The Ghost in the Candle

I don't believe in ghosts. The problem is, I don't NOT believe in them either. I am, you could say, a paranormal agnostic.

I have seen and read too much about The Amityville Horror, the family in The Conjuring, and Anne Boleyn to dismiss the possibility of ghosts. This video, caught on closed caption security cameras at Hampton Court Palace in England, has a spooky enough pedigree to make one think twice.

Not Husband, of course. He would want to know why a ghost would have to open the door to get outside. Wouldn't the ghost's definitive properties allow him to just walk through the door?

Anne Boleyn's spiritual hand caught in
a photo taken at her ancestral home.

Being a paranormal agnostic means that when something unexplained happens, I turn to zebras instead of horses.

It's a habit that extends into reality.

In the inaugural days of living solo, I discovered that a can of the notoriously precious Chef Boyardee ravioli was missing from my kitchen cabinet. I immediately believed I'd been robbed. This very clever, focused thief ignored the computer, TV, and my great-aunt's diamond-onyx engagement ring. Like any thief with a reputation to protect, he headed for the kitchen and took one thing and one thing only.

One can of Chef Boyardee ravioli.

Just one can.

Clearly, I had already consumed the canned ravioli - although how one can forget such a delectable meal is beyond me.

Zebras, all the way.

And it was zebras again when, several years of marriage and children later, a series of unexplained events mysteriously occurred in my house. Lightbulbs burst, even though they were brand new. Doors that I swore I had shut were open. Lights that I swore I left on were off. And once, while home alone, I watched as the lights in my dining room flashed on and off, on and off, on and off.

Several times I asked Daughter if she was the culprit - Son was too little - and she would give me her toddler assurance that she was not behind the mysterious obsession with my doors and lights.

So I told Husband what had been going on.

Do you think it's stress? he asked. We had a new baby, I had

gone back to work, and we had just finished a major home renovation. To top it all off, Daughter had recently been diagnosed with a chronic disease. The stress of all that change had clearly gotten to me.

Stress? Stress?! That was the dumbest thing I had ever heard. And I told Husband so. I believed we were being haunted by Husband's recently deceased grandparents.

If supernatural belief is a spectrum, The Warrens are on one end. Husband is way on the other. He is a paranormal atheist.

Husband had more than a few doubts about my assertion. Why would his grandparents haunt him? He was not close with them. They had eight living children and 14 other grandchildren. Why not haunt them?

But I pointed out that I had been close with them, and that we had their only great-grandchildren. Son's birth had occurred just six weeks before his grandfather's death. And psychic phenomena runs in my family.

So yeah, I had to explain that last part to Husband.

My grandfather worked in chemicals. Once, as a young man, he was standing before a vat of some kind of acid when he looked up to see his father standing in the doorway.

Perplexed that his father would be at his place of employment, he watched as his father beckoned him to the doorway. But when he got to the doorway, his dad was gone. My grandfather was pretty laid back. He didn't run around looking for his vanished father. He just shrugged and turned to head back to the vat he'd been checking.

And that's when the vat spilled it's acidic contents. Had my grandfather still been there he would have been killed.

My grandfather got home that day not to find his dad dead, but that his dad had been napping during the incident.

Boom. Psychic phenomena.

To further underscore that my family is the psychic version of the Von Trapps, I told Husband about the times as a child my brother had accurately and with great detail predicted a power outage and an episode of my dad's heartburn.

Surprisingly unconvinced but capitulating to my concerns anyway, Husband asked me what could be done about his wayward grandparents.

I mean duh. Everyone knows you need to confront a ghost to eradicate it.

I nominated Husband to talk to his grandparents. He thanked them for their visit, but explained that I was getting freaked out. Could they please move on?

And just like that, all the door and light business stopped. It appears, in this case, the answer was zebras.

For years, Husband's grandparents respected my boundaries. Then a few weeks ago, I noticed that the candle I light every night after dinner would be extinguished the next time I passed it. Assuming it was Husband, who works in a burn center and therefore has a healthy concern about flammables in a house with kids and animals, I would refrain from relighting the candle.

But yes, one night, when Husband was out, the candle again was extinguished.

So I briefed Husband on the candle situation. Without hesitation, he asked me if his grandparents were back.

Of course, that was my first thought. But on longer reflection, I realized that mini-Husband - aka Son - was the culprit. The reason I knew the answer this time was horses was simple: A ghost never extinguishes a light until they're about to scare the crap out of you. Since I haven't been caught up in a game of spiritual hide-and-clap, I figured the candle extinguisher was much more corporeal.

Thanks to Son and Husband's mutual distaste of candles, I can no longer delight in the scent of Mom's Apple Pie or Vanilla Buttercream in my post repast. Unfortunate - but I was on to much bigger issues. A few days after the candle discussion we left for Maine, where I discovered our rented house had one of those very tiny doors in the wall.

And everybody knows that those doors harbor miniature monsters who, with the knowledge, consent, and maybe even at the direction of the home's owner, murder his home's interlopers.

Everybody knows this. Everybody, that is, but Husband.

I have some work to do....

The Binge
Let's honor this ghostly passage by sharing the best ghost stories, shall we?

The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters. Is the ancient estate haunted, as the elderly proprietress believes, or is there a simpler explanation, as the family doctor insists? Or are they both wrong?

The Changeling. When John Russell's family is killed, he decides to start over. New town. New house. But when bizarre things start happening in his new home, John believes his daughter is reaching out from beyond. Or maybe it's something much worse.

The Conjuring. Terrifying in it's simplicity, made more so by the insistence of all involved that the events were real.

The Ring. Even without the ghost, all that wet hair still makes for a pretty disturbing movie.

The Exorcist by William Peter Blatty. The movie is the latest from Pixar compared to the book.

The Exorcism of Emily Rose. You'll never view 3 A.M. the same way again.