Everyone loves a good ghost story--even the people who are terrified of the preternatural. People love to come together around bonfires, crowd in a slumber party tent, stay up until the wee hours just to tell their spookiest of tales. Experiences of the paranormal have been turned into thousands of books and hundreds of movies. Humans have a fascination with creepy things.
I have had such experiences, so it goes without saying that I do, in fact, believe in ghosts. Over on the podcast, I have shared a few stories of my own (including that of the massive black figure I have seen since I was a child.) On several witchcraft Discord servers, I have also recounted what spirits I have run into.
And I can recall every single detail.
I haven't had so many experiences that these would become monotonous or mundane by any stretch of the imagination, even for someone who researches death and the psychological impacts it has on humans.
You know how they say you will always remember your first love? Well, you never really forget your first ghost.
In order to share these, I decided to come up a series called "Spooks and Specters" where I'll write down personal stories of the paranormal.
It all began with the Wide-Smiling Mother.
It was 1991. I was going into kindergarten early; I would be turning five a month after school started. I had been pestering my mother for almost a year, begging to go to school. My sister and brother seemed to have so much fun, and I was lonely without them. Plus, there was no better game than playing school at home. I can remember doodling in notebooks, pretending I was learning something new. During the afternoons when my mother was home, I would pack up books, crayons, and other toys into a small backpack, wish my mom goodbye, and march outside to pretend I was on my way to the classroom.
If you know me at all, then you know once I put my mind to something, there really isn't any convincing me otherwise. I was very much the same as a four-year-old. Dare I even say it: I may have had even more conviction than I do now.
After months of pleading, bargaining, and tears, I convinced my parents to let their last baby sign up for school. Everyone kept saying I was too young, but what did they know? I was beyond ready to go and learn.
But this isn't a warm-hearted story about a little girl having her dreams of education fulfilled. No. This is a ghost story.
The night before the first day, adrenaline raced through me. I unpacked and repacked my brand new backpack probably fifty times, admiring the fresh notebooks and finely sharpened pencils. My outfit (probably some weird mixture of bike shorts, a Halloween sweater, frilly socks, and light-up tennis shoes) rested on top of my dresser, ready for me to don the next morning. I imagined what the school would look like, what friends I would make, and I was filled with so much joy I could barely hold still. (All of these things continued throughout school, into college, and still happen to this day when I go to start a new job. What can I say? Some thing just don't change.)
I was tucked into bed by both parents, given lots of kisses, and asked if I was really ready for school the next morning. I promised to go right to sleep, but they had to have known it was a lie. As soon as the lights were turned off, I lay happy as a clam, staring at the ceiling beneath my Crayola blankets. I don't know how long it took me to fall asleep, but I must have eventually worn myself out.
The next thing I remember is hearing my mom's voice. It was gentle, sing-songy. She was telling me to get out of bed.
I rubbed my eyes and sat up. She hadn't turned on my light or come into the bathroom that she, my dad, and I shared. Instead, she stood just beyond the threshold, in the dark. As my eyes began to adjust, I noticed that it was still so dark outside. The moon was still out. Confusion must have been written all over my face.
"You need to get out of bed, brush your hair and teeth." She said, remaining in the shadows still. "Get yourself dressed and then come show Daddy and I."
I sat up in bed; I could barely see her in the living room that separated my bedroom from her sewing room, and then her room.
So, I reached over to turn on my light to see her better.
As soon as the it came on, she stepped back further into the living room. I can recall thinking it was weird that she had done that. It was then I noticed the way she appeared with that dim light on her.
Before I describe this, I think we are all aware of what a 1990s mother of three children (ten and under) would look like when waking up in the middle of the night. Disheveled hair, rumpled pajamas, and big glasses would have been par for the course. But this woman? This thing?
She certainly looked like my mother. They had the same body, same hair, same eyes, same almost everything. Except it was as if everything was freshly pressed and primped; there wasn't a hint of sleepiness to her features at all. It was almost like a version of my mother, but perfected. She didn't seem real.
But the feature that is burned into my mind to this day, at 32-years-old, is a huge smile plastered on her face. It's teeth were so white; it's mouth was stretched so wide it almost looked painful.
This wasn't my mother.
And it must have sensed my reservation because it came closer to the door once more, not passing through, and coaxed me again.
"Go on. Get out of bed. Get ready and come see me."
And then, she sunk into the shadows of the living room, and left me to put on my school clothes.
Despite my reservations, I got up. I brushed my hair and teeth, dressed myself, and then started for the door. But something just kept telling me not to go out into the living room. It terrified me.
I climbed onto the bed and faced my window, waiting for the pale blue light of morning. It felt like hours and hours went by. And the entire time, I could see a figure in my doorway in my peripheral, standing there, watching with its wide smile still pulled across its face.
Occasionally, it would attempt to get my attention.
"KK, look at me. Kate, over here, " it would speak the nicknames my family called me. "Come here. Let me see how cute you look."
I wouldn't budge. I refused to move, even when its voice turned stern and frustrated. I told y'all I was stubborn.
Night finally broke, darkness shifting to soft dawn light. I couldn't bring myself to peer toward my door until I heard the shuffling of feet. And there was my mother--my real mother.
"Baby," her voice was hoarse from sleep. Her eyes were barely open; she yawned and looked puzzled when realizing I was dressed. "What are you doing awake?"
"You told me to get up. You told me get dressed." I said. I wanted to rush into her arms, but I was so scared of the woman with the big grinning face.
"Honey, I just woke up. I did not come and tell you to get dressed. It's not even six yet."
I tried to protest, but she came into the room and eased me back onto my pillows. With a kiss to my forehead, my mom smiled and told me to get a little more sleep, waving off whatever I had to say with the excuse of my excitement. Warily, I watched as she slipped into our bathroom and began to start her morning routine. I eventually went back to sleep.
That was the one and only night I ever saw the thing with the strange smiling face, but even now, I can picture it as if it happened yesterday.
Over the years, I would occasionally bring it up, but the experience would be brushed off as a dream. When I questioned how I would have gotten dressed while I was asleep, it was waved off with some comment about sleep-walking. However, as a child, I had always slept soundly and never, ever had night disturbances (night terrors, sleep-walking, etc.)
It wasn't until 2017, when I shared this tale, that a friend of mine confirmed that she, too, had a similar experience as a child. Her parents--or what were not her parents--came to her door in the middle of the night with disturbingly wide smiles and tried to get her out of bed, to come with them into the darkness. She said that when they visited her doorway, she knew it wasn't them because she could hear both of her parents snoring a few rooms away.
To this day, I still cannot sleep near an open bedroom door.
What about you? Have you had any strange experiences like these?