Last week I was cajoled into being a ghostbuster. Unpaid of course. A ghostbuster is someone who locates and removes spirits, be it a ghost or apparition. I’ve been many things in my life–babysitter, camp counselor, mother, wife, Girl Scout leader, church choir member, firefighter, marching band member, first responder, junior college teacher, friend, sister, grandmother, human resource manager, feral hog hunter, historian, author, seamstress, business owner, and civil rights investigator…. but ghostbuster takes the cake.
The call for help came in around three p.m. on a Thursday. The alarm at the historic N.W. Faison House where I volunteer has recently been reactivated. It has been going off sporadically in the kitchen. That section was built sometime in the 1840s before Texas became a state.
Our secretary, Katy, is initially notified of activity by the monitoring company. Every time she responds, nothing is amiss. The law handles the nighttime calls, but again, nothing unusual. In desperation, she called the alarm company. Their main technician suggested that we set up a camera because it was possible that an orb was setting off the motion sensors. Apparently, this had happened to them before.
(I bet by now you think I am joking. But—cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye—that is the God-awful truth.)
Since I am vice president, the job landed in my lap. I am, after all, a professional investigator. With no P.K.E. meter, Ecto-goggles, or a Ghost Sniffer available, I changed the batteries in my trusty deer cam, loaded it into the Beast (My Jeep), and headed to the scene of the crime.
Suspecting mice as the culprits, the camera was positioned on the floor. Also, Katy patched a leaky space between the door and the frame in the event the wind was responsible. A week passed. All was quiet. I returned to the kitchen to retrieve the cam disk and repositioned the device.
Please understand I was raised in a scientific community, my father a Ph.D. chemist. While my mother dabbled in the healing properties of crystals, I continue to be a skeptic. The gentleman who painted the Faison House ten years ago swore he heard footsteps in the bedroom though my disbelief remains.
Note: OK. Maybe I’m not as unconvinced as I used to be. I admit being in the old Fayette County Jail when it was being used by the Chamber of Commerce years ago. An employee and I heard noises as if someone had entered. She checked. No one there. The slammer does have a long history of spirits.
Scanning the pictures alerted me to the fact that the time and date were not set. Drat! As I neared the end of the grouping, a troubling picture emerged.
Katy and I have looked at all the pictures backwards and forwards, using contrast and brightness. But we can’t explain away this image.
GHOSTBUSTER ERADICATION PLAN
Now, as part of my job duties, I must catch whatever we have discovered. Currently, I do not own a proton pack or proton gun and am not willing to invest in expensive equipment without a paying gig.
Do you think my 20-guage shotgun will do the trick? Maybe the poor thing will be scared enough to go screaming from the house if I come armed with my two pistols and five rifles. Or is that overkill?
If not, I’ll need a Trap. Hmm. The official Ghostbuster one looks expensive. Perhaps luring the apparition out with a perfectly stirred martini, extra olives, would work. A vacant house in the country might suffice, especially if supplemented with a good supply of Bombay Sapphire Gin and an offer of human company on a regular basis.
Any thoughts about what we are seeing would be greatly appreciated.
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