I’ve always been superstitious for fun but believed in paranormal because nothing like Barbie dolls or Legos ever worked for me as a child. I had a weird obsession of breaking grandma’s crystal glasses behind my back while I was looking at her screaming at me not to do it. I was grounded a lot for my unhealthy ideas of fun. I missed more than one summer locked in my room and only went out for meals. I was a devilish little tom boy, but also very curious and good to people I liked.
And then I heard stories about a woman the whole neighborhood knew. She was a scary lady living on the corner of a dirt road which led to the river. Creepy things happened there and honestly, I used to have bloodcurdling nightmares about that place. We also used to steal her fruit in the night. She never appreciated it.
Her name was Ljubica and she lived with a black and white cat, Natasha. They were best friends, even though Natasha was a criminal or a vampire, never actually found out.
Natasha would sleep all day on her human’s feet on a bench in front of their green little dirty house with no windows. And then she would disappear in the late afternoon and her human would get worried so she would bang pots and forks while calling her name. Everybody laughed at her.
However, I found it cute how she used to bring my childhood friend and me fruits and sweets from the cemetery. Maybe that was off… hm. She used to visit our local cemetery twice a day every day until she died. And she would take fresh food from graves and put it on our stairs. I loved it. She genuinely liked us, and unfortunately, that was all she could give us. Also, she would wait for one of the kids form the neighborhood to go to the market in the morning and she would give just enough money for one bread and milk every second day. That made me so sad. So I decided to be her only human friend.
I would go to the store in the morning just to bring her the modest meal. But she wasn’t into having friends. When I would come back, I expected to have a small chat at least, so she wouldn’t feel lonely. But she wasn’t open to that. She would say Thank you, now go.
Then kids started telling stories about witches, clowns, ghosts, and we had our first session in my house. Bunch of kids, a candle, darkened room, paper with alphabet on it, and a coin. And someone was moving the coin, of course, and we came to a conclusion that my house is now haunted. As a kid, I hallucinated a lot and had nightmares, so my grandmas used to take me to local ‘witch doctors’ to save me. It was really fun. But I started believing. Not only that, I found cemeteries to be extremely interesting, so I would spend afternoons with a friend just reading writings on people’s tombstones. We would make up stories about their death and if we said anything less than nice, we would think they would come to haunt us. So we lied to each other in the morning that we were visited by a spirit. It was so much fun.
However, even as a grown up, I love paranormal shit. No need to say that I explored many local ‘haunted’ spots, but never actually witnessed a real thing.
Then I moved in a house across the world. After a week of living here, I heard from a housemate that our house is haunted. I laughed at him, but deep down, I wanted it to be true. Actually, I wanted it to be a simple ghost, not a demon. Demons are nasty and they won’t leave you alone. Ghosts are poor souls that could be trapped in a house for various reasons. So we started making up stories about the ghost. That is an old mean man who killed his children. Or it is a cute Vietnamese girl who died in a fire or while saving her cat. Or maybe it is a pregnant woman who got raped while dead. There were all sorts of bizarre deaths and people who might be changing the position of knives in the kitchen, hiding remote controllers, and turning off refrigerators in our rooms.
Then one night, a housemate got pissed drunk and we lost him for the night. In the morning he had the strangest story about kissing a girl in white in front of the house for quite a while. It’s a hard thing to believe. And it’s even harder to believe that a ghost is hiding our remotes, they are nasty motherfuckers and they disappear all the time.
But I realized what is going on, even though it was hard to admit.
Those are my ghosts. The ghosts from the past that I can’t let go of. And I doubt that a cleaning ritual in the house would help, because they live in my mind, and some still wreak havoc in my heart. So, the sad truth of a broken heart is that our pain can be materialized in the form of ghosts and demons and they haunt us until we heal. It is our mind playing tricks on us because we refuse to let go.
And I am sure that all my housemates know that we are lying about being haunted by unknown presence, when it is all us, and our heartbreaks.