THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, October 25, 1996 TAG: 9610240160
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: OVER EASY
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: 89 lines
I will not be going to Bangor for Halloween this year.
That is by request: of my cousin, Charline, and the city's best-known resident, Stephen King.
The reason Charline doesn't want me there has to do with last year's strange happenings.
The reason Stephen King doesn't want me there is jealousy. He's jealous because the weird kind of things that he sits in his big old house on West Broadway dreaming up to write about actually happen to me.
Like the upside-down cross on the second floor kitchen ceiling and the ghost in the first floor bedroom, for instance.
I guess I probably need to explain why there's an upstairs kitchen and a downstairs bedroom, although anybody familiar with Bangor's big old houses would understand immediately. Basically, Charline lives in what started out to be a single family home, was converted to a two-family dwelling in the 1940s, then reverted to one family status when her sister-in-law, Lou, passed away a few years ago.
When I go to Bangor, I get the downstairs bedroom, which once was Lou's domain. A family friend long before Charline married her brother, Lou was an elegant lady who, along with my mother, tried for years to instill a sense of style and class in me.
She finally gave up on my 14th year when I showed up for a lawn party wearing jeans, a bathing suit top, a rhinestone necklace and black patent leather shoes.
She and my mother quickly banished me from sight, and Lou turned her attention to molding young ladies with more potential.
I have to admit, I've never been very comfortable sleeping in Lou's graceful four-poster bed. I always had the feeling that her ghost was lurking in a dark corner, plotting some means of getting me out of there.
Last Halloween, the ghost almost succeeded.
I had gone to bed with a good book at about 11 the night before. A little after midnight, I turned out the light, rolled over and went crashing to the floor. The bed had collapsed beneath me.
Charline, hearing the racket all the way up in her third-floor bedroom, came running. We assessed the damage and made temporary repairs. I swear there was laughter coming from a far corner as I turned the light off for the second time.
The next morning, Charline and I took a closer look at the bed and planned our strategy.
``I've been wanting to get a box spring anyway,'' she assured me as we surveyed the badly bent open coil contraption that had come with the bed when it was new back in the 1920s.
``We'll need bed rails, too,'' I told her. ``These wooden ones have big splits in them.''
By noon we had located a box spring but no bed rails. ``That's all right, I think I have some in the attic,'' Charline said.
That afternoon, she and I went in under the third floor eaves and started going through several decades of discarded clothes and furnishings. I took a can of Coke with me.
``I really should pitch a lot of this old stuff of Lou's,'' Charline said as she moved a box of winter suits and coats. The words were no sooner out of mouth than a blast of cold air went through the attic.
A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. I put my Coke aside and ran down two flights of stairs to answer it. A few moments later, Charline joined me on the first floor, empty-handed.
``I guess I don't have any bed rails after all,'' she said. ``I'm going to call around and see if I can find a set.''
I returned to the attic in search of my Coke. It was gone. I heard a chuckle from somewhere near the cobweb covered dormer.
``OK, Lou, I get the picture. You can cut that out,'' I said. My response was another blast of cold air.
Charline located a set of bed rails, and we set off to get them. Her husband, Lonnie, was standing in the second-floor kitchen when we returned, staring up at a large cross-shaped stain that was forming on the ceiling. Deep-brown liquid was dripping from it onto the counter and floor.
``I don't understand it,'' he mused, ``we haven't had rain in two weeks and now the roof is leaking.''
Charline and I raced past him and and up the stairs. There, in plain view, was the overturned Coke can, slowly dripping its contents onto the ceiling below.
``Lou's ghost!'' we said in unison.
The cold breeze went through the attic again.
Later, between trick or treaters, Charline and I got the bed put back together. It was after midnight before I climbed into it. All went well. There were no more ghostly incidents during that visit or when I returned in May.
I decided that the strange happenings had to be related to the holiday.
From now on, I'll spend Halloween in Virginia Beach, where beds don't break, Coke cans don't disappear and ghosts carry big bags with the words ``trick or treat'' on them. by CNB