“Would you enjoy a trip to hell? …then you might enjoy a trip to Death Valley. It has all the advantages of hell without the inconveniences.”
~ 1907 advertisement in a local mining paper.
“Hey, whatever happened to ‘What the fuck Friday?'” asked no one, ever.
I haven’t written one of these WTF stories in a while but I was reminded of this one by a story I heard on the Moth recently, about a woman dealing with her fabulous but haunted apartment in Paris.
Let me just preface this by stating a not-so-obvious fact: Ghosts love me.
How does she know this? You might ask, convinced that I must have fallen and hit my head, or eaten some questionable shrimp for dinner.
All I can say is, I have the evidence to prove it. They make themselves known to me in such hard to dismiss ways such as hijacking my technology, changing the radio station, or stealing my clothes that I can no longer avoid the fact that—
ghosts love me.
They are attracted to me like a moth to a flame. I’ve made peace with it and I’m more discerning about who gets to visit, nevertheless, I have many, many stories. This one’s pretty cool.
“Let’s go on a ride to see the super bloom,” my husband announced one day referring to the proliferation of wildflowers that sprung up around Los Angeles a few years back. Every April, if we get more than our usual teaspoon full of rain, the hillsides and deserts explode with color.
“It’s a sight to behold!” he said, trying to convince me that I’d love it, as he prepared the motorcycle for the ride to Death Valley. He loves the desert. He thinks its stark, desolate brownness is beautiful. And the heat doesn’t bother him at all. He’s ridden the wildflower trail to Death Valley half a bazillion times and as he tells it—it Takes his breath away every single time.
We could not be more opposite. I despise heat and crispy, brown, flora makes me mad.
And yet, I did have my breath taken from me—but not on the ride. It happened at the Furnace Creek Ranch which only lives up to one half of its name. It is hotter than a furnace there—but there’s not a creek in sight. Let’s put creek in the name! Someone from marketing said, obviously delirious from the heat.
Anyway, the flowers were pretty, at least what I could see of them through my bug-splattered visor. Super blooms have a tendency to invite super swarms of every bug imaginable. By the time we arrived at the ranch, the entire front of my husband, and less so myself because I sit behind him, was dyed the bright neon yellow of bug guts.
So, not only did I hate the desert, I’d taken thousands of bugs down with me on my way to hell. Good times.
Get to the ghost part! you’re saying, so I will.
Since the outside temperature was a few degrees cooler than high noon on Mars, I spent the rest of the day in the ranch’s heated pool. Yes, you read that right, you can’t make this shit up. Trust me, it was better than sitting inside, where the air conditioning was a thousand years old and ready to throw in the towel. The ranch, which was built in 1927 felt like it was ALL ORIGINAL if you catch my drift. Even though our room had a ceiling fan to help the AC along, I could tell a coup was afoot.
That did not bode well for our stay that night.
Staying wet as long as I could, I was forced out of my swimsuit by the NO SWIMSUITS ALLOWED rule prominently displayed in the dining room.
Well now, how fancy.
Hanging my suit on the bathroom door to dry, along with my towel and a hat, I showered and put on something white and gauzy for our dinner in the not-super-fancy dining room with all the fancy rules. The food was colder than the ice in my drink and that was not on purpose. Let’s just say it was far as you could get from fine dining and still have cloth napkins. I do remember having chocolate pudding for dessert and that tells you a lot about the menu.
It also saved the trip as far as I was concerned.
Later that night, with my husband tucked in beside me, snoring his face off, I turned off the light, eager to forget all the bug lives we’d tragically snuffed out so that the two of us could gape at a bunch of wild poppies.
That’s when I felt something or someone lay on top of me.
It felt heavy, like a body, and its “face” was right in front of mine in the dark. Even though my eyes were closed I could feel it staring at me. I wasn’t about to open them and have the bejesus scared outta me. I have my limits.
“Get him off of me,” I managed to say to my husband as I poked him in the side with my right hand, trying like hell to wake him up, “I can’t breathe!”
“Huh, what?”
“Oh, thank god you’re awake, jeez it took you long enough, I can’t feel my legs. Turn on the light!”
“Why?”
Just DO IT!”
I felt him reach over and turn on the light—and when he did, the pressure subsided.
Now, you have to picture me, laying on my back, eyes shut tight, breathing hard, sweaty and frantic.
“There was something laying on top of me, I couldn’t breathe!” I gasped. Sitting up, I finally opened my eyes. Suddenly, the room had taken on a decidedly more sinister vibe. I shot imaginary laser beams, like you do, into all the corners to kill the boogie men who were hiding there. Could you blame me?
“There’s somebody in this room and he’s messing with me!” I said, staring over at my husband for some kind of support.
That’s when the ceiling fan stopped spinning.
Cool as a cucumber because this is, by far, not the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to us, he looked over at me, and with a voice dripping with compassion said, “I don’t see anyone.”
Then, HE TURNED OFF THE LIGHT!
Against my better judgment, I laid down, but the moment I did I could feel the weight of “it” on top of me again.
“Turn on the light!” I screamed.
“Oh, for the love of… seriously?”
“I’m not kidding!” I was struggling for breath.
“I’m not saying you are… maybe you’re just hot.”
“Now is not the time for a debate! I can’t breathe! TURN ON THE LIGHT!”
The minute the light came on, the passive-aggressive ghost went away.
Jumping to my feet, I checked the windows, looked in the bathroom, opened the closet and all the drawers, and ever so timidly checked under the bed for the pervy perv who’d snuck into our room and was laying on top of me—in bed—next to my unsuspecting husband. Surprisingly, I didn’t find anyone.
“We have to sleep with the lights on,” I announced, after a sweep of the perimeter. “It, he, won’t leave me alone otherwise.”
“Fine,” my husband mumbled, rolling over and falling immediately back to sleep.
That is a talent, and one I don’t process; being able to sleep like a baby in a haunted room.
Needless to say, I was up all night.
Packing up is easy on a motorcycle, especially if you know you’re gonna sweat. You don’t give two shits. No shower, no blow dry, you just brush your teeth, wash your face, change your underwear, and put on the same gear you spent an hour scraping dead insect body parts off of—and go.
“Have you seem my bathing suit?” I asked my husband who was busy cleaning our visors for the ride. “It was hanging right here with the towel and my hat,” I said, pointing at the door.
“That’s where I saw it last,” he said, sounding slightly annoyed. “I stepped in the puddle it left on the tile when I got up to pee last night.”
So I checked everywhere—twice. That’s so weird, where could it go? I mean, it couldn’t just walk away.
Later, at breakfast, we, he, had a good laugh as the waiter relayed a story about the place being haunted by a former chef. “You dissed the food last night,” my husband remarked with a smile, “That’ll teach ya.”
Ha ha ha ha. Not funny.
What it did teach me was that I needed a gatekeeper. Somebody to monitor my energy. Because what I learned was that if I was ornery, which we can all agree I was that night, then that’s the kind of ghost who would show up. You have to be a match. I decided that I like ghosts who are friendly. Ones who respect personal space boundaries. Ghosts more like Casper. Or Nora. So I became my own gatekeeper. Who better than me to tamp down the ornery?
By the way, I never did find my bathing suit. Apparently, it simply vanished into thin air. Or maybe the ghost took it for a friend. It was very slimming.
Carry on,
xox
https://themoth.org/radio-hour/ghosts-angels-and-motorcycle-rides
