by Jen Jensen
“Can you show me exactly how you came down the stairs?” He moved slowly and stopped on the last one. “Is this where you were?”
“Yeah,” Vince said. He stepped into the living room so Jamis could stand where he had been.
“Can you pull the drapes?” He hesitated. “It’s okay. I want to see the room from this perspective with less light. It helps me understand the causes of things.”
“I’m not crazy,” he said. “I’m working on a master’s in counseling.”
Jamis held up her hands in surrender. “I’m not suggesting you are. I just want to start with facts and details. That’s all I’m doing. I want to be sure I understand.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really on edge. We both are. I think whatever is here is affecting us. We just didn’t realize it.” He pulled the drapes.
“It’s okay. Can you stand where you saw the body?” He complied, moving to the middle of the room. With the drapes closed, light still spilled into the room from the window in the front door, the kitchen, and the entryway into the dining room. “Was it cold?”
“It was so cold. When I ran back upstairs, Darcy said my lips were blue.”
“What did you do when you saw the body and then the figure?” There was nothing he might confuse with a ghost. Jamis didn’t see anything that might cast a shadow, either.
“I screamed. Loud. It was running at me. I ran to the front door and hit that light switch.” He pointed. “As soon as the light was on, it disappeared.” He snapped his finger. “Just like that. Gone. I don’t know what I saw. But I swear to God, for a few seconds I saw a dead body in my front room. Then, for a few seconds, something came at me.” Vince crossed his arms and clutched his elbows in his hands.
“What did the figure look like?” Jamis opened the drapes again. He waved for her to sit on the couch against the back wall. From there, Jamis could see the stairs, window, center of the room, and the back corner. The room was clean and painted a light gray. She’d attributed many poltergeists to poor lighting, dull paint, and general untidiness. That wasn’t the case here.
“This sounds even crazier,” Vince said. “It had long skinny arms and legs and a massive belly. Like the belly was bloated or something.”
“A hungry ghost.”
“What’s a hungry ghost?”
“It’s Buddhist. At death our souls retreat to the bardo where we remain until we’re ready to reincarnate. It’s a kind of purgatory, I guess. An in-between place. But some of us get stuck. For many reasons. Desire, fear, pain. We grasp, and in our grasping, we attach, which locks us in place, and we’re not able to move on. Hungry ghosts are like addicts—they can’t get enough, and they can’t let go, so they just stay where they are and suffer. They’re depicted with long arms and bulging, swollen stomachs.”
Jamis searched for an image and held up her phone for him.
“That’s what I saw,” Vince said.
It was possible he’d seen pictures like that before and it subconsciously informed his experience. It was also possible he saw a hungry ghost. Jamis saw crazy stuff all the time so there wasn’t a reason to doubt him.
“Can you ask Darcy to come home and talk to me too?” Vince pulled out his phone and sent a text. “Thanks.”
Jamis wondered if she should push for more information or wait for Darcy. Based on feedback from staff and friends over the years, she knew her habit of asking rapid-fire questions felt like an inquisition. Dr. Frank also urged her to engage with people about normal topics, like the weather and news. Her comfort zone was, “So what do you think happens when we die?”
Jamis just wasn’t good with day-to-day feelings. It wasn’t that she didn’t care. It was just that we lived in an unfathomable universe. The day-to-day was a quagmire that kept her from focusing only on discovering it.
Vince seemed so upset. Nothing sensitive came to mind, so Jamis decided to plow forward. Ultimately, it was always facts and analytical detachment that moved her along. It would work for Vince too. “Can you tell me what else happened?”
Vince reclined in the armchair across the room and started talking. “It started when we moved in about six weeks ago. We transferred to college here for graduate programs in counseling and needed to find something close to the school. We didn’t want to drive a lot. This was the only house available in the area. We didn’t want student housing or an apartment anymore. We wanted to get a dog.
“Anyway, we saw this place online and just rented it on the spot. We were in Salt Lake and had only been here once or twice. We got here, got our stuff in the house, and the first night we were here, Darcy screamed. She was in the kitchen and I was upstairs putting the books away. I came running down the stairs and found her standing in the kitchen holding a towel over her face, crying. She swore up and down that the cabinet doors opened and closed all around her. When I got there, they were closed.
“Little things like this started happening. We’d leave our keys on tables and they’d fly off, like they were thrown. Or we’d be sitting here watching TV and the lights would flicker and the windows would rattle. Or we’d be in bed and hear steps on the stairs and get up and look and not see anything. But the last few weeks it’s been really bad.” He fixed his gaze on the corner of the room. “I think we need to move.
“I sent you the video of the cupboard doors opening and closing. That was when the screaming and wailing started. Then the windows began to rattle. The books on the shelves upstairs flew off. I recorded that video, and then we left and went to a friend’s house. They probably think we’re nuts.”
“Everyone thinks I’m nuts. It’s okay. What did your friends say about it?”
“Nothing, really. They listened to the story and told us we could stay while we worked it out.”
“But you came back, even after?” He shrugged. “Have you heard anyone around you say anything? Like what does your landlord say about the house?” Jamis wanted to see the hinges on the cupboard and impulsively moved to make it happen. As much difficulty as she had with day-to-day feelings, holding still was even harder. In the kitchen, she opened each door to inspect the hinges. They were new. The cupboards, counter, and floor were level. She hoisted herself up to sit on the counter.
“It’s a property management company in Salt Lake,” Vince said. He followed and stood by the table.
“Everything is new?”
“Everything is or at least we were told. We rented it furnished.” The front door opened, and a female voice called out.
Darcy was home. Jamis leaped from the counter to meet her in the middle of the kitchen. “I’m so glad you’re here. I used to watch your show with my mom, and I told Vince you were the person to ask for help. I’m not sure anyone else would believe this.” Her smile was genuine. She was short but not petite. Pretty in a normal, Midwestern way. She sounded like she was from Illinois.
“Thanks. I swear eighty percent of the people I meet tell me they watched my show with their mom.” Jamis smiled and then continued. “Vince told me what happened to him last night, about the other random events, and about your experience with the cabinets the first night here. Is there anything else I should know?”
“Can you make some coffee for us?” Darcy turned to Vince, and he moved quickly to do so. “He makes the best coffee,” Darcy said. “I feel weird here. Anxious. Angry. Scared. My stomach hurts all the time. My head aches.” She put her hand on her head. “It hurts right here at the top of my head, and sometimes it wakes me up at night. It’s not just the cabinets or the screaming. It’s something heavy and dark. Sometimes I wake and feel like there is someone on top of me. One night I punched Vince in the nose because he was trying to shake me and wake me up.”
The coffee pot gurgled to life. Water spit out through the filter and splashed into the bottom of the pot. The house was cold and silent. All background noise faded away as Darcy spoke and Jamis shivered.
“And that,” Darcy said. “It’s cold all the time. The thermostat is
set at seventy-eight. And sometimes I swear I hear someone crying.” Darcy went to the doorway and pointed up the stairwell. “Like it’s in the walls.” A gust of wind rattled the back window.
“I think that’s just a storm heading our way,” Jamis said. “The lady at the motel said one was coming.”
“I’m not sure about that. At all,” Darcy said. The coffee continued to gurgle. “I used to watch your show and think it was just good fun. Oh, God. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just I never really believed any of it. I mean, I thought it was possible, but there is never proof, right?”
“Tell me about it,” Jamis said. “And then tell my shrink.” Darcy looked puzzled. Jamis motioned for her to continue.
“My mom believed in ghosts. Said her mom came to visit her the day before her heart attack and told her everything would be okay. I’m not Mormon, in case you’re wondering, like most in this area. Vince is, but he’s not practicing. I don’t believe in the afterlife. But in the past six weeks, well, if there isn’t proof here, I don’t know where there is proof.” Vince set a mug of coffee on the counter next to Jamis. She picked it up, used it to warm her hands, took a small sip.
Then Jamis set it down and put a finger to her lips. A sound like a cry filtered in from the front room, indistinct but growing in volume. Jamis opened the Voice Memo app on her phone and signaled for Vince and Darcy to remain where they were. She followed the sounds into the front room, but then they changed their directionality and now came from behind her. She came back into the kitchen, but the sounds changed again. She moved into the formal dining room. In each room, the crying sounds fled to the next ahead of her arrival. It was extraordinary. Finally, they stopped. She hit play, but it had recorded nothing.
“Nothing. Damnit. Did you hear that?” Vince and Darcy were pale, shaken, and terrified and Jamis was thrilled. It said a lot about her, but she was too excited for psychoanalysis. “I think it’s best if you stay somewhere else. But I need access to the house, and I want to set up cameras. Is that okay? Can I have a key?” They both agreed and Darcy dug in her purse on the table.
Darcy held out the keys for Jamis. As Jamis reached for them, the front door of the house flew open. Something knocked Jamis forward, and once she regained balance, the front door slammed shut. Then the fridge door opened and Jamis fell back into the table to avoid it. The chair next to her fell. Its legs lifted off the ground and then something unseen slammed it on the linoleum. Darcy jumped away from the table and into Vince’s arms. Jamis waited in the middle of the kitchen as the air calmed.
Vince and Darcy retreated to the back door. It opened under their weight. They tumbled outside and landed together in the snow. Jamis ran toward them. Something shoved her, the pressure firm against her back and neck. It felt like a playground bully pushing her off the jungle gym. She tumbled to the ground to land across Darcy and Vince.
“Well, hell,” Jamis said. The fall knocked the wind out of her, and she rolled off of them to lay on her side and hold her stomach while she caught her breath.
“Do you see? Oh my God,” Vince yelled. “Do you see?” He cried actual tears. Darcy rubbed his face with the arm of her shirt.
Chapter Three
Jamis recorded the day’s events and posted a picture of Vince and Darcy in the snow across social media with a brief summary. Then the house began to feel oppressive. Jamis felt like weights were strapped to her legs before a power walk. Her skin itched like she’d been bitten by a swarm of mosquitos.
So, she left to wait in the front yard for Vince and Darcy to pack. Wind raged and the snow on the ground blew around her feet. The curtain in the front room shifted and billowed, but by the time Jamis got to the window, it was at rest, like it never moved.
“What happened now?” Darcy stopped on the porch, carrying a large bag and a purse, her face frightened and anxious.
“Nothing. Just a trick of light,” Jamis said. She didn’t know if that was the case, but Darcy’s expression said she’d had enough for today. Vince joined her and Jamis walked them to their car.
“I’ll let you know what happens, okay? We’ll stay in touch.”
Vince waved as he backed the car out of the driveway.
Jamis studied the house. The numbers on front were new: 32. They didn’t appear out of the ordinary in any way, but a consultation with a numerologist might be helpful. She texted a friend who dabbled with numbers to ask. Jamis often told her viewers, “Ask all the questions. Prepare to change your mind.”
There was a stillness around the house, as if it existed just outside the space-time continuum she was in. Even the sky looked different in the shadow of the house. Jamis waited outside, watching, but nothing substantial happened so she took the cameras inside. Her energy shifted when she walked from the sidewalk across the street into the house. It was subtle, but she felt it.
Her phone chirped with a texted reply. Thirty-two is the number that says I must compost and re-form all that I carry. Karmic liberation. Escaping the cycle of samsara. For Pythagoricians it’s all about justice.
The cold from earlier was gone. Warm air gushed from air vents and she shrugged out of her coat, reading the text a handful of times before sending thanks and tucking her phone away. The text wasn’t helpful, she decided. Any life well lived required constant reframing. Jamis was becoming an expert with Dr. Frank. She didn’t lose her show. She moved on to a new chapter. Talk about composting.
Jamis set a camera at the bottom of the stairs, positioned to record all of the front room. She placed a camera in the kitchen, angled in the back corner of the counter, another in the formal dining space, and one at the top of the stairs. It caught a wide view of the staircase and the upstairs hallway. Jamis tapped the tablet and connected them via satellite. All were set to record with motion.
The cameras were the only tools left in her ghost hunting toolbox. She had night vision goggles to help her see in the dark, but they did little else. On television, Jamis used everything from meters that read electrical impulses to Ouija boards. But they were just props, intended to entertain, so she let them go with the show. Now, stripped bare of everything, she relied on her second sight, and the rare moments when the cameras caught something.
The potential to dip into melancholy rose inside her. Her life was reduced to waiting for the video clip that couldn’t be refuted. Despair creeped around the corner, stood on the threshold. Depression was tempting, but warmth enveloped and stopped her. With it came her most vivid childhood memory, and Jamis felt it as though she were there, reliving it. Her mom carried her from the couch to bed, half asleep, safe in her arms, and tucked her into bed. The blankets were heavy on her limbs. The window was open, the air cool on her nose. The radio, on soft jazz, filtered in from the front room, and while she drifted back to sleep, her mom rubbed her back.
Then something pulled the warmth from her, like the blanket her mom lovingly tucked around her was yanked off with force. Her arms burned like she’d held a bag of ice for too long. The safety of the bedroom faded away. Now she was somewhere else, and her mom’s body was on a stretcher, the zipper of the body bag opened just enough to see her face, eyes closed, lips blue.
It was the worst moment of her life. Every night for the next ten years, it was the scene that played on the backside of her eyelids when she tried to sleep. She left a whole chunk of herself in the room that day. The coroner packed it up in the body bag. The grief made her feel like she was clawing at a brick wall, fingertips bloodied. She carried the loss inside, woven into the scar tissue of her heart, and imagined death would come and she’d carry nothing else. Anguish reorganized her into someone different from that point forward.
Jamis leaned over the stretcher to kiss her mom’s forehead, heart wrenched. Her mom’s eyes opened. Adrenaline flooded her system. Her heart thundered and stomach muscles spasmed. It took a few minutes for Jamis to regain control of her limbs. The image of her mom’s death-clouded eyes was prominent as she struggled to br
eathe. Upset clogged her windpipe. She couldn’t escape the vision.
“That was not nice,” Jamis said, struggling to leave. “I’d like to help you, but if you keep that up, I’ll tell you to fuck off.”
The pressure lessened. Jamis was confused about her whereabouts. Her place in time came back to her with the sound of a car horn. The curtain billowed. “Do you want me to hurt as much as you? Is that what you’re doing? I don’t know who you are, I want to help you, but you need to be nicer.” The air remained still and the house silent. Her emotions settled and she struggled to regain composure and change her tone.
“I have this feeling like I’ve been here before. In this town. Do you think that’s possible?” The words surprised her. She’d not expected to say them.
Branches of a tree scraped a window somewhere upstairs. Jamis watched cars drive by and was overcome by a sensation of slipping through the earth. She grabbed the trim around the window, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and settled her vertigo. When she opened her eyes, the sun shone brightly in the front yard. The cloudy day was gone. Perhaps she was in a different place or time.
There was a hunched figure at the bottom of the porch, its back to Jamis, wearing a dark, bluish gray robe. A car with a large metal bumper and heavy square frame drove by. There was no sound. Other cars drove by as well, but she couldn’t hear them. The steps she took were silent. She couldn’t even hear her own breathing, which was labored from repeated emotional jolts. Jamis crept toward the figure, covering her eyes to block the glare of the sun, and descended the stairs. Each step reminded her of the dream. Her legs felt heavy, like she waded through waist high mud. The pressure was so intense Jamis dropped to her hands and knees to crawl, struggling to close the space between them. “Did you bring me here?”