The Changing of an Unbeliever

This story, or stories if you will, you are about to experience are true. True in the sense that they are a part of my memory. A part of the working knowledge in my brain. A part of my life to be looked back upon with full realization that they did indeed actually happen as real and experienced events.
All my life prior I had heard many a story relating some 'ghostly' event or 'unexplained' happening which left other listeners in various states of anxiety. But not me. Scoffing at such things I often stood alone, unyielding in my own conclusions that such things were indeed false, lies or, misunderstandings. At the very greatest stretch of my imagination, some manifestation of a persons senses in the thralls of illness or some other affliction responsible for producing such wierd, fantastic and, impossible tales.
To make this picture more complete, I must convey to the reader two of my own experiences, which were not hair raising in nature, but most unusual and still, did not cause me to even question the possibility of the existence of things supernatural.

It was my eleventh summer, my father was away at sea, as usual. We lived with my grandmother, in her house in fact, my grandfather was lost to the sea years earlier. I have no memory of him at all. That July, my grandmother passed away on a beautiful warm sunny day. The type of day when all is well. The type of day people long for all winter long. A day of.....just enjoying. But not this day. She dropped in her tracks on the way up from the well, a stroke the doctor had said. I didn't even know what a stroke was and for some strange reason, didn't ask.
That night, as always, I turned in bed to turn out the little oil lamp at my bedside and noticed the wick had been neatly trimmed. Grandma, she dutifully trimmed the wicks of every lamp in the house every morning. It was part of her regimen. "It keeps the flame bright", she would say. "Keeps the flame from smoking and making the globe dirty". This is how she justified this action of hers but, in truth, it was a habit devolped after Granddad was lost. After that, in the window at the end of the hall which faced the sea, she kept a lamp burning brightly every night. No one asked why and it was never mentioned in conversation, ever. It was her way of letting go. Her way of dealing with such a tremendous loss in such a difficult life, trying to eake out a living on the North Atlantic coast.
The next night, after the wake for Grandma, I turned to the lamp. The wick had been trimmed. It was perfectly straight and square, as always. Getting out of bed, I padded about the house. All the lamps were done.
I performed this inspection every night for a full week, and every night each lamp was the same. At the evening of the last day, my mother came up the stairs. She seemed saddened somehow. "Mother, you okay"?
"Fine," she replied, "It's just that today is ten years ago your grandfather left and didn't return." I had never heard her say the word 'dead' or 'died' when speaking of him.
"Oh", was all I said.
"By the way", she added, "thanks for tending the lampes since nanny passed".
"I love you mom, good night," that was all I ever said of it and turned in to face the wall.
Sleep did not come soon that night and, the next night, the lamps were not trimmed. I puzzled over this and concluded that mother, in her grief, must had forgotten that she herself had tended the lamps during those sad days of that long ago summer. She must have.

Nine years later, it was the second war and, having joined the forces, I found myself stationed at a supply camp on the west coast of England. Enjoying the adventure, it was a time of self discovery. In those days, I would frequent the local pub down in the harbour. No cares and no worries with no one in this wide world but myself to answer to, I enjoyed the establishment nearly every night. One windy, cloudy and cold November evening found me in my perch at the end of the old, thick, brown wooden bar sipping my pint and studying the many names and dates carved into its stained surface. I always felt secure and comfortable in the quiet, dark interior permeated with the aroma of pine scented pipe tobacco and stale beer.
The bell over the door jingled as someone entered, I didn't look up from my scrutiny of the bar, lost in my thoughts. I was jolted out of this by the sudden absence of sound. The few lads at the upper end were staring in my direction. Looking past me and at the door. Turning, my eyes took in a figure tall and straight, completely covered in an autumn red cloak and beneath the rim of that hood was the face of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. To this day even, I have not seen such beauty, such perfectly formed features or a being which exuded such sexual energy. All were astonished, powerless, almost fearful in some respects of the withering gaze from her eyes.
She glided in my direction and seated herself on the stool next to mine. Her hair cascaded around her neck and was as black as night, her eyes were impossibly blue, almost sky colored blue and her skin had the look of silk with a soft summer tan.
"I hope you don't mind me sittin' here," she stated, her voice was soft, yet deep sounding, with a thick Irish accent. I was transfixed and it was with some effort I steadied my quavering insides and replied, "I am honored, my lady".
We chatted about the war, about wanting to travel after it was over. To Paris maybe, or beyond. Grabbing my glass, with confidence returning, I tossed back the last glutch and turned toward the barkeeper and motioned for another. Turning back, I looked up into the dirty mirror behind the bottles as did my new aquaintance. Our eyes locked, looking at each other in the glass. But, it wasn't the gaze of the beautiful lady I stared back at. It was the gaze of something else. Something repulsive, unhuman, sinister. It instantly reminded me of a dead body left in water for days. Pallid, almost transparent skin, lifeless black holes for eyes and a watery slit for a mouth. In an instant it turned and was gone through the door. I was left, motionless, staring at the now empty patch of glass reflecting the wall behind me. Someone remarked jokingly, "For Christs' sake man, what did you say to the poor woman?"
I began to sweat, my mind wrestling with this occurance. My senses rising to incredulousness and then, disbelief. Some trick of the brew I'd been tugging at perhaps, a little too much of late.
Drinking heavily afterward, I related the experience to the old barkeep. He just listened, then, drawing a pint for himself, proceeded to tell me of a local belief. A belief that during the highest spring and fall tides, mermaids took human form and could come ashore to lure unsuspecting lads away, never to be seen or heard tell of again. This only further cemented my disbelief and, picking up my glass, I retreated to a side table.
Looking out a window, I could see the fuming, heaving, black Atlantic hurling itself at the shore higher than I'd ever seen in my two years there. Wind driven rain began spattering the the old, mullioned glass. It was late.

Fast forward to just two weeks ago. I volunteered my services, so to speak, and offered to help my next door neighbour do some painting in preparation for the Christmas season. Having retired years ago, I had the time and, living alone, looked forward to the company.
That Saturday was clear and bright. I met my friend, Debbie, in her garage, vigorously stirring a can of paint.
The work was good and we chatted back and forth, ate sandwiches and relaxed in between. She told me her husband and youngest daughter has left that morning to drive up north to their cabin to winterize things and their older daughter was upstairs contentedly doing her thing and staying out of the way.
I was stirring a fresh can of paint, the door bell rang and Debbie went to answer it. Several moments later, I heard what sounded like a choking scream of despair. I turned toward the door, spilling the paint. Distracted again, I grabbed a rag and bent down to start cleaning it up. I heard giggling laughter, looking up I saw Debbie's daughter standing with her hands over her mouth laughing, she said, "mom will be pissed at you for that". I agreed and went back to the cleaning. Looking up again as Debbie returned, she was gone. Debbie was sheet white, two police officers behind her. It seems there was a traffic accident. An accident involving her husband and daughter. It wasn't good. In fact, it was the worst news anyone could expect to get. I cleaned up the spilled paint, the brushes, rollers and trays, and returned home.
Two days later, I went to the funeral home to pay my respects. The little room at the end of the hall was full of grieving relatives and friends. I walked over, stood by one of the two open caskets. The room tilted, began to grow dark as I started to faint. My knees buckled as nausea rose inside me. The girl in the closest casket was the very same girl who had scolded me for spilling the paint.
I awoke that evening in hospital. There wasn't another soul present and I pushed the assistance button. The nurse entered and said I had been admitted and would be released when my condition warranted. I didn't say a word, didn't want to. My minds eye was frozen on the image of the girl standing and laughing. How would it be possible for me to relay this to anyone else? An eighty nine year old man blabbering about ghosts? I'd be labelled as senile.
I have not confided in a single soul about this experience. Was it real? My senses tell me so and I must say this, it has tipped the balance for me. I now believe, no, I now know, emphatically, that there is more to this world that what we can see and touch. Some of this is good, some of it vile but, both are competing for the attention of the living, if we just look with an open mind.