'Tis the season for your stress level to ratchet up several notches. 'Tis the season to pull your hair out in clumps.
'Tis the season to refill your Xanax prescription. 'Tis the season to...well, you get the picture.
2009 has been a tough year. I speak not just for myself, but also for so many people I care about. Every
time I hear a new story of distress I shake my head. And I think, is this the year we've all had to grow up?
Is this the year when we had to learn how seriously hard life can be?
Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know. I DO know that I would probably be swept into a serious Bah Humbug
kind of mood this holiday season if it weren't for a few waves of gratitude that have washed over me these past few days.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm still hoping, as so many people are, that 2010 will be better. Still, I'd like
to wrap up 2009 as positively as possible.
I remember Christmas 2005. The Handyman's Dream had just been published and I was full of optimism, hope
and gratitude. I knew that somehow, some way that book would find its audience. And you know what?
It did. I now have readers and fans all over the world. Let me tell you, that was a life-long dream come true,
and from that reality alone I have enough gratitude to last through several more holiday seasons.
I had another reason to be grateful that Christmas in '05. I had been trying for a long time to write a Christmas
short story. I can't even remember how many ideas and half-formed stories I deleted before it all clicked in my head
and I was able to write the tale I wanted -- a story full of gay male romantic fantasy and tons of holiday
sentiment. I was very pleased with the result, and I emailed the story to a select group of friends as a Christmas
present.
Since then I've shared this story entitled "It's the Thought That Counts" with new friends every Christmas season.
This year, when times are so hard, I'd like to share it again with everyone who needs to remember that dreams come true, and
miracles sometimes happen. It is what I have to give, my way of saying "thanks" to all of the folks who have enjoyed
The HANDYMAN books.
For all the details, stop by the Nick Poff, Author of THE HANDYMAN series page on Facebook:
In case I do not return to this blog before December 25th, best wishes to everyone for Christmas 2009! I cheerfully
admit to loving "I Want A Hippopotumus for Christmas" by Gayle Peevey. It's one of those holiday tunes I don't get tired
of hearing, and it makes me smile and sing along every time it pops up on the radio or on my Ipod. Boy, what a
silly song. It's that kind of silliness that keeps me going, so here's hoping that each and every one of you get your
"hippopotumus" this Christmas.
I once lived part-time in a haunted house.
In some ways, that is a hard statement to make simply because so many people will read it, roll their eyes, and say,
"oh, really?" When you've had an unique experience it is hard to suffer the doubters with much patience, but
on this one I hold firm despite any skepticism. I saw a ghost, not just once but on many occasions. Oh, and I
learned from experience with this ghost that what seperates the believers from the naysayers is just such an encounter.
I thank the TV show "Dark Shadows" for my early introduction into all things supernatural. I was, at age seven,
eight, and nine, such a huge fan of the show that I cheerfully believed in ghosts, vampires, and all such creatures. However,
it wasn't until age twenty that I met my first ghost.
It was the autumn of 1981; I was commuting to college every day from my little hometown to the big city, which was a
real drag when I had eight o'clock classes, not to mention something of an interruption in the active social life I was
leading. I had fallen into a fun crowd of folks my age, and most of us -- former high school nerds -- were thoroughly
enjoying the feeling of...well, not being popular, but being "included." It was a very heady experience and I hated
missing any of the fun just because I had a fifty-mile round trip to make every day.
One of the girls, Trudell, came up with a nice solution for me. She wanted to move out of her sister's
place and have her own apartment. She had found one in an old house not far from downtown but couldn't make the
rent on her paycheck as a cashier at Citgo. She made me an offer: Would I help her with the rent in exchange for
a key and total crash pad privileges? You bet I would, sister. We shook on it, and I was relieved to
know I didn't have to drive all the way home every night.
Trudy's place was the first floor of an early twentieth century house in a down-at-the-heels working class neighborhood
in the shadow of a once-thriving G.E. plant. Considering the area in general, I was impressed with Trudy's find.
The house, though faded and in need of some basic homeowner TLC, was in good shape and far from being the kind of dump
a lot of kids our age were renting. We couldn't believe our luck, although we soon found out, as all ghost
story characters do, why the house had been available at an attractive price and had had a high turnover rate.
You entered the house from a basic midwestern front porch. Just inside the front door a stairway
stretched up the west of the house to the second floor. Across from the stairway was a door leading to a front parlor
kind of room, and a long hallway lead from the front door to the heart of a house -- a huge living area and kitchen.
The bathroom was off the kitchen, and a cozy bedroom was behind the kitchen at the very back of the house. There was
a locked door at the top of the stairs.
"Is the landlord going to rent out the second floor, too?" I asked Trudy, already concerned about tenants who might
be even noiser than we planned to be.
She shrugged. "He says it needs work, so I'm not worried about it."
I never met Mark, the elusive landlord. From what little I gleaned from Trudell, he had a bunch of similar
houses and had over-extended himself trying to maintain them all. Still, that locked door and Mark's somewhat dubious
ownership led my writer's imagination to all sorts of potential good stories. In the end, though, I didn't
give it much thought as Trudy settled in, and I enrolled for Fall Quarter classes.
Throughout September I noticed Trudy, who had been so excited about having her own place, looking exhausted and rather
low in enthusiasm for the place. "You should stay over more often, Nick," she'd tell me. "You're hardly getting
your money's worth."
By that time I knew Trudell well enough to know she was hiding something from me. "What's going on?" I asked
her, eyes narrowed.
"Oh, nothing," she answered vaguely. "I'm just not used to being alone, I guess."
It took awhile, but I finally got her to 'fess up. "I think this place is haunted," she finally stated, daring
me to laugh at her.
I didn't laugh; I was actually excited at the idea of living in a haunted house. Trudy went on to explain that
she heard unexplained noises throughout the night, and couldn't get over the idea that someone else was in the house.
"Gee, I hope I get to hear the ghost," I said with great enthusiasm.
She looked at me in disgust. "Sure you do," she jeered. "When it happens to you, you'll be as creeped
out as I am. Can you at least leave more of your records here? I play them late at night to drown out the noise
until I'm so tired I have to go to sleep." I had moved my portable record player into the apartment for entertainment
since Trudy didn't have a TV. We were both on a huge 60's music kick at the time, and she loved the scratchy 45's
I had inherited from my sister and brother as much as I did.
"Sure," I told her. "And I'm going to stay over this weekend, and can I come here Tuesdays after classes for
a nap while you're at work? I want to join the gang for Tuesday Night Dinner, and don't have anything to do between
three and six."
"Of course you can!" Trudy gave me a friendly smack on the arm. "That's why you pay part of the rent.
Stop being so damned polite about it, Nick!"
So that next Tuesday I went to the house to catch a few hours of sleep between school and social life. I usually
crashed on the couch in the front parlor, but since Trudy was at work I decided to stretch out on her bed in the room at the
back of the house. As I lay down, it occurred to me that it was the first time I'd been in the house alone.
I was about half asleep when I heard muffled noises over my head. I strained my ears and finally decided it was
the neighbors. Then, again, as I was about to fall asleep, I heard something else, and somehow I knew, just as people
in scary stories always know, that I wasn't alone. "Trudy!" I hollered, convinced she had snuck home from work
to scare me.
Silence.
I got up and looked around, but the house was empty. Still, I knew with an uncanny certainty that I was not
alone. It was then, I think, that I really understood for the first time that all the fear that engendered
so much entertainment for me via "Dark Shadows' and all the horror movies I watched was real. I felt it.
And it wasn't a good feeling.
Later that night, after Tuesday Night Dinner with the gang and the usual Tuesday night gathering for a music and
booze fest at Bruce's house (Southern Comfort, as I remember, and the new Debbie Harry solo album), I stopped off
to see Trudell. She and her soon-to-be-a-lawyer boyfriend were having tea in the kitchen. "You were right about
this place," I flatly told her, and despite the smirk on her boyfriend's face, Trudy and I looked at each other and knew for
sure that neither one of us was crazy.
After that we did our best to make a joke of the whole thing. At some point I named the ghost George, and we make
constant references to him. Although the whole experience was weird as hell, we came to realize that George seemed
to be harmless. We got used to it, or at least we did until Lynn got involved.
Lynn, whom we affectionately called "Madam Diesel Dyke," had become a firm member of the crowd that fall. She was
big, loud, opinionated, full of fun, and she dabbled in what is now known as Wicca. She was fascinated by
the idea of our ghost, and insisted we needed to have a seance to find out more about him. Lynn took the stories
of Trudy and I at face value, and was annoyed that several other people said we were full of shit.
"You!" She'd holler, pointing a finger at a nonbeliever, "you will be at the seance!"
Again, what was a big joke finally became a reality. We scheduled a seance. Now, you'd think I would have
known, from watching "Dark Shadows," that seances are dangerous, but I got swept up in Lynn's enthusiasm. And, needless
to say, the idea of actually playing out the kind of story the Collins family routinely endured was appealing. So on
a Friday night between Thanksgiving and Christmas we had the seance. And it worked. I swear as I write this that
it worked, and Lynn and the rest of us somehow conjured up our harmless George, and disturbed the hell out of him.
I won't go into all of the details, but I will relate the most terrifying moment, when even the nonbelievers among us
came to total belief. We were all clustered around Lynn at the bottom of the stairs, staring at the second floor landing
where the shadow of a man stood, watching us. Lynn began to slowly climb the stairs toward him as several people urged
her not to. Suddenly the shadow-man lurched towards her. We all (Lynn included) shrieked and fled to the parlor
like the wusses we really were.
"You know what?" I said after we had all calmed down. "I think he died falling down the stairs."
"No," Lynn said positively. "Someone pushed him."
We never did find out for sure what happened to poor ole George, but what had been a rather benign presence became something
truly unsettling. I don't know what we did at that seance, but it somehow pulled George a little closer to this world.
I never had an easy night in that house after it. I had a hell of a time going to sleep because I was too
busy listening to George stomp down the stairs. He'd walk through the hallway, into the kitchen-living room area, and
hover in an unused storage room nearby. Then, when I was convinced that he was done, he'd stomp back upstairs, only
to repeat the process over and over again. It was one of the eeriest and most annoying experiences I have ever had --
hearing and watching this ghost methodically and constantly doing his walk of the damned -- that I would
eventually take my pillow and blanket and crash on the floor of Trudy's bedroom. He never went in there, and although I
could still hear him, at least I didn't have to watch him.
In the meantime real life drama was going on. Lynn had a fight with her parents and moved into the house with Trudy.
Trudy got disgusted with her job, her boyfriend, and life in general and decided to move back to the scene of her childhood,
Lincoln, Nebraska. Lynn decided to go with her. They urged me to join them, but I felt I needed to make an
attempt to finish school, so I stayed behind. I gave my key to Trudy, who gave it to the landlord, and aside from one
last "trick" with a guy who's name I have forgotten, I never entered the house again.
I can't believe it's been almost thirty years since all of that happened. Every now and again I'll find myself
close to that neighborhood, and I'll drive slowly by the house, wondering if the current tenants are aware of George.
So yes, I DO believe in spooks, and if you have read the above story and still do not believe, well, GOOD FOR YOU!
I'm happy for you, but the little kid who watched Angelique curse so many folks on "Dark Shadows" can't help
but wish a friendly curse of his own on you -- a genuine George-like experience.
And then you will believe, baby. You'll believe.
