The haunted rectory in "Dead Ringer" was a grand old house that once had servants to care for the inhabitants. This story concerns a relatively new house that served as a parsonage. "John," a Methodist minister, told me this ghost story from the 1960s, when he was fresh out of seminary.
That summer he took a position as interim pastor for a church in a small town about 100 miles west of the Twin Cities. His predecessor there had been at that church only one year; the congregation was awaiting the arrival of a permanent minister in September.
John had not visited the town before he pulled his car up in front of the church on a hot June afternoon. Several parishioners greeted him and showed him to the parsonage down the street from the church. Although the church was turn-of-the-century, the parsonage was a relatively recent structure, less than a decade old. The two-story house was the pride of the congregation, for it had been built by a cooperative effort of various parishioners, who had each contributed in their way--labor, skill, materials, or financing.
As a member of the welcoming committee pushed open the front door to let John enter the house, the minister felt a rush of cold air pour past him. "How wonderful," he remarked gratefully. "It's air-conditioned." The man at the door gave John a sharp look. "Why, no," he replied. "It's just well insulated, I guess."
The parishioners helped John bring in his luggage, and he spent the rest of the day getting his books and other belongings organized. Later that evening, John wearily crawled into bed in one of the upstairs bedrooms, turned out the bedside light, and closed his eyes. He hadn't been lying there for more than a few seconds when he was startled by popping noises overhead, somewhat like someone snapping their fingers.
He opened his eyes and saw softly glowing globes about the size of ping-pong balls floating by the ceiling, and these balls were emitting the popping sounds. They circled in the air for about ten seconds before being abruptly dispatched with a loud bang similar to the sound of a balloon bursting.
Fumbling in his haste, John snapped on the light and looked around the room. He couldn't believe what he had just seen. He wasn't exactly terrified, but he certainly was unsettled. Minutes passed in the silent house. As his anxiety slowly ebbed, he turned out the light and eased his head back onto the pillow. As he lay there in the darkness, he worried that the popping fireballs would come back. But all remained quiet, and he gradually fell into a deep sleep.
In the bright light of the next morning he tried to puzzle out what he had seen over his bed--light from outside, dream, hallucination, ball lightning? The incident was certainly weird, whatever the cause.
John wasn't thinking about fireballs that night when he switched out the lamp and rolled over to sleep. But his attention snapped back to them as they suddenly reappeared over the bed, whirling and popping. After a brief display, they again disappeared with a bang. John leaped out of bed and checked the room--the windows, the doors, the lights--but couldn't find any likely source for the phenomenon.
When the fireballs visited him again the next night and the next, John began to wonder if the spooky little fireworks display was going to be a nightly occurrence. It was. Each night was the same: glowing orbs would circle over his bed for 10 seconds or so before they'd disappear with an abrupt bang.
John was beginning to come to the conclusion that some paranormal force was at work. To reinforce this conclusion, John had observed that the house always seemed cool, even downright chilly, no matter how hot and sultry it got outside. Then came the clincher. He was downstairs reading one evening when he heard footsteps overhead. He cautiously climbed the stairs, wondering who had gotten into the house without him noticing. Yet when he looked into the bedrooms, no one was there.
As the days stretched into weeks, the glowing balls continued their daily nocturnal appearances. John began to anticipate their regular performances. They became more of an annoyance than a source of alarm. When they'd arrive on cue after he turned out the bedside lamp, he'd lie resignedly in bed waiting for them to leave him in peace. The unexplained noises continued as well, although there was no set pattern for these. Sometimes he'd hear footsteps; sometimes he'd hear the floor or furniture creaking.
John wondered about the previous occupants of the house, but he was reluctant to be too specific in his questions to the parishioners. For one, the official position of the denomination at that time was decidedly anti-ghost. Such things don't exist. Period. For another, the parishioners had built the house with their own hands. How could he suggest that this labor of love was, well, haunted?
John ventured to ask a couple of parishioners about "unusual" incidents associated with the parsonage, but he learned little from these inquiries. The situation was tolerable for John because it was for the summer only. He couldn't help but speculate, however, about why the previous minister stayed only one year. And what would happen when the next minister moved in? Would the balls of fire visit him as well?
In July John's sister came for a weekend visit. Not wanting to unduly alarm her, he had told her nothing about the strange occurrences at the parsonage. As it turned out, he didn't have to tell her. The minute she set foot in the house, she exclaimed, "How can you stay here! This house really gives me the creeps." She wasn't at all surprised when he told her about the spooky goings-on he'd experienced.
At the end of the summer, John moved out, breathing a sigh of relief that he didn't have to deal with the fireballs and footsteps anymore. The next summer he learned that the incoming minister hadn't even lasted the year out.
No comments:
Post a Comment