by Gary Jansen
“Hey, can we just get rid of Peter and keep Mrs. Box?” I asked.
“No, honey. They don’t belong here. It’s time for them to move on.”
I felt like I was going to cry, and I wondered how many people living today ever thought about Hannah Jane “Jennie” Box. And I wondered how long before the people who knew Peter Smith would forget the shape of his face or the sound of his voice. One of Grace’s biggest fears was forgetting the way her father had laughed, and from time to time I would come downstairs and see her watching old videos from some relative’s wedding. Her father was camera shy, but occasionally the camera would pan across a room and catch him whispering something in his wife’s ear. Grace wishes she knew what he said.
“Okay, Mary Ann. What do I have to do next?”
“Do you live near a funeral home?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I do. There’s one literally across the street.”
“Really? Oh, I bet you’ve had a lot of visitors over the years. Every earthbound spirit visits their own wake and funeral, but just like regular people they get bored after a while and move about.”
“Great, so this place is like a magnet?”
“You have two ghosts in your house, so what do you think?”
“Good point.”
I told Mary Ann about some of the weird dreams I had had over the years and asked if she thought the two ghosts in the house had been responsible for them. She doubted it and said that there were other spirits besides the earthbound who could, or would, do such a thing. “As much as you may have upset the man ghost, he was probably trying to get your attention the night you felt like you couldn’t breathe. He was probably trying to protect you.”
I listened to her words and more questions rolled around in my head. Do dark spirits haunt ghosts if they get stuck in-between this world and the next? Can an earthbound spirit communicate directly with angels? Were ghosts ever in danger from other spirits? Had Jennie and Peter been guarding our house all along and would we miss them when they were gone? And what would happen to them once they crossed over?
I didn’t ask any of these things though. Instead, all I said was, “I guess this is it, then.”
“Okay, honey, this is what you do.”
Chapter 14
For over a week, we waited for someone to die.
Mary Ann said that I was lucky to live so close to a funeral home because when someone dies they are surrounded by the white light, which acts as a doorway to the other side. The white light, however, gets dimmer as time goes on and if a spirit doesn’t walk into it within seventy-two hours, give or take a day, then a spirit can grow confused and become stuck. Usually, spirits depart at the funeral service or when the family is standing around at the gravesite.
Mary Ann’s instructions were to briefly explain to the ghosts what was happening, but not engage them further—“You are going to cross over”—and then walk them over to the funeral home with instructions to go inside, find the white light, and go into it.
Now, people must drop like flies in Rockville Centre. Macken Mortuary was always doing steady business and it seemed that just about every day there was a funeral service going on across the street. So the plan was to walk Jennie and Peter over the next day and to bring our haunting to a close. But the next day arrived and there was no one at the funeral home. Nor the next day, nor the next.
The following Monday, more than a week after Mary Ann gave me my marching orders, there was still no funeral service at the mortuary.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” I said to Grace in the kitchen while Eddie was playing with a Frosty the Snowman doll in the other room. “You mean to tell me that no one is dying in Rockville Centre anymore?”
Upon hearing this, Grace had closed her eyes, covered her ears with her hands, and said, “Haven’t you learned to watch what you say?”
She was right. She was always right. But the house was starting to feel unsettled again and I didn’t want to have to go through the process of smudging one more time. It had been a long couple of weeks. It had been a long year. And I just wanted to have some resolution.
Later that evening, after Eddie and Charlie fell asleep in our room, Grace and I were carrying laundry up the stairs to the second floor. As Grace crossed the threshold of Eddie’s room, the lightbulb popped. Grace screamed and dropped the clothes to the floor.
“Why the hell did the light go out?”
As she said this, I felt something like a breeze blow past me, but I didn’t tell her that.
“You’re going to wake the kids. It’s nothing,” I said. “It’s just a lightbulb. They blow out all the time.” I thought I sounded pretty convincing, but I wasn’t 100 percent sure that we had finally hit the 700th hour of the lightbulb’s life.
“I’m so tired of all this shit,” she said. “I just want it to stop.”
I put my basket down, helped her pick up the clothes, and then heard something that sounded a lot like a small chain saw coming from downstairs.
Grace stood up and tried to figure out where it was coming from and whispered loudly to me, “What is that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” I raced down the stairs, turned the corner, and followed the sound, which was coming from the kitchen. I stopped for a second before I entered, trying to make out what it could be, and that’s when I saw it. I had bought an electric toothbrush the week before and kept it downstairs because I didn’t want it to wake the kids when I used it in the morning. (I was still getting up early every morning to pray and write.) It was buzzing in its charger. “Weird,” I said to myself as I walked over to switch it off.
Grace came back downstairs. “It was my toothbrush,” I had said.
“It just went off by itself?”
“I don’t know. Yeah, I think so.”
“Are we safe here? Are the kids okay?”
“Yeah. I mean, I don’t know what’s happening, but if Mary Ann felt like we were in danger, she would have said so.”
The two of us walked into the living room, sat down, and after a few moments we switched on the TV and tried to relax. The room was a mess. Ed’s stuffed animals were all over the floor, but neither of us had enough strength to get up and put them away. As we sat there, Eddie’s Frosty the Snowman doll began to sing his song:
Frosty the snowman was a jolly happy soul.
“No shit,” I said.
Grace just shook her head. “I told you to watch what you say.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“You have this gift for royally pissing off people at the most inopportune time and now you’ve gone and pissed off some ghosts.”
AS I WAS WALKING HOME from the train station the next day, I saw a person walk out of Macken Mortuary, get into her car, and drive away. I ran home as fast as I could, swung open the door and called out to Grace, “Okay, they’re going.”
“Who’s going?” Eddie said to me.
“Ah, nobody. Nobody is going anywhere.”
Grace looked at me like I was crazy.
“There’s people across the street,” I said.
“So this is it?”
“I think so.”
I ran upstairs into Eddie’s room and closed the door and talked to the air.
“Okay, Peter and Jennie, you have to come with me.” I gave them the instructions Mary Ann had given me. I then opened the door, went down the stairs, told Grace and Eddie that I would be right back, and walked across the street to the front door of the funeral home.
“This is where we say so long. There’s going to be a white light inside; the two of you need to go into it. I promise I’ll pray for you. I’ll always pray for you.” And there on the steps of a funeral home I said the Our Father and prayed they would have a safe passage to wherever it was they were going.
I turned and left them there. As I made my way to the end of the walkway, I heard the door open behind me.
“Can I help you?” one of the funeral directors had called to me.
/> What I wanted to say was, “Gee sir, I was hoping to help a couple ghosts over the River Styx and thought you could be of some assistance,” but all I could muster up was, “Yes, I just wanted to see if you were open.”
“We’re open.”
“Good,” I said and walked home. I called Mary Ann that night and told her it was done. I also mentioned to her all the weird things that had happened the night before: the lightbulb, the electric toothbrush, the Frosty the Snowman doll.
“Oh, honey, they were ready to go. They were just trying to say good-bye.”
THE NEXT MORNING, I woke up and heard something I had never heard before. Quiet. In all my years of living in the house, I had never heard quiet quite like I heard it the morning after Jennie Box and Peter Smith crossed over. It was as if a giant white noise machine had been on since I first moved in when I was six years old and someone had just turned it off. It was five o’clock and, instead of getting up and praying downstairs like I normally did, I lay in bed, kept my promise, and prayed for the souls of the departed.
A few days later, I was walking home from work a little later than usual and saw a steady stream of people filing into Macken Mortuary. The street was abuzz with activity. Car doors slammed, women in high heels were adjusting skirts, a group of teenage boys in button-down shirts and ties were smoking under a tree. Some girls were laughing with their boyfriends. Older people dressed in black held their heads low. Some people were crying.
I didn’t know who died, but I heard someone say it was sad that he passed away so suddenly. So it was a man, someone’s son, possibly a brother or father. It was obvious he knew a lot of people. As I walked by, I imagined his spirit standing by the foot of his coffin, watching friends and relatives as they paid their last respects. I offered a prayer to the nameless man and wished him as much love in the next life as he seemed to have experienced in this one.
Walking home in the light of early evening, the world looked different to me—the way it does when you fall in love or lose someone close to you. John Hardon defined a miracle as an event “surpassing at least the powers of visible nature, produced by God to witness to some truth or testify to someone’s sanctity.” If that’s the case, then the last year hadn’t been a haunting, but a miracle unfolding. The truth is, no one knows the mind of God, and the greatest challenge to faith is realizing that nothing happens without the Almighty’s stamp of approval—good or bad. It is the great mystery of belief and learning to accept that can take a lifetime—and sometimes more than that. But, there is holiness in everything and sometimes we need to be spooked to see that. I had been given a glimpse of an unseen world. I couldn’t see ghosts and I couldn’t hear angels. But then, for that matter, I couldn’t see ultraviolet rays, either. That didn’t mean they didn’t exist or didn’t have some influence in our lives. My mom knew this better than anyone.
As I opened the front door, I called out hello and heard Grace and Eddie upstairs. They both giggled down to me and said that Charlie had been laughing at something and threw up milk through his nose and they were cleaning him up. I walked upstairs and as I reached the landing I turned to my left and saw the three of them in Eddie’s bedroom.
I looked at them standing in the yellow room with no closets, and as I stepped over the threshold, Eddie ran over and wrapped his arms around my legs.
“He missed you,” Grace said. “We all did.”
“I missed you, too,” I said.
I gave Grace a look. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders and said, “Eddie woke up this morning and the first thing he wanted to do was play in his room.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I could not be more fortunate than to have Mitch Horowitz as my editor on this project. His vision, advice, patience, and friendship were impeccable. He made me laugh. He made me think. He made me a better writer and in the end a better person, too. My deepest gratitude for everything you’ve done for me, Mitch.
Nor could I be more privileged than to work with all the wonderful people at the Penguin Group and Tarcher. Thank you to Gabrielle Moss, whose professionalism and sense of humor helped shepherd this book through all its various stages, and to Joel Fotinos, whose leadership helped make this book happen. Thank you to Bonnie Soodek, Brianna Yamashita, Lauren Reddy, Lisa D’Agostino, and David Walker for all your hard work and guidance. And special thanks to all my old friends down on Hudson Street, including Kathryn Court, Sabila Khan, Lance Fitzgerald, Leigh Butler, Hal Fessenden, Melanie Koch, and Kelli Daniel-Richards. I worked with many of you for years while I was at the book clubs and I can’t even begin to tell you how exciting it has been for me to work with you as an author. Thank you for all your guidance and warmth over the years. I truly am blessed to have crossed paths with all of you.
Thank you to Mary Ann and Ted Winkowski for all your love and kindheartedness. Mary Ann, I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again, you really changed the way I see the world in wonderful ways and I feel so blessed to know you. Thank you for all you support and for fielding all my questions with patience and humor.
A big thanks to my agent, Victoria Skurnick, for being one of my greatest supporters and one of my dearest friends. Thank you for all the encouragement you’ve given me over the years.
Thank you to Father Michael Holleran. You only came into my life a few months ago, but I feel like I’ve known you forever. Thank you for the great talks, for your expert advice about the spirit world, and for guiding me through it.
Thank you to Jennifer Stallone Riddell for your insight, humor, and friendship. Thank you for reading this book through its various stages and rallying me toward the finish line. You truly are one of the greats.
Thank you to Gilles Dana for believing in my voice.
Thank you to Anne-Marie Rutella for all your love and friendship over the years and helping me copyedit this book before my delivery date. You were under the gun and your meticulousness was much appreciated. A special shout out to Anthony I, Anthony II, and Aisling.
Thank you to Noelle Kuchler for being a great friend and for all your questions which helped me considerably in forming this book. I couldn’t have done this without you.
Thank you to Loretta Holmes for your enthusiasm and inspiration. You have been one of my greatest supporters over the years. Your life has changed my life.
Thank you to Deborah Sinclaire for championing this book, for your friendship, and for all the laughs over the years.
Thank you to Eric Hafker and Michael Stephenson. You are two of the greatest men who ever lived and two of my dearest friends. Thank you for all the love, laughs, poetry, foul talk, and all the wine. Special thanks to you, Eric, for helping me out in the very last stages of this book. I’m so happy your eyes read these pages when they did.
Thank you to Darya Porat, Talia Krohn, John Burke, my friends and colleagues, for all your graciousness and encouragement. You’ve all been great to me.
Thank you to Trace Murphy for your kindness, patience, friendship—and for telling great stories.
Thank you to the following for their dedication, support, and friendship: Cindy Karamitis, Erin Locke, Matt Baglio, Becky Cabaza, Charlie Conrad, Jenna Ciongoli, Deb Sabatino, Brandy Flora, Maria Schulz, Tanya Twerdowsky Sylvan, Kristine Puopolo, Tricia Wygal, Amy Boorstein, Therese Borchard, Jay Franco, Carol Mackey, Deb Sabatino, Ryan Buell, Greg Kincaid, Jon Sweeney, Tom Craughwell, Steve Irby, Richard and Joy Newcombe, John Taylor, Kelsey Amble, Brian and Lisa McCarthy, Laurie Balut, Jeannine and Brad Dillon, Sam Honen, Joan Louise Brookbank, Jennifer Walsh, Ray Casazza, Beth Goehring, Sharon Fantera, Larry Shapiro, Laura Balducci, Cynthia Clarke, Doreen Sinski, John “The Sarge” Miller, Raquel Avila, Liz Kirmss, Jean Bjork, Steve Scarallo, Anthony Cole, Jill Fabiani, Patricia Clement, Pam Fitzgerald, Ellen Giesow, Karen Strejlau, Amalia Buendia, Michael and Fran Bartholomew, Nancy Schleyer, Maria Theresa Gutierrez, Janet Shavel, Kathy Vella, Robert and Maureen Sullivan, Marc Vital-Herne, Estelle Peck, Patricia Schreck, Maddalena Pennino, Jennifer Kanakos
, Sandy Strk, Susan Stalzer, Audrey Puzzo, Michael Palgon, Lisa Thornbloom, Jessica Walles, Kalyani Fernando, Eric Zagrans, Patrick Coleman, Clark Strand, Maria Tahim, Kathy Viele, Alexander Shaia, James Philipps, Maura Zagrans, Jennifer Puglisi, Audrey and Alex Robles, Johnny and Elvira Diaz, and my friend Peggy.
Thank you to Will “Sticks” Romano. We’ve been friends for over twenty years and you are an endless fountain of inspiration for me. God bless you, man!
Thank you to Frances, Josephine, Lenny, and Carrie Poppi for all your love, patience, direction and kindness over the years. I couldn’t be luckier to call you family.
Thanks to all the folks at Panera in Rockville Centre, New York, especially Christian Alexandre. Thank you again for your kindness and for always remembering my name and for the delicious coffee that woke me up on those early mornings when I would write by the window that overlooked Merrick Road.
Thank you to Annie Leuenberger for all the ghost stories and for your enduring friendship and love over the years. You are, and always will be, one of the greats in my life.
Thank you to Michael “Leo” McCormack for your healthy skepticism, your humor, your loyalty, and all the Guinness. I am proud to call you Leo.
Thank you to Courtney Snyder, for your enduring friendship and for inspiring me when I most need it.
Thank you to Jessica Ray for all your inspiration and for changing my life. God bless you and your family.
Thank you to my mom for all your love and support on this project. You are the most courageous person I know and I’m proud to be your son.
Thank you to my sisters Annie, Mary, Suzie, and Julie for all the memories and love. You are all blessings to me.
Thanks to my dad, wherever you may be.
As always, thank you to the loves of my life, Grace, Eddie, and Charlie. Grace, you were wonderful for putting up with me over the last years as I pulled this work together and you continue to surprise and inspire me every day. Eddie and Charlie, my goodness, words can’t even describe how honored I am to know the two of you.