’ll still send you a postcard! Add your info here.
I’m doing a fun “This or That: Horror Audition” with a couple of fellow YA authors next week! This event is online and free, and you can hear me try to decide whether I’d be possessed by a haunted doll or deal with a creepy clown. (If you want to hear my story of almost getting possessed by a haunted doll, be sure to tune in.) Register for the event here.
Nibs has some very cute autumnal jewelry (as well a new dice set!) for sale up at the Peculiarity Shop. Get them before they’re gone!