To Whom it May Concern

I love a good ghost story. Not the horror or macabre kind – rather the type with a spirit that moves about like a whisper, taking comfort in the surroundings that were once part of their tangible life.

Sometimes they interact with the living, but more often roam imperceptibly as they’re passing through, taking a last glimpse or leaving a bit more of themselves, before fully moving on.

I was raised to believe in the Holy Ghost, and it was never a stretch to believe that other ghosts or spirits existed. So, yes, faith played a role in my love of ghost stories, but just as likely is the fact I love autumn the best.

In the Midwest, come late September into October, the turning of summer to fall takes on a beauty that is so stunning it can only have been painted by the hand of nature’s most holy of spirits. Those bright, early days of fall – with the sun at its peak in the sky and shadows cast from the leaves and branches that only the harvest season can bring. The tang of damp earth and ripe apples drift through the air and, some days, the smell of smoke from burning leaves in the distance comes through.

And, of course, there’s All Hallow’s Eve – shape-shifted now into a runaway commercial excuse to decorate homes with everything from glowing Jack-o-lanterns to the macabre collection of Goliath sized skeletons, Grim Reapers and bloodied appendages half-buried in front yards.

But once it was sacred, the one night when boundaries between this world and the next were lifted – spirits walked with the living; the living with the dead.

So, I suppose, it’s all these things – an unshakeable belief in an afterlife, a natural love of fall and curiosity about those who, for whatever reason, might drift, without notice for some interlude, that inspired my curiosity about ghosts and spirits at such an early age.

Naturally, as a young girl I chose easy, quaint stories; picture books with simple illustrations and equally simple plots. My favorite, Georgie, about a friendly ghost who made the doors squeak and the hall clock chime in the old house he inhabited, so the very old couple who lived there knew it was time for bed.

Years passed, the illustrations dissolved and the books grew in length as did my curiosity; was there really such a thing as a ghost?

In 1970 my family moved from Ypsilanti. The Catholic school we attended had been shuttered after my oldest sister’s graduation in June of that year and, without that anchor, my father’s commute to and from downtown Detroit each day could be reduced to less than a half-hour.

After an exhaustive search my mother fell in love with an older Cape Cod colonial on a tree-lined boulevard in a northern suburb of Detroit. The bones of the house were fine, but the previous owner had let what would have been the simplest of fixes fall, instead, into disrepair, making the home, and its needs, too daunting to most. But my mother saw beyond them. And so, on one of those bright, early days of fall – with the sun at its peak in the sky and shadows cast from the leaves and branches that only the harvest season could bring, we moved away from our hometown.

 ~ ~ ~

In retrospect that move was akin to a stone gaining speed as it rolls downhill. You don’t observe the changes, at first. The milestones begin to pass at a speed so fast you hardly notice.

We lived in that home for four years and each fall another sister, then a brother, graduated from high school and moved out, onto college and on with their lives. It was in the fall of that fourth year when my father accepted a promotion – and a transfer. By January we’d all be moving out.

It was late in the afternoon, the day before the movers pulled away with our life packed neatly in the Mayflower moving van, to take us to that rural Ohio town. The truck would be loaded over two days; the upstairs, including the walk-in attic had been cleared. My oldest brother, still home for winter break, led my sister, another brother and me up the steps to see it empty. After wandering the rooms on our own, we plunked ourselves in the corners of the largest bedroom, every movement echoing off the bareness. I marveled at how strange it felt. Lonely. Perhaps, I suggested, like a haunted house.

My brother, the leader of our expedition, looked at my sister and simply asked, “Should we tell her now?”

That was the afternoon I learned about all the unexplainable things that happened in the house over the past four years. He recounted them methodically, with a storyteller’s ease and flare, while I sat in awe: Footsteps bearing no one, ascending the stairs, then leaving again. A twirling ball of light; there one moment, gone the next. A rocking chair that rocked, with no one in it.

And so it had gone, not often but consistent. Not to all of us, but some. An item that was thought to have been misplaced reappeared in a different spot in the room, footsteps continued on occasion, the rocking chair seemed to be a favorite spot and, didn’t I remember, my brother asked, that time we were all at the dinner table when the attic fan in the upstairs hall turned on by itself, inhaling and then scattering ashes from the fireplace into the living room.

Did I remember that? Or had I convinced myself it was nothing, the way I had a few other times when something odd or illogical happened because I was young, and trying more to convince my family I was not so young.

I lay awake that evening on the living room couch, my bed tucked securely in the moving van outside. I felt cheated. So much had happened of which I had no knowledge –and wasn’t I the one who liked ghost stories the most? Though, if pressed, I’d have admitted I was a bit scared. Reading a ghost story was one thing; how would I react if I saw one? Would I know what I was seeing? If I knew, would I believe? How thin was that veil between this life and the next?

The following afternoon, before the moving van pulled away with our two-car caravan trailing its path, my brother slipped back upstairs, into the attic, and left a note tacked to a wooden beam:

To whom it may concern: This house is inhabited by a spirit. Not unfriendly, but very real.

~ ~ ~

Years passed. The story of our ghost faded into our individual and collective histories. Sometimes we talked about it, the telling more detailed and embellished; other times tamped down. We grew up, scattered and settled individually throughout the Midwest, the Plains, the South. We became the seven individuals our parents always hoped for, pursuing different interests, embarking on varied careers. Some of us married, others did not. Some were content. Others restless. Some travelled while some stayed close to home. Some went more left than our left-leaning parents; some more right. At some point or another we each judged the other. And sometimes, we simply turned away. But always, and then, just in time, we’d find our way back.

My mother passed in 2004; dad sixteen years later. Not by design, but by happy circumstances, I now live in the same town they retired to more than forty years ago. I tend their graves, planting marigolds in spring, placing mums in the fall and a bough of greens each Christmas. They’ve visited my dreams just a few times. And though they’ve never appeared to me in my waking hours, I know they’re close. Time has revealed it is, indeed, a thin veil between this world and the next.

My brother, the narrator of our ghost stories, passed two years ago. I’d like to say we were always close, but the beauty of the end of this story is that, for a while, we were not; and then we were. So very close.

He beat back the cancer. Once. Twice. And then he didn’t. But in the months before that final bout, we’d call each other often, talking about books, music, our hopes and fears, our lives and death – so much that, for too long, had been unsaid. We recommended novels, I sent him a few to read during his long treatments, and mentioned one I’d just finished, set in Paris; the details of the city so remarkable, I felt I was there again.

But he dismissed the recommendation; he’d been there once, for one day, and was pickpocketed in the few hours he had walked around. He didn’t even try to edit his thoughts: It was dirty, too much graffiti, thought it smelled like a sewer. I was disappointed he felt that way but, more than disappointed, hurt that he’d been so blunt. He knew how I felt, what Paris meant and how it inspired me, how the last time I’d been there included Mass at Notre Dame, just a few weeks before the fire that nearly destroyed it.

I thought he could have curbed his words, but I let it pass. I knew Paris was beautiful. He would be the first of our siblings to die, and we both knew that.

Months went by, winter surrendered to spring, spring gave us summer. But by late August the inevitable had taken hold. I hadn’t seen him in a long time; distance, the pandemic, his illness, work, travel – they all played a part. He entered hospice the first week of September and on the second Saturday I went to be with him.  

I sat in the parking lot for several minutes, collecting my thoughts, ensuring a few songs I wanted to listen to with him were cued and ready on my phone. His wife and one of their sons and daughter-in-law were there. After a few minutes together they excused themselves to give the two of us time alone.

Speech had left him by then; though he tried, and I tried to make it out. I thought he’d said something about Bruce, and nodded, but in his next attempt I heard beautiful instead. In the third attempt, beautiful was still there, though the rest was too vague. So instead, as only a baby sister could, I smiled and said, Oh –You think I look beautiful! A ghost of his smile crossed his face, and as I held his hand he began to drift, and I told him he was beautiful, too.

Sunday dawned in a brilliant blue; one of those bright, early days of fall when the sun, at its peak, cast the kind of shadows from leaves and branches that only the harvest season brings. The tang of damp earth and ripe apples drifted through the air and the smell of smoke from burning leaves in the distance came through. That was the day my brother died.

~ ~ ~

Early October, just a month on, found my husband and I walking through our town’s historic district. A gorgeous Saturday with warm temps and sunny skies, we stopped for a glass of wine at an outdoor spot, then moved on to a few other shops. As I perused the various items and trinkets, a wooden plaque with a whimsical illustration of a ghost, alone in a field, caught my eye. Surrounded by several words, in faded and broken script, it had the look of a postcard from long ago. One word, Paris, was the most legible. No wonder I had noticed it.

Touched by its simplicity, I decided the little French ghost would come home with me.

We spent most of the day outside – raking leaves, a long walk with the dog. We sat on the side porch until the sun set, the undeniable coming of dark so much earlier with each passing day. A chilly breeze came up with the moon and, once inside, we lit a fire and settled in for the evening.

I sat near the fireplace and, occasionally, would glance at the plaque I had placed on the hearth earlier that afternoon. Then I’d start wondering – about heaven. Spirits. What comes next. And the more I gazed at the little ghost, all alone in that field, the more the entire illustration began to sharpen. That’s when I saw the three words. They were so clear, how could I have missed them earlier? Amid the faded, longer message in script, one simple phrase stood out:

Paris is – Beautiful.

~ ~ ~

I love a good ghost story. The kind with a spirit that moves about like a whisper, giving comfort to those who were once part of their tangible life.

I miss the narrator of our earlier ghost stories. Whether they all happened the way they were recounted is irrelevant. Because my brother was right: That house, this world, this life – it is inhabited by spirits. Not unfriendly. But very real.