That's Odd

It is a habit of mine to stand at the top of the stairs and gaze out into the vast stairwell below. The twenty-eight-foot walls are painted a dappled pale yellow to create a warm Italian glow. As the sun rises in the morning, the image of the round, stained glass window on the right is captured first. All of its glorious pastel green and pink glass projects onto the west wall. As the sun travels slowly around the house toward the south, the image of a radiant, equal-armed cross of the past appears scattering tiny rainbows on the wall. It doubles and overlaps itself as the sun progresses around the tower onto the north wall. It finishes above the five-foot stained glass window of ribbon and wreath design. In the summer; when the sun rises just as early as we do, the feeling of being in your own private cathedral is so overpowering that the urge to sing like an angel is difficult for me to stifle.

I believe the real excitement of the stairwell started on Wednesday, November 15, 2006. I have an entry in one of my journals that starts on the 16th and tells the tale:

As I stood listening to a low moaning wind echoing in the stairwell, I noticed something odd out of the corner of my eye. We'd had some rain and the round, stained glass window was showing signs of having a leak. That's a bit of an understatement; there was actually a large pocket of water trapped in the paint just inches below the high relief oak trim. I stood at the top of the stairs looking at it wondering 'how in heavens name did that happen?' I'd never seen anything like it before.

Mark came out into the stairwell. What are you doing, dear?

I gestured toward the large teardrop shape near bursting on the east wall. He looked at it and said, Yeah, that happens. I guess I will have to fix that in the spring.

He continued down the stairs to make his tea and get ready for work. It was after he'd gone into the kitchen that I realized that the howling sound I was listening to had stopped. No sooner did I have that thought and it started again, varying in pitches and strength. I continued down the stairs paying it no mind.

After filling my china mug to the rim with milky vanilla cream tea and sending my husband off to work with a kiss and near back-breaking hug, I remembered the strange moaning sound I heard earlier. If it was the wind, why wasn't it noisy now? I stood with my cup pondering and sipping. The sun wasn't showing any promise of coming out that morning and grey clouds were soaring over Paisley. I watched them billow and curl out of the front door window. This meant the radiant natural art for my walls would not be showing today. I stood and watched the tree branches at the neighbour's bend and dance in the wind. I shuddered and was glad for my comfy warm house and yummy hot tea. Hugging my mug I turned to head toward the kitchen. I paused at the stairwell and wondered if I should poke the massive blister that hung precariously to the wall. What would happen if I did? How many towels would I need to sop up the mess? What if I poked it and the force of the water then ripped a large wad of paint off my wall? I decided I really didn't have time to deal with having to repaint the entire stairwell before Saturday. I would wait for Mark to come home and then decide what should be done.

I took a step and noticed that the moaning had started again. It was so subtle that I nearly missed it. Then it became louder with even more variance in the pitch. It didn't sound like the wind to me anymore, it sounded like someone moaning in sorrow. It was distant and yet close - hollow. I stood on the landing to see if it was coming from the window. I climbed to the top of the stairs. The sound was really echoing from this point but still sounded distant. I put my teacup down and ran up into the attic. Nothing. I couldn't hear it up there.

Time was ticking. I needed to get to the baking and make up the menu for Saturday. We had two groups booked. I was putting together a buffet for them for fast and easy service. While heading back down the stairs to retrieve my teacup, I resolved to check on the moaning thing later. I decided that it had to be the wind playing freakishly with the leaky window.

The next morning I came to the top of the stairs. The moaning sound had already started in low tones, waving into higher pitches unevenly. This made the hairs stand up on my arms and at the nape of my neck. Mark was downstairs in the kitchen going through the motions of his morning routine before heading off to work. I stood at the top by myself and thought, 'If you are a lost soul, please go to the light'. I then asked for God's protection of white light to surround the house and to protect us. With the hair still standing pointedly on my skin like tiny needles poking me, I ventured down the stairs and into the kitchen. I would need a fire blasting in the fireplace today. I needed to take the chill off of both me and the house.

The moaning persisted for a while longer, leaving me to assume that whoever she was, she was not interested in going to heaven just yet. This was far from the first time spirits had made themselves known in the house. Strange sightings had happened on numerous occasions at previous times over the years. This thought made me smile. It was exciting - not many people get to experience such things. I don't mind sharing the house as long as the ghosts are nice and don't create problems. I had heard of cases where a spirit was in residence and broke things like water jugs and chair legs. Others knocked pictures off walls. Playing with light switches and other electrical appliances was common as well. I read a ghost story once about a woman who; along with the usual activities of the paranormal, also received a newspaper from the past. It had seemingly appeared out of thin air.

This was just moaning. It stopped before Cathy; the wonderful lady I was fortunate enough to hire in May, came to work at 10 O'clock. Telling Cathy of the moaning was even more fun than the experience itself. Luckily, Cathy was just as spiritual as me so one tale of ghosts flowed into the next along with plenty of laughter and shared stories.

The next day; Friday, the morning moan continued, starting at the usual time during Mark's morning routine.

This had better stop before the kids come home this weekend, I don't need them to hear it and be all freaked out, I said expressing my concerns to Mark as he listened. He still insisted that it was just the wind.

Fine, except that there was no wind that day and the moaning was it's loudest and most persistent yet. The swollen tear clinging to the wall had at least stopped growing. It remained in place by what, I decided, was the best paint anyone could ever purchase from our local Home Hardware. The thought of painting again so soon after completing the huge task in the first place was starting to weigh heavily on my mind. I wondered if Kerri had kept the colour names we had used on record. I had used all of it and tossed the buckets ceremoniously into the recycling bin when we had finally finished. With all of the renovating and painting we had been doing over the last three years, I was certain she said she would keep a customer card on file for us.

Saturday came. We were sitting in the parlour enjoying our hot beverages before a freshly lit fire and listening to the moaning. It swelled and waved and echoed in the stairwell. I sat smiling at Mark who insisted it was still the wind.

I hope it stops before Alex gets up, Mark asked me not to say anything about ghosts to the kids.

I agreed. Maybe they won't even notice.

No sooner were the words out of my mouth when Alex came down the stairs rubbing his eyes sleepily. His matching print pyjamas reminded me of his youth as he turned on the landing.

What's that sound?

Your Dad says it's the wind. I was trying to be nonchalant about the whole thing but smiling all the while. Alex; being no dummy, went to the front door window and peered outside. But it's not windy.

My smile grew wider as I watched for my husbands' next move.

It's the wind. He stuck to it and got up to fetch himself more coffee. I didn't linger either, it was going to be a busy day in the tearoom and I needed to get started.

All moaning aside and the buffet prepared for sixteen guests; Cathy and I set to work moving tables around and setting up for the two groups of ladies. Cathy was saying that she hoped all would go well. It was just the two of us so it would be tight getting everyone their tea in good time. We devised a plan for serving and were confident that everything would come together. With that decided, we prepared the dishes and arranged the food on pretty plates. We had something for everyone as there was some concern about the dietary needs of the group of ten.

The afternoon passed by busily. Things seemed well with the group of six close friends who, for some, hadn't seen each other in years. They were happily buzzing with conversation in the Roman Garden Room as they basked in the sun which blazed through the large picture window. They had attended to dessert and were pouring another round of tea. The group of ten; on the other hand, was still trying to settle down. The lady with the dietary needs was a bit of a problem after all, despite our efforts to accommodate her so-called wheat allergy. By the time we had gone through everything on the menu, it became apparent that this woman didn't know what she was allergic to. She certainly wasn't going to be happy no matter what we did. All the while she proclaimed loud enough for the others to hear that we were not meeting her needs and that she would rather just go for a burger at the local drive-in. This statement caused everyone in the room to stop and stare at the woman with jaws agape.

Once back to the kitchen I put the phone to my ear with the local pharmacist. I asked her numerous questions and I was assured that nothing I had on the table was going to make this particular woman deathly ill. The rest of the ladies were enjoying their lunch but annoyed with their new members' behaviour. One curious patron asked, What was it you are allergic to again?

We were denied an answer verbally but her actions spoke volumes. After making her a special salad that was different than the rest and a tuna sandwich, we noticed that the woman also ate dessert. She sheepishly ate some of the other food offered as well.

We rang out the group of six, all of them saying the food was wonderful. It was after 3 O'clock. The kitchen was clean and we were tired. We could hardly wait for the others to finish and be gone. Suddenly Cathy looked toward the front door. I asked if the customers were making their move yet? Cathy then turned slowly back to me, I thought I heard a noise.

She sounded distant. She looked back toward the door and paused for what seemed an eternity. I grew impatient and looked at the front door myself. No one was there and the babble continued from the ladies in the adjacent room. Cathy turned to stare at me. I watched her already pale features, drain as if someone had pulled the arrow from her Achilles heel. I stood staring at her, What happened? You look as though you've seen a ghost?

She slowly began breathing again.

Did you see a ghost? The smile was growing on my face. I couldn't believe it - she got to see a ghost. I was so disappointed that I missed it. Cathy assured me that the ghost was nothing I would have enjoyed seeing. She explained that the young girl was wearing an ankle-length, white, linen nightdress as she stood in front of the basement door. She had long, straight brown hair.

The colour of Michelle's. Cathy had added. She reminded me of Michelle, but faceless.

Faceless? I was astounded. Michelle; my middle child, had described this young ghost to me on a few occasions. Sometimes she had a face and sometimes not. Once she had dripping wet hair standing beside the bed. For other sightings, she was dry and reasonably happy. We called her Jasmine because sometimes, that's how she smelled when she was in the room. Although I had never actually seen Jasmine, I have smelled her presence. Given the description, it had to have been her.

Sunday morning came sunny and silent, without the morning moaning. The pocket of water under the circular window had begun to shrink and was noticeably smaller in size. I was happy I didn't have to pop it or repaint the stairwell. We haven't had wind in the stairwell ever again.