{"id":113527,"date":"2017-08-04T09:00:43","date_gmt":"2017-08-04T13:00:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=113527"},"modified":"2017-08-05T14:26:45","modified_gmt":"2017-08-05T18:26:45","slug":"sadie-a-ghost-story","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/08\/04\/sadie-a-ghost-story\/","title":{"rendered":"Sadie: A Ghost Story"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It\u2019s not as though I\u2019ve never had the opportunity to see a ghost. I\u2019ve spent plenty of my life in \u201chaunted\u201d spaces. Besides my grandparents\u2019 house\u2014where, after all, a ghost had been seen\u2014there was the 1830s former funeral parlor where one of my best childhood friends lived. Another friend, who\u2019s very sensitive to such matters, claims that she always had an uneasy feeling in my parents\u2019 home; I never felt a thing.<\/p>\n

In the years since, I\u2019ve stayed in haunted monasteries and onetime graveyards and, once, the site of a long-ago murder. In each, I slept without incident. I am writing this, in fact, from a big, old, drafty New England house full of creaks and corners. My husband is plagued in the nighttime by its inexplicable slamming doors and, once, through the window, saw the woods erupt into flame. I, of course, slept through it. I could be surrounded by a Haunted Mansion\u2019s worth of swirling, leaping, leering spirits and presumably I wouldn\u2019t even notice them.<\/p>\n

This seems very unfair, given how open I am to the possibility. My sophomore year of college, I won a single room in the housing lottery. It was very tiny, but I liked that; I\u2019ve always preferred enclosed spaces. I arranged it very cozily, too: I remember I had a red paper lantern over my light bulb (I\u2019d gotten that from Pearl River Mart) and had brought my little chintz-colored armchair\u2014the first thing I\u2019d ever gotten at auction, for a dollar\u2014all the way from home. There was a patchwork quilt on the bed and a Stettheimer print on the wall, and even though my massive secondhand desktop took up a lot of space and a heating pipe ran through the center of the room, I thought it was pretty great.<\/p>\n

I\u2019d been living in my room for a couple of weeks when an older student said to me, \u201cAren\u2019t you scared living there?\u201d When I said why, he looked at me pityingly and said, \u201cYou mean you don\u2019t know?\u201d and then explained that the room was known to be haunted. This guy had a reputation for being an ass with pretensions to being sinister, and normally I gave him a pretty wide berth, but of course I was eager to know more. It seemed, he said, that when the building had served as a boardinghouse for respectable career women in the 1890s\u2014this, at least, was true\u2014a resident had hanged herself from the ceiling of my room. And! In the years since, she\u2019d been seen, and more than once. Most memorably, someone had seen her hanging outside the window, wearing a nightgown, and \u201cmaking weird faces.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat kind of weird faces?\u201d I asked suspiciously.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know,\u201d he said, and kind of rolled his eyes around and darted his tongue in and out of his mouth. It didn\u2019t inspire confidence.<\/p>\n

I was still pretty psyched, though, and hastened to tell my boyfriend. Like me, he was very pro-ghost. \u201cI just don\u2019t understand<\/em> people who don\u2019t believe in ghosts,\u201d he said once, very intensely, early in our relationship. But also like mine, his was a pure faith: he\u2019d never seen anything even approaching a ghost, and was eager to do so. We sat in the room, night after night, trying to scare ourselves. We got snacks. Once, we stayed up all night. But nothing happened; it just felt like a dorm room. I remember, while living there, being very sad, often distressed, sometimes frightened about the future or money or failing grades. But never the tangible terror it seemed a ghost would bring.<\/p>\n

There were two student suicides that year, in quick succession. Over the course of my college years, there would be five. Each time a student killed himself, we were called to last-minute emergency meetings,\u00a0often late in the evening, and the resident advisor would tell us, very soberly, that someone had died. There were never details; you gleaned these later, from rumor and the school paper, and then the flags would fly at half-mast. If you did not live in the dorms, sometimes seeing the flags on campus was your first indication. And then you\u2019d hear things, horrible things, about family pressure and emotional instability and pills and rooftops and the grisly discovery of the body. Even more students killed themselves between terms or on medical leave. They just didn\u2019t come back.<\/p>\n

That summer, my boyfriend and I went backpacking in England. We stayed in a medieval inn\u2014a B\u00a0and B, really\u2014in a little village in the West Country. The very nice owners said the bit where we were staying\u2014the oldest part of the building\u2014was definitely haunted. We wanted it to be, fiercely. I remember I went to the bathroom in the night, down a whitewashed corridor, and the door latch dropped of its own accord, and I was thrilled and rushed in to tell him. He was very envious. The next morning, I saw by the light of day that it was simply how that latch worked, and it probably hadn\u2019t been the doings of any ghosts at all. Still, we held it close, as evidence of \u2026 something. What, I am not sure. But it felt very, very important.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Sadie Stein is an advisory editor of <\/i>The Paris Review.<\/i><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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