My Real Ghost Story #1

My friend Natalie tells me I should write down all the weird encounters I've had, mostly as a child, and put them into a biography. Well, they're isolated incidents, not much story line to work with, so I thought I'd post them now and then on this blog. Here's one from my teenage years:

My parents scraped the money together and paid for me to study overseas for a summer session at Universite Dijon when I was sixteen years old. Our group stopped off for a day in New York City before heading to France. Our guide took us to St. Patrick's Cathedral, which didn't appeal to most of the sixteen year old girls. They wanted pizza. I, however, fancied myself a budding art student and wanted to see the interior--particularly the statues, icons, etc. Besides, it was much cooler in there than out on the street. While they debated over lunch, I popped inside for a look. I made it a little way inside the entrance, near the back row of pews, and stopped to look at the angel on one of the water fonts. It was very quiet and peaceful inside--just a few visitors milling around a good distance away near the alter.

I heard a tapping sound behind me. I turned toward the big entry doors. They were closed. An elderly woman in a long black dress and long black veil--she looked like a stereotypical 1900s Italian grandmother--was heading straight towards me with a vengeance. The tapping sound came from the metal tip of her black umbrella striking the marble floor. The taps weren't in cadence with her stride. She was hitting the umbrella rapidly against the floor to get my attention. Being an awkward and relatively shy teenager, I whirled back around to stare at the statue again. I didn't want to get into a confrontation with somebody's nana. I could feel her walk up directly behind me and the tapping stopped. She leaned over and hissed in my left ear--Don't pray to St. Theresa, she'll give you tuberculosis!  I caught a glimpse of her black dress whisk past me on the left and turned to look. All I saw was the empty aisle stretched out ahead. I turned around--no one. I looked at the other visitors. They were going about their business. Granny had vanished. I hustled out the front doors, rejoined the group, and set out for lunch.

I learned much later in life, while reading about the Cathedral, that indeed there is an alter to St. Theresa down that long vacant aisle I saw. This particular Theresa was awarded the honor of Church Doctor and died from her good works after contracting--you guessed it--tuberculosis. Why this spirit felt the need to warn me, I don't know. Maybe she had an axe to grind about this particular place. Or maybe she just took the opportunity to come back from the other side, have a little fun and tease an impressionable teenage girl.