The Hobo Ghosts
Almost everyone asks me if I believe in ghosts. I do. I have been seeing and hearing them since I was a small girl.
My first experience with ghosts occurred when I was five years old. I awoke one evening because of a loud crash in the kitchen. Startled, I began to get out of bed, when I heard voices.
“Mac, you have to quiet it down. There are kids and a dog and such things, and You Know Who has a law against scaring the little ones.”
Mac? Who was Mac? I wondered. My dad’s name was Wally and I certainly didn’t think he’d be up banging around the kitchen in the middle of the night.
Another voice piped in. “Aw, Harry, it’s a greasy skillet and it slips.”
And the two voices proceeded to bump around the kitchen doing what sounded like an awful lot of cooking. At one point, I was certain I heard the sizzling of bacon, the chewing of crunchy toast, and at least one deep sigh of satisfaction.
I was frozen with fear and carefully stretched the covers over my head. Who were these strange men? What were they doing in our kitchen? Why hadn’t my mom and dad woken up and stopped them?
Finally, the noisy intruders finished cooking and eating, and I heard a couple of belches and then a moment of silence. I thought perhaps that they were gone, but when I peeked out from under the covers, I spied shadows on the hallway, just outside my bedroom. Oh no! Were they coming to get me?
I heard a door open. “Well, time to catch a train,” muttered the one named Mac. Suddenly, the house was quiet.
I settled back onto my pillow. Okay, I had figured them out. They were hobos. We lived close to train tracks. Mac and friend had obviously decided to pilfer our pantry before hopping a train.
I jumped out of bed, suddenly eager to tell my mom what had just happened. Then I thought better of it. My mom would be furious because they didn’t do the dishes. I had not heard any water running, which means that the sink would be piled with dirty pans and plates. My need for a hug overwhelmed my worry, however, and I ran into my parents’ room and threw myself onto the bed.
“Mommy, Daddy, the hobos were cooking in our kitchen!”
I repeated my announcement, since my parents were a little slow coming out of sleep. Finally, my mother struggled to her feet, her hair awry, and followed me into the kitchen.
It was spick and span, just like when we went to bed the evening before.
My dad stood in the kitchen doorway, a look of frustration on his face. “Cyndi, you have to stop telling these stories.” And with that, I was sent back to bed.
Excerpted from The Everyday Clairvoyant, Llewellyn Books. All content © Cyndi Dale and Llewellyn Books