lasvegas.informermg.com/2012/10/13/true-ghost-stories-part-one-leave-the-lights-on/Sunday, October 14, 2012
True Ghost Stories Part One: Leave the Lights On By Sharon Chayra
Las Vegas Informer
After two days of international travel, I tucked my nine year-old daughter, Jordan, in a bed befitting the princess from Princess and the Pea. The sumptuous white duvet and coverlet allowed her to burrow between the linens that were particularly welcoming on the chilly summer night. You come to realize that even in June, British summers require holiday travelers to pack cardigans instead of bikinis, but it was a welcome respite from our departing temperature of 110 degrees.
Shortly after our arrival, my aunt prepared a proper British roast dinner. She even ensured my favorite Jersey potatoes were served with the luxurious butter made only in the lush Somerset countryside and used by chefs around the world.
Afterward, we sat around the fire that flickered from the six-foot wide hearth made of large quarried English limestone that buffered the wattle and daub (timber and mud made popular in the Tudor times) masonry. Above the mantle on the plastered white walls hung my cousin’s school photos, a portrait of my mother and various members of the family, along with assorted horse brasses. It was a charming setting in which to catch up after a six-year separation.
My aunt and uncle’s house was cozy but afflicted with the challenges of a home over 400 years old. Renovations had afforded radiant heating and indoor plumbing, but even on a summer night the house still required a fire. The temperature was a “comfortable” 70°. It was also the reason that there were few windows and those that existed featured floral-print, heavy tapestried drapes.
Finally the antique clock bellowed seven o’clock and my aunt encouraged me to go to bed. She didn’t need to ask twice, and I staggered up the spiral staircase so narrow that the opposing wall doubled as a bannister. The wall was cold but being two feet deep, that wasn’t a surprise. They surely don’t make homes like they used to, which is why it ranged from a nursing home to an apartment and finally a residence. I could only imagine the residents of this once six-family flat lugging a 500 lbs. sideboard to the second floor.
Before I retired, I went to my daughter’s room and leant over to kiss her. I remained hunched over as the ceiling was only six feet at its apex. The wooden floors creaked with every movement playing a veritable symphony depending on what plank my foot alighted. Startled by the medieval environment, my daughter refused to let me turn the small desk lamp off or close the door even if the door could never close. It’s hard to ensure perfect angles in a building centuries old.
As I walked nearer the door, she asked that I check on her as I did at home. I chirped in the affirmative to assure her. She gave an uncertain smile but was asleep before I even left the room. Then I managed to my room and fell into bed clothes and all.
The next morning Jordan was already out in the garden admiring the wild rabbits, hedgehogs and mesmerized by my uncle’s tractor. She was blissful as I trudged into the kitchen for coffee that my aunt had prepared for her American guests.
“Who was playing piano at o’dark thirty?” I chuckled, cutting my blood sausage and piling a bit of baked beans atop before taking a bite.
“Our ghost, darling,” Auntie Mo casually said as she poured me orange Ribena.
I felt a bit of a chill run through my still fatigued body, or maybe it was the door opening as my daughter trotted in with the pet ferret in her arms.
Jordan was eager to show me the animal as it wiggled in her hands. “Isn’t she pretty?” Jordan asked, pushing the bit of white fur nearer my face.
“Yes, very nice. I think she misses her cage though,” I responded, recoiling back a bit.
My words fell on deaf ears as my daughter enthusiastically cuddled the animal closer. “Miss Sally had a ferret too, but she was yellow,” Jordan precociously stated, never averting her eyes from this fascinating creature.
“Who’s Miss Sally?” I asked as I sipped my coffee. In a town of a couple hundred, visitors don’t go without notice and neighbors loved to introduce themselves, especially to yanks from Las Vegas.
“She’s the lady who played piano for me,” was her reply. I sat silent for a moment, bewildered. “You know, last night?” Jordan said.
Silence. Chills. More chills.
“My darling, I’ve not seen Miss Sally, but I’m very glad you did. Should that happen again though, pet, let your mummy know. You wouldn’t want to frighten her if she didn’t find you in bed,” My aunt lovingly cautioned.
“But I know Miss Sally! You’ve got her picture on the fireplace,” Jordan insisted as she tugged my hand while still clutching the ferret in the other. We went to the sitting room and she pointed like a hunting dog. It was a photo of my deceased grandmother, Sally Firth Staples.
Nearly as quickly as she swept in, Jordan swept out to further explore the treasures of the massive blackberry bramble. We went back to the dining room table. I was freaked out but my aunt calmly rummaged through the fridge for the sweets tin. Everything is made better by cold Cadbury’s chocolate, you know.
My aunt proceeded to give me details of Miss Sally, the primary ghost in the house who went on benders playing the piano in the living room. There were other apparitions, including a cheeky lad who delighted in taking keys and handbags and placing them everywhere from the toilet to the greenhouse. He also gave my burly uncle a fright when three doors simultaneously shut as my uncle walked the hall. Despite her assurances that it was just mischievousness, I was glad we were leaving the next day.
CONTINUE READING: lasvegas.informermg.com/2012/10/13/true-ghost-stories-part-one-leave-the-lights-on/