A Ghastly Correspondence - Letter 1

A back and forth about (mostly) true ghost stories

Apr 07, 2023

Dear Jordan,

I’m writing a frame narrative of ghost stories. My framing device is a party game, where each friend attempts to share a scarier story than the one before. My plan is to tell only true (or mostly true) ghost stories collected from my friends. (This includes you, reader!)

But I need more stories!

Can you help me? Certainly you know some already? Or can ask around?

I should note that I don’t believe in ghosts, but I believe everyone has a ghost story!

How can this be, you may wonder?

As a kid, afraid of the horror section at the video store, I determined that unbelief would protect me from being haunted. Why would a ghost bother spooking someone who would dismiss their ghastly groans as nothing more than his imagination playing tricks on him?

Now that I’m a grown man able to rock his baby to sleep in the bathroom, the darkest room in the house, I can laugh at the shadow of myself in the mirror and not worry I’m cursing myself to certain doom when my brain quickly thinks, ‘BLOODY MARY! BLOODY MARY! BLOODY MARY!’ because I don’t have time for superstitions, I got to get my kid asleep! And besides, I’ve watched Scooby-Doo! I’ve read biographies of Houdini and his fight against Spiritualism con artists! I ain’t afraid of no ghosts!

In fact, one of my prouder parenting moments was when I taught my daughter to fight ghosts by blowing them away! I told her ghosts particularly hated fresh breath, so be ready for battle by brushing your teeth every night! Ha!

Except.

The other night, alone past midnight, trying to sleep on the couch, and my arm dangling off the edge, my fingers inches above the floor, I was gripped by the sudden fear of a bony hand darting out from the shadow beneath the couch and pulling me off and under, and well… ridiculous, yes, don’t be dumb I said, but I still rolled over and tucked my arm under my pillow.

I confess some fragile cracks in my skepticism. (Mostly when tired, after reading a Brian Hodge short story or watching a Mike Flanagan series).

So, here’s what I propose.

I’m going to tell you a true ghost story. Then I’m going to speculate why the haunted believed (or disbelieved). You respond. Criticize or elaborate on my analysis. Then tell me your own ghost story. Tell me why you think your haunted believed (or disbelieved). And we go back and forth, say three times. I’m genuinely hoping our readers will comment and share their own takes, or even better, their own additional ghost stories. (Please, please, please join the conversation!)

My Brother’s Story

Growing up, I shared a room with my younger brother. When I was in high school, I was up and out of the house before he was awake because junior high began an hour and a half later. My brother never made his bed. It didn’t bother me. He slept on the top bunk. It bothered my mom.

My brother told me, one day my mom’s nagging finally got to him, so he made his bed. He smoothed the sheets. He pulled the blanket tight. Fluffed the pillow. But when he came home, his bed was unmade.

He shrugged. Maybe our mom didn’t think it was good enough and showed her displeasure by unmaking it.

The next day, he made his bed again and came home to find it unmade again. He assumed I came home during lunch to prank him.

He asked me why I unmade his bed. I denied knowing he had ever made it. At first, he’s suspicious, but eventually he assures himself that I lacked a compelling motivation.

At some point, and my brother doesn’t know how he made this connection, but he realizes that on the days that he left a Dr. Pepper on his bookshelf, on those days the bed stayed made. And not just any empty Dr. Pepper can, but specifically a half-empty Dr. Pepper can. An offering.

A friend of his was over and my brother explained how his room was haunted by a ghost who unmade his bed unless he left out an open, half-drunk Dr. Pepper.

My brother swears that his friend asked the room, “oh, hello Dr. Pepper drinking ghost, what’s your name?”

My brother’s friend asked, “Is your name Ringo? Paul? Is it Charlie?”

And when his friend said, “Charlie,” a book fell out of the shelf and onto the floor.

The book? “Genies Don’t Ride Bicycles.”

Which, okay, yes, not a ghost story, but supernatural-adjacent and our copy of “Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark” was wedged in tight so the genie book would have been easier to nudge off.

Later that year, when my brother tried out for baseball, he started eating healthier, he cut back on his sugar, he quit drinking soda, and he must have learned to shrug off my mom’s displeasure, because he never had his bed made again until he moved out of my parents’ house and got his own, where his wife made the bed for them.

My Explanation

My brother didn’t want to make his bed! He didn’t want to throw his cans in the recycling! So, he made up a story he continues to swear is true! Either, he’s still lying because he doesn’t want to admit that as a kid he was so lazy that he invented a spiteful, blanket-ruffling ghost who could only be placated with half-full Dr. Pepper cans left on the bookshelf - OR - he told the story so often that he eventually forgot he invented it and began to believe it himself. That’s not so strange. Haven’t we all at some point been discouraged to discover that a cherished childhood memory was actually a scene from a movie we forgot? Or, that we remember the telling of a story better than the event itself? Haven’t we all been told that one of the worst consequences of frequent lying is you begin to forget the truth?

Jordan, can you help me?

I look forward to reading your thoughts on this, and your own (mostly) true ghost story.

And I’m hoping that over the course of our ghastly exchange our readers will be inspired to share their own ghost stories and/or theories as to why the haunted believe in the comments.

Process by Wil Dalton

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