Some people are reluctant to tell their personal ghost stories, even upon request. For whatever reason, they will acknowledge that they have a story, but will refuse to tell it. Perhaps they don't want to add to their confusion or fright by trying to articulate what they experienced; perhaps they wish they hadn't experienced it and are trying to block it out of their memory.
In some cases this is probably for the best. One man complained to me about midnight disruptions to his sleep after moving into an 1890's house in my Minneapolis neighborhood. But he refused to give details, explaining that he really didn't want to think about it. Unbeknownst to him, neighbors had told me that several years previous to his moving in, a landlord had settled a rent dispute with a tenant in the house by blasting him with a shotgun, killing him instantly. Eventually, the new owner learned of the incident from the neighbors, who were initially reluctant to spook him with the story. A couple of decades later, I had my own experiences in that house after it was acquired by new owners.
Another reluctant storyteller told me his story, even though I never met him in person. One winter afternoon in early 1980s after I had posted a notice in local libraries soliciting ghost stories, my phone rang. The voice on the other end was a man's. He sounded harried and nervous. He gave his name, adding that he was an attorney who worked in downtown Minneapolis. He had seen the notice in the library during a lunchtime visit that day. As it turned out, his main concern was not, he said, telling his story, but getting some relief from the uncanny incidents occurring in the house that he and his family had moved into earlier that year.
Their house was an old farmhouse in a far western suburb of Minneapolis. The family liked the house and everything about it--with one exception: the hatch covering to the attic kept coming open. It was a standard hatch cover which fitted over an opening just large enough for a person to climb through. During the summer months he and his wife often found the cover slightly off-kilter. They'd put it straight, only to find it askew a day or two later.
When the days grew cooler in the fall, he filled the attic with insulation in preparation for the long Minnesota winter. When the heating season started, he and his wife began to get annoyed, then upset, when they'd repeatedly find the hatch open, allowing heat to escape into the attic. It became routine for them to make sure the hatch cover was shut tight before they went to bed. Despite this precaution, in the morning, they frequently found the cover askew. They never heard a sound; they never actually saw it move. But there it was, partially open, virtually every day.
After going through this futile exercise for several weeks, the man decided to nail the cover shut. That would fix it, once and for all. He attached the cover to the molding with a series of long, sturdy nails and went to bed happily expecting never to have to deal with this cover movement again. Needless to say, he was aghast when he found the hatch in the upper hallway open, just as before.
It was then that he and his wife began to entertain the idea that the cover was being moved by something paranormal. They wondered if their house might be haunted by a ghost that didn't care a tinker's damn about big heating bills.
At this point the man's brother, who lives a great distance from Minnesota and whom he hadn't seen for ten years, phoned. His reason for calling was startling: The brother told them that he felt they had a "presence" in their attic, and that he was going to exorcise it for one year. But despite the brother's assurances, the cover to the attic refused to stay put.
Shortly thereafter, they had an unannounced visitor whose mysterious innuendoes changed their irritation to alarm. One weekend a man appeared at the front door. He appeared to be in his 30s, an unkempt and disheveled character. As they chatted on the front stoop, he told them that he had lived in the house as a child, and as he happened to be in the neighborhood, he decided to stop by. Then, with an insinuating smile, he asked if "it" was still there.
The sly inquiry upset the attorney, who pretended not to understand. The visitor went on to say that when he lived there, a "thing" inhabiting the attic had caused his family distress. As a child, he was so impressed by this unseen thing's activities that he felt compelled to stop and ask them about it.
The attorney was shaken by the man's story, for it confirmed his suspicions that something paranormal was at work. He resolved that the "thing" had opened the hatch once too often, and that he was going to get rid of it--although he didn't know where to begin.
As if in answer to his need to banish the "thing", he had found my notice in the library. Could I help them? Reluctantly, I told him that I am a story collector, not a ghost buster. Hearing this, the man was crestfallen. He had poured out the story to a stranger who couldn't do anything but listen. He hung up.
I feel bad that I didn't try to help them. If he had called a year later, I would have been able to suggest resources to check out. When people ask me what they can do about their haunting, I tell them that the first thing to try is to talk to the ghost. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. In this case, I suspect it wouldn't because the "thing" had been around for so long and seemed malevolent.
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