BOO! Here’s a True Ghost Story from Spontaneous Revolutions, for Those Who Dare!

Halloween has long been a favorite holiday of mine. No doubt, one reason is the excuse to buy and eat excess candy. But, it also marks the beginning of the festive holiday season. I typically don’t care for scary movies or creepy trips to ghostly places. Halloween is mostly a good reason to put on a ridiculous costume and have fun! Over the years, I’ve received numerous awards for costume contests. 

Liza & Clark

Clark and I took first place in the couples’ category in Chico, California dressing up as a frankfurter and stein of beer (AKA Frankenstein). And, while living in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, a group of friends and I went as Yellowstone National Park (A ranger, a bear, two tourists in a motor home and Old Faithful) and garnered the gold! Individually, I took first place dressed as a gypsy moth, dingbat and salmon run. It’s always great fun!  

Although it wasn’t Halloween, Clark and I explored what felt like a haunted house during our bike trip. Here’s an excerpt of that story from Spontaneous Revolutions: Seeing America One Pedal at a Time:

Eleven miles later we rolled into the river town of Alma. The historic buildings and quaint streets fascinated us so much we decided to stay. One imposing, pre-turn-of-the-century inn advertised “great rates.” 

We knocked and rang, but no one answered. That seemed odd. We rang again, more insistently, and still nothing. On a whim, I palmed the ornate doorknob, giving it a firm turn. The heavy door creaked open. 

We stood stock-still, somewhat embarrassed for our intrusion yet intrigued by what we saw beyond the threshold. The antique-filled, heavily draped parlor appeared frozen in another time. Ornate wooden pedestals flanked deeply tufted mahogany settees. Gilded vases adorned marble-topped tables lavishly spilling a bounty of flowers. A bronze lamp with bead fringe stood sentry on an old piano. Needlepoint, velvet, braid, and swag. Everything in perfect, overly elaborate order, as the master of this mansion would have expected. A grand staircase with an intricately carved banister was the obvious focal point. I imagined Victorian ladies sashaying down those stairs when a gentleman came a-calling. Were we on the edge of “The Twilight Zone”?

“Hello?” we called. 

No answer.

We stepped into the Zone. 

“Hellooooo?” louder this time.

Dead silence. 

Our eyes adjusted to the dim light. A sign instructed us that if no one was home to “pick the room you want, leave the key in the door and money on the table when you go.” Okaaaaaay. Trust so rare I wanted to stay for that reason alone. 

We tentatively explored a bit further, heading upstairs. The guest rooms were quaint, yet formal. Too formal for us rough riders. The bath was down the hall which meant sharing. Not a big deal for seasoned campers. But the house was creepy, and I had the willies.

“I bet there’s a ghost in here,” Clark commented, echoing my thoughts.

Everything smelled old and musty. It reminded me of the mildewy scent that lingers a few days after you open a lake cabin for the first time in summer. But this was different. The place felt uncomfortable, like maybe we weren’t really alone. I not so discreetly checked the paintings for eye holes. 

“I’d be scared if you went for a beer and left me alone here,” I said subtly hinting that wouldn’t be an option. 

Still, we were intrigued and continued walking along the narrow hall, opening and closing doors, peeking into every room. One door looked slightly smaller than the others. Without thinking, I opened it. A blast of cold, stale air slammed us in the face. The attic. Oh, crap. I had a strong feeling we shouldn’t be there. Clark banged the door shut with so much force the sound reverberated up and down the hall. 

“Let’s get outta here,” he said, looking over his shoulder back toward the door. 

What started as a trot, turned into a sprint. We flew down the stairs and were on our bikes before you could say “Boo!”