||My favorite ghost story ...
Joined: Jun 13, 2004
From: Imperial Beach, CA
|Posted: 2004-10-21 1:53 pm  Permalink|
It’s almost Halloween, and I say it’s time for a good ghost story. And I mean TRUE ghost stories!
(WARNING: SEXUAL CONTENT)
Background: the Hotel del Coronado is famously haunted by a beautiful ghost. Her favorite haunt is room 3312, but she can also be seen in hallways, albeit briefly, and she is always in a 1890s outfit and has long black hair, and even though she has a mysterious and even piercing look, she is always described as being exceedingly hot.
Her name is Kate Morgan. She and her husband were con artists working hotels up and down the West Coast. Kate was often approached by men in these hotels. She would say to her would-be suitor that they must seek dating permission from her “brother” (actually her husband). When the suitor-elect met the “brother,” the “b” would say the only way he could take the measure of a man was by seeing how he conducted himself at a game of cards. Thus the fleecing of the pigeon would begin.
And then, in 1892, while preparing to work their scam at the great Hotel del Coronado, Kate informed her husband that she was pregnant. He promptly disappeared. Kate went to nearby San Diego, bought a pistol, went to the Hotel del and shot herself in the heart on the hotel’s back steps (where the tennis courts now stand).
The hotel has been haunted ever since.
The story I have to tell you:
I have an Arab friend named Habib. To me he is just a great guy and a good friend, but women go absolutely crazy about him, something about dark good looks and smoldering eyes and a chiseled bod, I have no idea what it could be, but trust me he is the sort of guy who women send drinks (not that he drinks; he is a Muslim and very pious).
Anyway, Habib is in the convention business and spends most of his time in top-grade hotels making sure the conventions/meetings he’s hired to supervise go well.
So Habib comes to the Hotel del Coronado. He is given a room directly above room 3312. And is immediately creeped out by the room. But can’t say why. Has no idea there is supposed to be a ghost -- in fact, the first time he’d heard of the ghost was when he told me this story and I told him about the famous shade.
Habib is filled with an unaccounted sense of dread. He hears the toilet flush by itself, and why he didn’t run from the room screaming I have no idea. He feels things are “diving” at him, and yet he stays. Almost as if he is a slave to this room. As if he no longer has a will of his own.
He leaves the room to do his job and everything is fine. Comes back to the weird room as if obeying a wordless summons to lie on the bed in frozen dread. The closet seems to emanate a special menace of its own. As if it is the focus of all the strange goings-on. No way in the world he would even dare peek inside.
Habib falls asleep. A sleep that comes to him more quickly and deeply than any he has ever known. And has a dream. In his dream he is in bed looking at the closet door ... the closet door slowly opens ... and a woman steps out. She is naked. And is the most gorgeous and exotic babe this side of an Hawaiian Tropic bikini contest. Her hair is long, and jet black.
The beautiful woman climbs in bed and Habib proceeds to engage in the wildest, most passionate sex of his life.
I mentioned that Habib is a strict Muslim, even though he gets tons of action. He wears a medallion around his neck, it is very precious to him, I forget of which Muslim holy figure the medallion might be, but it is equivalent to a St. Christopher’s medal.
Anyway, Habib and the woman are having insane sex, and in the midst of the festivities the woman is on top ... she reaches down ... takes the medallion off Habib’s neck ... puts it around her own ...
They continue having sex, finish, and -- inside Habib’s dream -- fall asleep in each other’s arms.
Next morning Habib wakes up for real.
The medallion is gone!
Habib tears up the room, turns over the bed, looks everywhere -- the medallion’s very important to him, has lots of sentimental value, he never takes it off -- but it is nowhere to be found!
And that, friends and neighbors, is my favorite ghost story.
Joined: Aug 01, 2004
From: Shinola, California
|Posted: 2004-10-21 2:09 pm  Permalink|
In another rant, I bekoned atomictonytiki to yield a story of hauntings and creeps to uf from Scotland...
I there are some good ones from there little mister...
Grand Member (first year)
Joined: Feb 18, 2003
From: Bay Area
|Posted: 2004-10-21 3:13 pm  Permalink|
I love a good ghost story!
My real life ones are not very interesting, but as a young child I was hanging out in the backyard of my parents' Hollywood apt, all alone, at dusk. I felt something scratch my head really hard and looked up/around and saw nothing anywhere near my head. It freaked me out.
For years after my grandfather died (he of 1/2 to 1/4 Cherokee blood if that's a factor), I would dream of him and my other dead relatives. In my dream I didn't realize they were dead, but I was sad. He would always tell me to pass on to my grandmother the message that he loves her and is waiting for her. The first time I dreamed of him after his death I thought it odd and asked my father if that day was a special day for him, like an anniversary or something. My father looked at the calendar (he and I are both horrible with dates) and said "why, yes, it's his birthday."
Joined: Aug 01, 2004
From: Shinola, California
|Posted: 2004-10-21 7:10 pm  Permalink|
Here's my fave...best told over a mug of "Old Rasputain"
Please excuse my spelling and it's ramble.
The Neo Classical Surgeons Hall in Edinburgh founded in 1505 has in it's dark recesses a museum, which is not for the weak of stomach. It's full of disturbing antique surgical devices, frightening dentistry equipment, jars of formaldehyde with specimens of almost every existing curiosity that the mind could endure. Most tours are never finished, as visitors allowed in get partway through and leave with silent reproach.
The star of the exhibit strangely is a small pocketbook. It is not calf hide or vellum it appears to be, but the flayed skin of a mass murderer named William Bourke.
Scotland has four ancient universities from whom many of the world's most gifted men have come from. In the 1720's Scotland was enjoying a Renascence, and Scottish sciences were swept to the forefront of worldwide renown. Robert Whyte, discoverer of the nervous system, Joseph Black discoverer of Carbon Dioxide, James Simpson, inventor of anesthetics, Joseph Lister, inventor of Antiseptics, Flemming inventor of Penicillin…all products of this establishment.
This was in part credited to the emphasis of hands on teaching. With Knowledge came fame and wealth, During the last quarter of the 18th c and beginning of the 19thc. Anatomists were like movie stars, with all the rivalry and self-importance which that would imply. The pressure to produce new research and bring prestige and earnings to attract new pupils became intense. Amusingly, this depended on certain raw materials which came into increasingly short supply…human tissue for dissection.
Officially sanctioned sources of fresh specimens were executions, and deceased vagrants simply could not keep up with demand. We all know when supplies dwindle, prices escalate. And over time the worlds most distinguished medical men became steadily less scrupulous about the origins the new cadavers. It seems at first that they were imported from Ireland. Pickled in cheap whisky, but that got expensive, and unreliable. As sources nearer to Edinburgh began to "develop" strange things started happening in the southern part of Edinburgh after dark. Soon there became quite a bit of shifty traffic late at night bumping around the university with covered wagons, loading and unloading at back doors. The new tradesman was called "Resurrectionist" or in more commonly, "Body Snatcher"
Bodies buried by grieving families in the morning were dug up and spirited away usually that night. It was very lucrative work; fresh corpses could fetch about what a months rent would cost. This of course led to a battle of wills in the cities cemeteries between the bereaved, and the agents of the Medical Profession. Families would hire thugs to guard graves. Burial grounds built watchtowers to guard them. Then came the invention of "the body safe, a coffin shaped iron box which took 6 men to lift. These were placed over a grave for a period of time, which allowed the body to decay past being valuable.
William Bourke, an Irishman who was a discharged soldier from the Army at Waterloo came to Edinburgh, along with thousands of Irish to work on the digging of the Union Canal. When the canal was finished in 1822 events took a strange turn for Bourke. He met up with a fellow Irishman William Hare, who resided at the same slum house. And at some point an elderly lodger at the flophouse they resided in, died. When the coffin arrived at their house, Burke and hare filled it with bark, then loaded up the corpse and paid the University a visit.
A Dr. Robert Knox paid for the cadaver, and the two men were told in no uncertain terms that more would gladly be received. Knox did not have long to wait. It seems what happens next was when someone would take ill at the boarding house, Burke and Hare would expedite the process by the use of a "Heavy Pillow". This went on for quite a while, nobody is certain how many people were sold to the Knox once Burke and Hare went from wholesale to manufacture. Soon Burke and Hare began to seek out and prey upon the city's copious poor population, usually fellow Hiberian laborers.
At some point some of the University staff started recognizing the cadavers, in one case, a rather popular prostitute showed up in the sacred halls of medical learning. And had to be wheeled out before the students who would have also recognized her would have started to ask questions.
Eventually Burke and Hare got so sloppy with their business, that they went so far as to have a large well attended Halloween party, and Burke murdered a woman named Mary Docherty in full view of the other guests. By the tome the Authorities arrived, the corpse was gone but was swiftly traced to Dr Knox's dissecting rooms.
Burkes trial was opened on Christmas Eve 1828 and by Boxing day he was condemned. On January 28th at Edinburgh's Lawn market, Burke was executed in front of and angry mob who bayed for him to be smothered and not hung. (To smother is still called to be "burked") His body according to tradition was sent to the medical school for dissection and the skeleton hangs there still.
For reasons never given the Dean of the University ordered Burke to be skinned, and later a lively competition ensued for artifacts covered in his cured epidermis…including the pocket book lovingly preserved by the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh. This odd tale is said to be the basis for many stories of fiction written later.
Ironically, the Burke and Hare case make the same point with history that Mary Shelly's Frankenstein makes with fiction; namely, that the noble spirit of scientific inquiry if taken to excess has the capacity to create great evil. This lesson surly remains cogent in the age of genetic engineering as it did in the frontier days of anatomical surgery.
Joined: Mar 24, 2002
From: Oceanside CA
|Posted: 2004-10-21 7:26 pm  Permalink|
It's not really a ghost story, but, it is my scary Halloween story
Joined: Oct 31, 2003
|Posted: 2004-10-21 7:47 pm  Permalink|
Cool topic SS. My ghostly experiences involve only the ghosts of animals.
While growing up sharing a room with my brother, my father decided to convert the garage into another bedroom, which would be mine. Cool space, sliding glass doors, etc. After about a year, I got into the habit of closing the door shut to keep my sister's cat, Peanut out. I just didn't want it climbing into bed with me.
On night I woke as I felt Peanut jump onto the bed, circle a few times, and settle in. I figured I must have forgot to close the door, and proceeded to pet him. Except he wasn't there.
I sat up and flicked on the light. No cat. And the door was shut.
This happened about a dozen times. I figure a cat must have been run over in the garage before we moved in. A neighbor confirmed that the previous owner kept cats.
So I got used to it, and when I felt the cat jump on the bed, circle itself to lay beside me, I let it sleep in peace.
Kind of freeky looking back, but at the time, I was fine with it.
The laid-back NYer
|Sabu The Coconut Boy|
Tiki Central Poet Laureate
Joined: Aug 20, 2002
From: Carson, California
|Posted: 2004-10-21 9:32 pm  Permalink|
Of course Sabu has a story children. Doesn't Sabu always have a a story?
In 1982, while going to college, I worked part-time at a small computer company on Signal Hill in Long Beach. We made cutting-edge computerized cash-registers - one of the first in the industry. I was the programmer who wrote the software. It was space-age stuff for a college boy.
The only strange thing that I can remember happening at that small industrial park was when I and one of the engineers found the naked body of a young woman in the dumpster out back. She had obviously been killed the night before and discarded like so much trash. I remember my friend running to call the police and me staring at the body clinically and dispassionately. Dead bodies never seem to affect me strongly. I know the soul has moved on and the body is only a shell. But people in pain, however, that is a different story. Seeing a person covered in blood at a car accident and crying out in pain usually makes me faint dead away. Crazy, isn't it?
Unfortunately our company was too successful. Couldn't meet orders with our small manufacturing plant and we went bankrupt. At the end, all the staff had been layed off but me, (being part-time, I was cheap). And the boss was constantly away to Florida or New York, trying to get new funding, so I was left alone in the building.
It was only when I was alone in the office that I would notice the poltergeists. Some people claim that Signal Hill is an ancient Native American burial ground. I'm not sure if this is true. All I know is because I was all alone in that now-quiet building, my ears began to pick up the sounds of footsteps running about upstairs. When I climbed the stairs and turned on the lights, I could find nobody. I remember turning off the lights and walking downstairs. Before I reached the bottom of the stairs, the lights went back on upstairs.
I retraced my steps but could find no one in any of the closets or bathrooms. The light switches had indeed been flipped back on. I turned them off again and headed back downstairs. I heard the light switches click back on again. After about three times, I finally left them on and didn't provoke the spooks further. Pretty soon the ghosts got bolder and I found myself living in a scene out of the movie "Poltergeist". Lots of pounding footsteps on the ceiling above my head. Doors slamming upstairs all the time. Lights going on and off. Faucets turning on and off. It was hard to get work done. I put on my stereo headphones and tried to drown it all out. Thank God my boss finally gave up and let me go as well. I quickly found a job in Silverlake, in an office converted from an old mausoleum. (just kidding, it was an old Ice Cream Factory). It takes a lot to scare me, but that office in Signal Hill surely did it.
My cousin, an Archeologist, has some great ghost stories from when he was working on the excavation of Indian burial sites on Bolsa Chica Mesa, near Seal Beach.
He was my roommate at the time and would always bring fascinating stories home to tell around the fireplace.
Once, they discovered a new burial site containing seven Native American skeletons. The whole week the excavation went on, seven crows circled overhead constantly.
Another time they found the burial of an Indian Shaman. Artifacts such as spirit-sucking straws, various colors of ochre powder in abalone shells, and certain carved, sacred stones indicated the importance of this individual. All the while this burial was being exhumed, a large hawk sat in a branch above the grave. It would not move, even when they threw rocks at it.
My cousin would show me photos taken of the archeological sites. On every photo of a burial, there was a strange, tiny image of a human embryo that would appear floating at different spots on the photograph. No explanation as to where this image came from. The camera lenses were checked, but they were quite clean. Still the tiny embryo was clearly evident, floating above the Indian skeletons. Pretty creepy stuff.
Joined: Jun 13, 2004
From: Imperial Beach, CA
|Posted: 2004-10-22 08:31 am  Permalink|
Sabu -- all I can say is "wow." Poltergiests banging on the ceiling? And you just put on your headphones? You must have ice water in your veins.
Those archeological stories are fantastic. Got any more?
Oh, man -- I'd like to have you at my next camp out in the desert. You'd be just the ticket around a fire. With a coyote howling in the distance.
Grand Member (first year)
Joined: Feb 18, 2003
From: Bay Area
|Posted: 2004-10-22 11:31 am  Permalink|
unfortunately, I think I know the attorney who successfully argued for the development of a public work (was it a college?) over the sacred Indian burial site near Seal Beach. It stirred up quite a controversial argument one night between the right-wing attorney and my left-wing boyfriend, many years ago.
Is it a coincidence that that one attorney had to retire early due to an early onset heart attack, and has never been married?
Grand Member (first year)
Joined: Feb 18, 2003
From: Bay Area
|Posted: 2004-10-22 11:45 am  Permalink|
and on the topic of black cats, I have only had success with black cats. they bring me good luck.
My first cat was a grey feral cat that I tamed while at Berkeley. He met an early demise in the garden of the racist German lady who lived in our condo complex. I found him in her garden one morning, lifeless and his mouth full of dirt. I was very sad.
The maintenance man offered to bury him in the hole he had just dug to plant a 2 foot evergreen tree.
For days after, I swear I heard a far off meowing cry while at night. My sister heard it too. And then I worried I had buried him alive. I was sick with grief for weeks. I had just started learning to play "Claire de Lune" on the piano, while the grey kitty would nap on top of it. So that was his song - I would play it over and over, crying. My sister worried about my mental stability and we went out and adopted a black kitty and named him Romeo.
That tree grew about 40 feet in the first few years.
I hate hearing about cats or any other animal, suffering. It makes me sad.
Joined: Aug 22, 2002
From: San Francisco
|Posted: 2004-10-22 12:19 pm  Permalink|
My grandfather died when I was only two. Even though he hasn't been around to see me grow up, I've always felt very close to him. My little brother Bob was born shortly after Grandpa Hans passed away, so he sadly never got to meet him.
When I was about to turn 19, I had a small one-bedroom apartment in the University District in Seattle. (Side note unrelated to the story, but interesting for Halloween: my apartment was immediately next to the one Ted Bundy lived in when he was committing his Seattle-area murders!) My brother was 16, and was living with me for a few months that summer, sleeping on my rickety old Victorian-reproduction couch in the living room.
One night, Bob told me he was going to spend the night at his best friend Josh's place, so I was alone for the night. That night, I had the most unusual dream I have had in my entire life. This was not a dream that jumped from place to place or from theme to theme, this was not a dream where the strage was possible. This dream was entirely plausible, and occured in real time.
In my dream, I woke up in the morning, a bright summer day. I got dressed, and as was my routine, I picked up my mail from the mailbox downstairs, and proceeded to walk to the house my friends lived in a few blocks away. While I was walking, I went through my mail, opening bills, tossing junk in garbage cans I passed--exactly what I would have done in real life. Just as I was nearing the front porch of my friends' house, I came to a letter that was handlettered, and came from a local address I did not recognize.
When I opened the envelope, inside I found a letter that was obviously on rather old paper. When I unfolded the letter, I saw that it was written in my code.
This requires a moment of elaboration: in real life, I have a code that I write notes to myself in when I don't want others to see what I'm writing. Nothing major, just when I'm sitting in a business meeting and I want to remember to buy tampons later, I write my note on my paper in code. I created the code when I was twelve. Since it's for notes to myself, no one else knows the code. I can write in it very quickly, but I can't read it very quickly, as usually I just have to glance at the note and I remember what it was about without having to decode it. I found out after I created the code (but before this dream) that my grandfather was a cryptography enthusiast.
Okay, back to the dream: so I've openned this mysterious letter and seen the code, which is not written in my hand, and I freak out a bit. One of my friends is in the living room and sees that I'm upset and have a letter in my shaking hands. He takes the letter from me to see what's going on, but obviously cannot read it. After a few moments, I calm down enough to start slowly reading the letter.
The letter is from my grandfather. He explains that he wrote the letter when he knew he was dying (lung cancer), and gave it to a friend, asking him to track down my address and mail it just before my 19th birthday. In the letter, he tells me how proud he is of me, that he watches over me and loves me. He closes by thanking me for letting him sleep on my couch for the past few months.
So, in my dream, I'm pretty much a puddle of tears reading this letter. My friends hold me to calm me down a bit, and that's where the dream ends.
When I awoke from this dream, I can hear my couch creaking. That old couch had a flimsy wooden frame, and make very loud creaking noises whenever anyone was on it, so I knew that Bob must have not spent the night at Josh's after all. As a matter of fact, as I got up out of bed and was walking to the living room, I called out to him "Bob, why didn't you stay at Josh's last..." and before I could get out the word "...night," I turned the corner to where I could see the couch and the creaking immediately stopped, and I found that I was alone, Bob was at Josh's.
Now, the dream--that's all things that I knew--I knew I felt close to my grandfather, I knew he was a code enthusiast, I knew Bob was born not long after after he passed away and that Bob was staying on my couch. But the bizarre, well-beyond-lucid nature of the dream and the creaking of the couch are a wee bit out of place.
And that's my favorite ghost story.
Critiki - Ooga-Mooga - Humu Kon Tiki
Joined: May 11, 2004
|Posted: 2004-10-22 12:22 pm  Permalink|
The farm house that I grew up in was haunted. I don't know exactly when it was built, but there was a huge wooden support beam in the basement that had people's names carved into it with date that went back to the mid 1800's.
I remember going to see the house for the first time with my dad. I must have been 8 or 9 years old. While we were looking in the massive kitchen (evey room was massive, and 6 bedrooms), I remember asking my dad who all the people upstairs were. I could clearly hear people talking and moving around. But of course, when we went upstairs, no one was there.
Doors would always slam, light bulbs would burn out at the same time each week. The light thing was so common that we would stock up on bulbs in anticipation of 'light changing day'. Both my dad and my sister claim to have seen a little girl on separate occations, and by brother saw a man in a hat appear and disappear in the barn behind the house. Mostly though, it was sounds of people talking or just a 'feeling' that someone was there.
One time my sister and I ran to the basement because my mom was screaming. We found her standing in front of a dozen or so dead field mice laid out head to tail in a perfect simi-circle in front of the furnace.
The house doesn't exist anymore. The land was sold and now it is a parking lot for an industrial park.
Sometimes I still get the wierd 'someone is watching' feeling. I often wonder if I may be more sensitive to the feeling because I grew up with it, or maybe most people feel it but don't associate it with being a nearby spirit. Or maybe it's something completely different. Who knows?
Joined: Jun 06, 2003
|Posted: 2004-10-22 12:36 pm  Permalink|
Pay close attention to this car commercial and tell me if you see a ghost hiding in the trees toward the back. The volume is a little low on this video so you may want to turn the volume up a little.
Joined: May 11, 2004
|Posted: 2004-10-22 12:47 pm  Permalink|
Holy Shit!! That's not even funny! My heart nearly stopped.
I can't wait to show that to my wife.
Joined: May 15, 2004
From: Knoxville, TN
|Posted: 2004-10-22 1:17 pm  Permalink|
[ This Message was edited by: TNTiki on 2004-11-06 15:23 ]