The Ghosts on 87th Lane by M.L. Woelm

Author:M.L. Woelm
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: body, mind, spirit, parapsychology, ghost, haunted, house, Echo Bodine
Publisher: Llewellyn Worldwide, LTD.
Published: 2011-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

Furnace Boy’s Fort

Echo Bodine helped to explain the terror that caused my “non-basement days” by confirming that our little ghost known as Furnace Boy lived in this spot.

My stomach was churning with waves of nausea. It was difficult to explain my feelings at that moment. I was being told a piece of information that I somehow had always known. I felt vindicated in a hollow sort of way. Our little ghost had lived down here because he felt safe. Was it because upstairs I either ignored him or yelled at him out of frustration? Was that any way to treat a ghost child? How many nights did he cry down here? He was only six years old. Did he come to me calling, “Mommy, mommy” because he missed his real mother? Did he feel abandoned after Agnes wished him back into their lives and then walked out on him? And why didn’t he leave when his family moved? Had his mother banished him because she was tired of her little spirit boy? Is there such a thing as psychic guilt? If so, I have a ton of it on my shoulders right now. I wonder if his mother has any guilt over this. If not, she should! Standing by the furnace, I found myself thinking back to the night Scott drew a picture of his little friend who lived by the furnace. I was getting goose bumps on top of goose bumps. Not from fear, mind you, but from excitement. In my mind, this was proof that Furnace Boy was not an imaginary child.

Echo compared impressions with her editor while Kris, Nancy, and I exchanged a variety of looks. Echo told us there were two ways to get rid of this energy: burn a white candle or burn sage. We joked about the disadvantages of burning a candle by a gas furnace—ka-boom!—and decided on sage. The smoke from the smoldering sage apparently takes the negative energy with it as it drifts up the steps and out the door.

I paused again to reflect. Wow, thirty years of fear and uneasiness explained away in two short sentences: “This is where he lived. This is Johnny’s fort.” Shivers ran up and down my spine. My mind raced back to the frigid winter nights when the pilot light would go out on the old furnace. It always happened during the weeks Paul was on maneuvers with the Air National Guard. In my husband’s absence, it was my responsibility to come down here in the dead of night to light that bloody pilot light so the kids and I wouldn’t develop hypothermia. Picture me at midnight, shivering in my nightgown and slippers, crawling into the creepy, confining space behind the furnace. After jockeying into position back there, I had to strike a farmer’s match and insert it into the twisted end of a coat hanger, fashioned for just that purpose. It always took at least three matches before one would stay lit. Then I had

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