Boys and Ghouls…

The darkness veiled all but the most reflective surfaces… a glint of metal doorknob, the shiny buttons of a Teddy Bear’s eyes, a moonbeam splashed upon my bedroom windowsill. I scrunched down into the homemade quilts and pretended not to hear the rustling sounds coming through wall, but the muffled scrapes and bumps persisted. I was scared.
My brothers had told me with whispered reverence that inside the upstairs closet, waaaaay back in the creepy eaves of the roofline spaces, a ghost resided. As they divulged the secret they looked furtively behind me from time to time, seemingly worried they were stirring her presence by mentioning her name. This ghost, or, “the ghost of Granny” as my brothers called her, had once lived a hard life, died painfully before her time, and hated children. Her ghoulish desire was to lure an unsuspecting child into the closet with intriguing sounds like those of a kitten, a puppy, or perhaps muffled name calling… “Gail…Gail…Gail.”
Once she had you in the black space she would entangle you with her boney arms and smother your mouth to prevent your screams from escaping. The ghost of Granny would then descend into the underworld dragging your kicking and terrified body along… never be seen again. I, of course, believed them. I was only about seven years old and the faceless fears residing in blackness seemed very real.
The odd thing was that particular closet door refused to stay shut. I could firmly push it into the doorframe and latch it, but during the night the eerie creaking sound of metal hinges slowly opening scratched at my dreams. Errrrreeeaaaaakkkk… The next morning I’d check, and sure enough, the door would be standing open by several inches. I hated that.
When I was about ten years old, and feeling very much the adult, I bounded up the stairs one day and into my bedroom. It was late afternoon and the atmosphere held a hazy grayness. As I sat on my bed I once again heard the thumps and bumps coming from behind my wall. I tip-toed towards the closet door and noted it was open just a tiny bit and moving like the space was breathing slowly in anticipation of my visit. Did I hear my name being called? I listened. “Gail…Gail…Gail…”
Why I decide to find out once and for all what was going on I’ll never know. I was shaking as I opened the door and got on my knees. Behind the rack of clothes the closet wall held a small opening which led into the eave crawl-space. My parents kept seasonal items back there and it required a flashlight to see anything. I didn’t have a flashlight. I poked my head into the gloom trying to make out, well, any movement or disembodied figures. I sensed it before I felt it, but two strong arms grabbed me, covered my mouth and pulled me into the darkness. Rigid with terror I waited to descend into the far reaches of hell.
But, wait, the arms had flesh. They were warm. There was no ethereal vapor floating in the air, no skeletal visage with tattered flannel nightgown luring me to my death. I squirmed and turned my head. My brother and cousin were grinning at me as they lit their faces with a tiny penlight. “We’re the ghost of Granny… Ooooooo!”
In a strange way I was both relieved and disappointed. It was sorta like finding out Santa Claus isn’t who you thought he was. I wasn’t as afraid after that when I heard unexplained noises in the night. But you know what? That closet door continued to open on its own long after my brothers left home.