Warner Ghost

Crow, photo copyright Clare McCarthy

When  I taught t’ai chi ch’uan all over the state, I looked for big open airy rooms, with  nothing that needed moving out of the way, and cheap rent – to teach in. My go-to spaces were town halls, grange halls, and buildings where similar things were taught: dance, yoga, exercise classes, other martial arts.

One year I was looking for a place in Warner, and decided to check out the town hall – which is beautiful, I might add, and was perfect. However, the town-hall ladies-in-charge told me, there were times I wouldn’t be able to use it: town meeting, voting, Fall Foliage Festival week, plays, special programs, etc. And there were times when lots of chairs would need to be cleared out of the way. And, it was a bit pricey – so, not really perfect. But, they said, how about the big room in the old school where a dance class took place? The building was now used as town offices, no one was there in the evenings, it has a nice parking lot, and the rent was reasonable. 

Even better! As I fished out my checkbook to pay the first month’s rent, the ladies were whispering amongst themselves, and throwing quick glances my way. “Should we tell her?” I heard one say. More muttering, then it seemed a decision had been made.

“Ah… we should mention,” one of them ventured, “that there may be a ghost.” “Is a ghost,” another interjected. My eyebrows shot up. “He’s friendly,” the first continued. “ People who work there are often aware of him. No one sees him; they sense his presence, he straightens up things on the desks sometimes, once in awhile there are footsteps in the halls. We think he’s the ghost of the custodian who worked there until he was quite old. He seems to feel a responsibility towards the place.”

I’d met a few ghosts by then and wasn’t really concerned. “I’ll check it out, and explain to him what we’re going to be doing,” I said. “I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”  Rent paid, keys in hand, start date established, posters hung up, building use instructions in mind, I went early to the first class to make sure Henry knew we were coming. (I don’t remember the ghost’s name, so let’s call him “Henry.”)

The night entrance was through a side door that opened onto the parking lot. I found the light switches, located the bathrooms (boys and girls) on the first floor, found the stairwell and the practice room – it was perfect! – did a little exploring to get the lay of the building. Like most old buildings that aren’t lit up and you don’t know the geography of, it was a little spooky: echoing corridors, locked rooms with opaque glass, old school smell, surprising corners, odd shadows. But, nothing was too strange, so I went back to the practice room and did a little t’ai chi, explaining out loud to Henry who I was, what I was doing, what would happen during class, promising not to make a mess. “You’re welcome to come watch the class, Henry,” I said, “but please don’t interrupt, and please don’t scare the students as they come in and go out after class.”

I’m pretty sure Henry was there – it felt like I was being watched, and it felt like I was being listened to. When I’d finished, there was a contented feeling. “Henry and I are going to be buddies,” I thought. “He’s fine with me, and I’m fine with him.”

And everything was fine. From time to time, I’d feel him in the room during class; most often, he didn’t bother. A few students either knew the story of Henry, or felt something, so I told the story once in awhile. 

Two of my students were The Cop and his wife, The Teacher. They were usually the last ones out, and always asked if they could help me close up. “I’m pretty well set,” I said, “but my hands will be full, so if you wouldn’t mind making sure the bathroom lights are off downstairs as you go by, that will save me having to put everything down to do it.” “No problem,” they said, “we’ll take care of it every week on our way out.”

As I packed up my bags and locked the studio door, I heard their cheery “Goodnight!” as they slammed the outside door. A quick walk up and down the halls to make sure no one was left behind, and I clattered down the stairs. “Rats!” I said, as I passed the bathrooms. “They forgot to turn off the boy’s room light.” Off with the backpack, down with the bags, open the door. “Anyone in here?” I called. “Unh,” I heard. I checked under all the stall doors. No feet. Pushed open all the doors – nobody.  “I’m turning off the lights,” I said out loud. “Unh,” was the response. Slightly spooked, I turned out the lights, grabbed my gear, and left more quickly than I came in. Door locked, off I went until the next week.

After the next class, I asked The Cop if he’d remembered to shut off the bathroom lights on his way out. “Of course,” he said, “as we will tonight. Why?” “Oh, no reason,” I said. “Except that the boy’s room light was on when I left last week.”

“I think we’d better walk out with you,” he said, cop mode kicking in. “No, it’s ok, I think it’s just Henry,” I said. “I checked it out, there was no one there.” “Well, we’re going to wait out in the parking lot tonight until you come out,” he said. 

Deal.

After class, I heard The Cop and The Teacher walking about downstairs, and him calling out, “Anyone there?” before he shut off the boy’s room lights. “Lights are out and we’re leaving the building,” he called up the stairs to me, then I heard the door slam. I finished packing up, did my quick hall check, clattered down the stairs, and – the boy’s room light was on. I opened the door. “Anyone in there?” I called. “Unh,” no one said. “I’m shutting the light off and leaving, Henry,” I said, “see you next week!” “Unh,” the air replied. Out I went.

“The boy’s room light was on,” I reported, out in the parking lot. “No one was there,” The Cop said. “I checked, and I shut the light off.” 

And so it went for many, many, many weeks. The Cop would leave, shutting the lights off on his way out; the lights would be on when I came down the stairs, only in the boy’s room, every time. After awhile I stopped checking; I just opened the boy’s room door, reached in to switch off the light, and called, “Goodnight, Henry! See you next week!” and the darkness would answer, “Unh!” I sort of looked forward to our late-night communication.

One night, many months later – maybe it was a full moon night, maybe it was near the end of October – the energy in class was different, somehow, more agitated. Students were tired and crabby; they kept losing their balance; I mentally repeated “If you’re causing this, Henry, cut it out!” Finally class ended, The Cop and The Teacher and all the other students left, I did my upstairs hall check, but I was nervous, and jumpy – shadows were spooking me, I kept thinking I saw motion in the locked rooms. I was looking forward to heading home. Down the stairs; the light in the boy’s room was on; I opened the door, shut off the light, and said, “I’m leaving now, Henry. Not nice to mess with my class like that, if it was you causing the disruption tonight. I’ll see you next week!”

No response. No Unh. I hesitated, then beat it out of there quickly.

As I was driving out of town, I pondered; had hurt Henry’s feelings?  All these months, and tonight no response from him. I decided to try sending him a message. “Henry!” I thought, as hard as I could, picturing the inside of the building, “It’s ok, to come watch class, just don’t mess with the students. I’ll be back---“my thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a very loud, angry mental voice: 

“NOT HENRY!!!”

Published in the Concord Monitor, October  26, 2017, as “A Haunting Season.”

Portsmouth Punkinhead, Charley Freiberg photo, 2014