Buddy

I was working at a terrific little shop right off the square in Carrollton. Rhiannon, the owner of the shop, had recently moved from a cramped little space into a much larger building. The large open floor space right in the front of the store was a decorating challenge but Rhi rose to the occasion by having a little rock pool built complete with gold fish and aquatic plants. There was a pump to circulate the water and the soft sound of moving water was always in the background. Soft, relaxing music continually played and the most wonderful smells of incense drifted in the air. There were, as far as I could tell, only two problems with the new location. Buddy, our resident spirit had become fascinated with the CD player but the players didn't do well with Buddy's energy, and somehow tiny slugs had gotten into the pool and nobody could figure out how to get rid of the slimy little creatures.

The owner had become a great friend and I always looked forward to her cheery greeting when I walked into the store. One August morning, however, I was met with a scowling face and tapping, impatient feet. She was clearly upset and immediately demanded that I do something with Buddy.

"He keeps blowing up CD players and now it's happened again. I'll be back in a little while; I've got to go buy the FIFTH player. Jerre, do something!" she demanded.

"Are you sure this is the ghostie? Have you had the wiring checked?" Her snarl told me I had asked the wrong question at the wrong time...

"Three times at fifty bucks a pop. There is nothing wrong with the wiring."

"O K. Lock the door behind you and I'll see what I can do with him."

The space had actually been a bank in the early 1900's and I walked back to the still existent vault. The vault was where I had run into Buddy shortly before the Grand Opening but he had given me no reason to think he was a problem. He was young, mid to late teens and appeared to be mentally challenged. He was neatly dressed in denim overalls that had been pressed and a starched white shirt. He had a freshly scrubbed look about him with neatly combed hair. I swung the massive door open, stuck a chair in the doorway, just in case, and went into the cool, musty interior. Almost immediately I was aware that he was in the vault. I guess you could say that we talked about what was happening in the shop.

I met Rhiannon at the front door. "Well?" she asked.

"My dear, we have a very unusual circumstance but I think two problems can be taken care of at one time."

"I brought coffee, come sit and tell me."

I told her about my "conversation" with Buddy. He told me that both his parents worked in the bank and they brought him to work with them every day. He always wanted to help around the bank but was mostly told to sit in the vault and look at his picture books. I could almost hear him sigh," I just wanted to help."

"So," I told her, "I made a deal, with your permission, that if Buddy could get rid of the slugs and leave the CD players alone he could stay here as long as he liked." The fifth CD player was the last and within 48 hours the slugs were gone.

Five years later I got a call from one of my regular clients. Her friend lived in Carrollton and was frantic with fear and worry. It seemed this friend had a ghost and wanted me to get rid of it as soon as possible. I had a little free time and was, of course intrigued, so I drove into Carrollton and met her at the house an hour after the call. The homeowner was standing outside a beautiful two story white house that appeared to have been built in the very late 1800's. Fifteen minutes of soothing her frazzled nerves brought a little of the story to light. She had been taking a shower and something had touched her. Many odd little things had been happening but this time her nerve broke. She jumped out of the shower, grabbed her clothes, sent her daughter and grandchildren (who lived there with her) to a friend and proceeded to call everybody she thought might be of help. One of the friends was the client and she finally convinced the panic stricken woman to give me a call.

I went in the back door and picked up a presence immediately. I felt nothing to indicate that this was an angry or "bad" ghost or spirit and allowed him or her to lead me up the stairs to a bedroom. I immediately smelled natural gas and followed the smell to the old-fashioned gas heater installed in the existing fireplace. Then I saw him standing beside the heater pointing to the heater jets. I knew this spirit. The owner and two of her friends had followed me up stairs and were standing by the door. All of them looked ready to make a quick exit if necessary. I asked if anyone could smell gas and two brave souls eased into the room but denied smelling anything. The homeowner said that they had smelled it before but the gas company had checked and could find no leak. This was the children's bedroom so they kept a regular check on the gas lines and connections. Buddy, still in his white shirt and overalls, was shaking his head and pointing to the heater. I asked the homeowner to call the gas company again and this time have them check the heater itself not just the lines.

I was trying to explain that the spirit was trying to be helpful but she cut me off abruptly. She did not want anything touching her in the shower! Show me the bathroom, I said, and off we went. Most of these beautiful old houses were built before the concept of a bathroom actually existed. The most common practice to install a bathroom was to find sufficient space in the general area and have someone put up a wall or walls to enclose the space. That is exactly what the original owners of this house had done. The bathroom was at the back of the landing on the top floor. I poked around and found a small storage space wedged in beside the bathroom and the outside wall. There was Buddy, smiling a lopsided grin and pointing to the small storage area. I turned to the homeowner and told her to tell Buddy that the bathroom was off limits when it was occupied but that she might want to ask him to stick around and help look after the children. Her face went totally blank and she appeared speechless. I turned to my client and told her I'd be leaving now but feel free to call me if she had questions. I walked away humming. I finally had the whole story, or thought I did.

One week later I heard from the client that had called me to the haunted house. She wanted to give me an update. The gas company had checked the heater. Buddy was right. The jets in the heater were clogged with years of dust and needed cleaning; unignited gas was seeping by the dust clogged jets. The technician apologized profusely for their oversight and repaired the problem immediately. All the annoying little happenings, including the touching in the shower had stopped although they couldn't seem to stop Buddy from clomping up and down the stairs at all times of the day and night, but they were getting used to the footsteps. They had decided to let him stay. He was proving very useful in watching over the children.

I decided it was time to check out the local history section of the library. I wanted to confirm my addition. I figured if Buddy was at the bank and five years later he was at the house he must have spent a lot of time at both places. I was right. Buddy's parents didn't just work at the bank, they owned the bank and the two story house where I had run into Buddy. They were very social people and their parties were always given a write up in the local paper. The other children in the family were often mentioned, Buddy was not. I theorized that perhaps, given the time and place, that Buddy may have been forced to stay upstairs, out of sight during the parties. I was more than irritated that two people that were educated enough to own a bank might have mistreated a child that was "different". Just a few days later one of the assistant librarians that had helped me with my research called and asked if I would like to meet one of Buddy's cousins. He was much younger than Buddy but his memories of his family at that time were sharp and clear. I asked him about Buddy and he said he was fairly sure that Buddy's problem was Down's syndrome. Buddy's parents loved him very much. It was Buddy's choice to stay upstairs and he had made the little storage area his own private space. He wanted to attend the parties and tried to help with the preparations but, at the actual parties, felt like people stared at him. In his cubby hole he could hear everything but didn't have to see anyone.

His cousin smiled at the memories. "Ol' Buddy was a sweet soul but he could be stubborn. He always wore the exact same clothes…said he wanted to be buried in them. The funeral was in late summer, it was really hot even at night, August, I think. I remember he was wearing new, pressed overalls and a white starched shirt."

Tales of haunted houses and ghost stories told around a blazing fire on a hot, sultry August night. Delicious chills running up and down spines as sticky, sweet marshmallows are toasted in the fire and eaten between gasps of surprise and feigned terror. Summer in the South, it doesn't get a lot better…except when you grow up and get to investigate real haunted houses and ghost reports. The only way that gets better is when an eerie connection between two incidents get to see the light of day.