Robin Parrish - Nightmare

To my brother Ross, who has never once stopped believing in me.

`Whatever else a ghost' may be, it is probably one of the most complex phenomena in nature."

FREDERIC W. H. MYERS Founder, Society for Psychical Research circa 1882

"Doesn't matter who you are or what you believe. Everybody has a ghost story."

My father said those words to me as a child whenever I would question his life's work. Scratch that. His life's obsession.

I came to learn that he was right. Everybody has had at least one of those moments when their insides say something's happening that's far outside of normal. A fleeting second when something is seen moving out of the corner of their eye. A prick at the back of the neck alerting them to a presence. A location that for no discernible reason fills them with dread.

I had plenty of my own stories of ghosts and the paranormal. As Maia Peters, daughter of the famous Malcolm and Carmen Peters, it was to be expected. I thought I knew everything there was to know about the paranormal. One warm night in New York City, I found out just how wrong I was.

A sign just inches from my face read "YOU WILL BE TERRIFIED" in a scrawled typeface. The words were blood red, splattered in a sloppy fashion across a plank of rotted wood.

I looked at the sign not with suspicion or doubt, just weariness. It was the third such sign to be thrust in my face since my friends and I had stepped into the line. It might have seemed more authentic had "Ghost Town" not been printed in the bottom right corner of the faux wood.

"There was always this one closet at my grandparents' house that gave me the creeps when I was growing up," said Jill, rubbing her gloved hands together both to keep warm and-I assumedout of nervousness. "It was a linen closet in the bathroom at the back of the house, and it was really dark inside. Whenever I looked in there ... I don't know. It made me feel cold all over."

Jill had been my roommate at Columbia University for our sophomore and junior years. For our senior year, I was paying extra for solo on-campus housing.

Angela, meanwhile, was Jill's best friend since high school. She was similarly coifed with long, straight hair, and talked so much like Jill that I often thought their brains were psychically linked. At Jill's words, Angela shivered slightly but smiled. "I've got one," she said, glancing around to make sure none of the other amusement park patrons in this line were listening too closely. "When I was like nine or ten, sometimes my great-aunt would pick me up after school and I'd stay at her house for a couple of hours until my dad got off work. Her husband was this really mean old guy who'd done all these awful, evil things to her, but he died before I was born. She kept this old recliner in the house that belonged to him, and I hated it. It was ratty and nasty, and it smelled funny. And when I was in the room with it alone ... I swear sometimes I could see a figure out of the corner of my eye. When I'd turn to look, there was nobody there. But for just a second, it was like this guy was standing right there watching me, and he wasn't moving. It terrified me to death, even though I eventually figured it was all in my head."

"Wow," said Jill, her eyes wide and sincere.

"Here's the really crazy part. After a few years, my aunt decided to finally get rid of that chair. And would you believe-after it was gone, I never saw the figure again."

"Ooooh," said Jill, not quite grinning but still enthusiastic. I saw Angela and her glance my direction, hoping for a response.

I think they were frustrated when I didn't react to either story. I couldn't help it; I was bored and distracted by thoughts of the beginning of classes in a few days. I leaned out and inspected the line the three of us stood in, estimating there were at least a hundred people in front of us, waiting to enter the ride. It was going to be a long night.

Jill and Angela were hardly my closest friends, if I even had anyone in my life who qualified. But Jill always paid her portion of the dorm room rent on time and never threw any parties-she just attended them elsewhere with Angela-so I found it hard to complain about the two of them. Even if I wasn't all that compatible with them, personality-wise.

They'd gone out of their way to invite me on this little presenior-year jaunt, even though, as Angela had not so delicately put it, "We realize this isn't something you're dying to do, because of... well, you know."

It was an unspoken but absolute rule in the dorm that no one ever talked about my upbringing. I wasn't ashamed of it, or even made uncomfortable talking about it. It wasn't some big trauma, either. It was just ... out of the ordinary. Way out. And I wasn't interested in looking back. I only wanted to look ahead.

But I had impulsively agreed to come along with them, and the pleasantly surprised faces that Jill and Angela displayed when I said yes were all too genuine, and I knew why. I was serious about my studies and my chosen major, and I wanted very badly to be taken seriously. But senior year hadn't yet begun, and as crass as I knew this silly trip would probably be, the truth was, I longed for a little company. My last friendship had ended badly, and I was surprised at how much I missed the companionship and solidarity of having someone around. It was something I'd never expected to need, but once it was gone, I wanted it more than ever.

"So what's your biggest fear?" asked Jill, trying to keep the conversation going.

"Um," ventured Angela, "forgetting to wear clothes to class?"

Jill laughed. "That's not scary, that's just embarrassing! I'm talking about knee-quivering, pee-inducing, `I-want-my-mommy' kind of terrified. What scares you that bad?"

"I don't know," replied Angela as the three of us wormed through the zig-zagging line and I took another peek at the line's progress, trying subtly to distance myself from this conversation. "The thought of being chased through the woods by a crazed ax murderer?" Angela finally answered.