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Stranger Thing

The Connecticut shoreline can be downright spooky at this time of year. Driving down local backroads, you see old houses that look like they’d be a perfect habitat for things that go bump in the night, skeletal branches that reach out to your car, shadows that hunch in corners. I love it.

One year, however, things turn out to be downright frightening in a way I never would have expected. I’m a skeptic when it comes to the supernatural, more Scully than Mulder. I’m fascinated by such things, though, because I do believe that there’s a lot out there that we don’t understand completely. We don’t have answers for everything and it’s those gray areas where knowledge is murky that interest me. Do I believe that I can contact real spirits via a Ouija board? Can’t say I do. On the other hand, would I stand in front of a mirror and say “Bloody Mary” three times? Nope. Why take the chance?

So, when I agree to go with friends to hear a lecture by local ghost hunters, I’m expecting to be spooked a little in a fun way, but not scared. We arrive at the lecture hall and sit near the front, right in the middle. We want to be up close and ghostly personal. The lights are turned low, the better for hearing a creepy yarn, don’t you know? The two lecturers describe themselves as experts in all things supernatural. If nothing else, they’re personable and compelling, so even though what they’re saying sounds outlandish, I don’t mind hearing them out. They seem like nice folks who happen to be involved with things that can sometimes be, according to their talk, not-so nice.

They tell us about objects possessed by sinister entities and play recordings of what they say are voices from beyond the grave. Like I said, I’m a skeptic, but they seem sincere about it all. I lean back in my seat and take it all in with a large grain of salt. I’m intrigued but not disturbed.

And then someone screams.

It comes from somewhere behind me. I turn in my seat and try to see who cried out and why, but the lights are off and all I can do is stare into the black. The sound itself feels physical, like a wave rushing toward me. I can’t see anything, but I can feel the shriek as it hurtles down rows of seats and hits. It hits, punching through my chest like an electric jolt.

Even the ghost hunters seem unnerved. “Turn the lights on, please!” one says, her voice shaky.

The lights are turned on. Everyone is looking around, eyes wide. “Is everybody okay?” the other ghost hunter asks. Murmured words of agreement. We’re okay. After a few minutes the lights are turned off and the lecture continues.

The rest of the talk progresses along the same line as before, interesting but not particularly scary. I can’t get that screech out of my mind, though. That night I don’t sleep well and I swear in the morning I have a horror hangover. I’m groggy and feel that sound on my skin like a cold sweat.

I wonder afterwards if the screamer was a plant, placed there by the ghost hunters to up the fear ante. A friend who goes to the lecture twice afterwards says there’s no screamer, though, so I don’t think so.

The night I saw those ghost hunters was years ago, but every October I think of it. That night proves that the strangest, most unsettling thing doesn’t have to be supernatural at all. It’s in the way a shadow crouches behind a door. It’s in the naked desperation of a tree branch scratching against a window. It’s in an unexpected scream.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Her book Date Expectations is winner of the 2017 Independent Press Awards, Humor Category and winner of the 2016 IPPY silver medal for humor. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com. Read more of her columns at www.zip06.com/shorelineliving.