Ghosts XII
This chapter will begin with a slight amendment to the previous, that is, ghosts and the telephone. I had already mentioned how the children ghosts used to play on the students' telephones and answering machines in the dormitory of that school where I worked. If you are new to my ghost stories, that school was an old tuberculosis sanitarium. I had to go through some digging to prove my suspicions about that too. They don't like it when students run away in the middle of the night there. They didn't like it when I scared them either. But, I stray... I do have one other second hand ghost story involving a dear friend of mine from Erie. When her father died he called them on the phone as promised, only when her mother answered, nobody was there; but, they knew it was him. He had fulfilled a Houdini type of pact with them, proving that the spirit lives. I should also mention that this friend of mine is very psychic. She is the one that shared my nightmare the morning of September 11th too, so it is possible that her father had some special talents. He has also been known to haunt the psychics at Lily Dale too. So, the telephone is a sort of tool that some ghosts use to keep in touch. I, myself, have never had any supernatural fun with the phone, besides knowing who is calling and those middle of the night ones when somebody has died, but that's quite natural, I presume. But, I do find an interesting correlation between the passing of The Irish Banshee with the invention of the telephone. I guess I'm a Banshee, because I despise the thing; so don't worry, I won't call you when I'm dead.
The telephonic prequil actually works well with the next story about Irish immigrants, another father of another Irish friend of mine, the lady that I student taught with. I'm sure they'd all like for you to know their story. Her parents immigrated here from Ireland in the thirties, along with their best friend, just as my great-grandmothers had done. The father, he got up early every morning and made breakfast for the entire family; but breakfast always came with a song and dance, because they could all hear him down there, (must be an Irish thing). Exactly a week before he died, he told his wife that when he woke up that morning their best friend, that came over with them, who was already dead, was sitting, smiling, casually, at the foot of the bed, looking as alive as ever. His wife was worried about his story, and took it as an omen; she wasn't surprised when they heard him hit the floor making breakfast the following week. He went out singing and dancing. Then, his wife, was too visited by her husband and their friend, both, again, sitting at the foot of the bed. It was not long after that she too died, a matter of months. They all came over and left together. The mother had confided the visit to my friend, her daughter, before passing. So, like mother, like daughter, she knew it wouldn't be long. My friend is a good Irish story teller, and I could tell that she reached into her heart to share it. It's an emerald as far as ghost stories go, I think.
