O the Ghosts We Carry Within...

In the spirit of the good All Hallow's Eve, I think a ghost story is only appropriate to lead up to the big day.  I mean we all have our own ghost stories to tell...lurking just below the surface...creeping in the shadows...

I was peddling hard and fast to get home.  The rain was pouring, as it did at some point every day there in Okinawa, but today was particularly chilling and I was ready to be in the warmth of our tiny 5th floor apartment.  It was fall, actually really close to Halloween because we were planning a Halloween scary movie sleepover.  I wasn't able to drive there in Okinawa due to being on a tourist visa so my primary transportation was my bike, walking, or (after I learned a little Japanese) public transportation aka: the bus.  I also couldn't work in Japan with my visa, so my daily routine included a lunch bike ride over to my husband's base where he worked to run, lift weights, and eat lunch together.  Then, because I friggin' hated the stupid hills that came with the Japan layout, I would always (if time permitted) request a ride to "the top of the hill."  Ok, side bar is needed here ***Side bar***  This was a freaking B of a hill.  I lived in Okinawa for nearly a year, and I taught aerobics my entire college career, ran a marathon with 7 minute miles, and I rode a friggin' bike for transportation every day and I only made it up this hill on my bike 5 times that entire time.  I ain't kiddin'.  Five. Friggin' Times.  It sucked ***End Side bar***. 

We lived off the base in a cute little apartment complex that was composed of primarily Japanese families with a scattered few Marine families.  To put it bluntly, we didn't know a soul in the building.  However, I did get to know the owner (sort of) because at Christmas he brought presents to everyone.  Seriously.  Every renter.  He went door to door (we were decorating our Christmas tree when he rang us) and he delivered these awesome discounts to all these places.  I thought it only appropriate to take a German Stolen Bread (Mimi's recipe and freakin' amazing) and a bottle of wine to say thanks for the housing.  Ok...back to the story.  Either way, to any account, at this point, I had never made a neighbor friend or so much as had a conversation with a person in our building.  Really...sometimes I thought we were the only ones except for the cars.  Also, and this is pretty key, there are enormous tombs that the Japanese bury their family in as opposed to a grave with a single headstone.  It is really similar to a shrine.  Ironically (or maybe not) this season was the time when families would come and leave food, drink, and gifts for the dead at these shrines.  They think the dead must be provided and honored so they do these rituals.  Not particularly settling to know that spirits are being messed with when there is one directly beside your home.  Yep...not kiddin'...there was a gigantic shrine/tomb right beside our complex.  Actually it was more sort of a PART of the complex.  Like I mentioned earlier, Japan is quite hilly and we were built on a hill.  The hill the tomb was on.  Who was to know what part of the body was under us?  Gulp. 

So when I pulled my bike under the overhang of parking I went to my usual spot where I would lock my bike and hang my helmet on the handlebars.  I'll never forget that moment and the feeling that came over me.  I was pulling the helmet off my head and midway through...I heard it...

So soft and smooth...so quiet...such a whisper that it was barely there...but it was...

"Beth Ann"

My name.  Clear as day, but quiet too.  Just audible enough that I knew without a doubt someone had said it.

My skin is prickling even as I write this from the memory.  I stopped.  Helmet in hand, frozen.  Did I really just hear my name?  But there wasn't a car under the port.  It was only 2 pm, there was only me home at this hour, and I didn't know a single soul.  I waited just a second...debated with the better, more intelligent half of my brain that graduated college, that remains stable enough to hold a job, cook meals, be a NORMAL human being, and I moved to lock the bike. 

There it was again.  Louder this time.  And I know you are all thinking, "She's making this s--- up."  No, my friend, I am not.  And if not for the end of my story, I wouldn't believe me either. 

At this point, I am so freaked out I drop the helmet and run like there's a fire in my britches to go Skype my momma.  I don't care if it WAS 4 a.m. in Texas, she better be available to answer the damn computer!  She wasn't.  Funny how a computer in a living room can't wake a person in their bedroom, huh?  Well, I found ways to distract myself and take my mind from the weird paranormal activity of earlier enough to make it into the afternoon/evening and begin making dinner preparations for my husband's arrival home. 

Now, there needs to be some answers about certain things before this little tale continues.  My husband is not a suspicious man.  He does not believe in ghosts ( I do.  Don't care.  Laugh if you want. BOO!).  He thinks there is an explanation for all things including the field crap they blame on aliens, the weird movements that go bump in the night, etc., etc.  Basically, he is the most stable, unlike me person in the world.  I can make a mountain from ANY molehill; he reduces volcanoes to overflowing milkshakes.  Got my point?  Think so.. It's also because of these basic things I know about my husband I had made up my mind that I simply was not going to subject myself to his teasing about my ghost story from earlier.  This isn't my first paranormal experience...and in the past he's been more than happy to make my feel a tad silly.  Wasn't going to happen this time.  I would run to momma the next day. 

My husband came upstairs and I greeted him, as I did daily with a kiss wearing my apron doing dinner preparations.  I asked how his day was, but I could tell he was agitated.  "Something weird just happened," he said.  My skin prickled again..."What do you mean?  Downstairs?" I asked him, utterly sure I  knew what he was about to say.  "Yea..."  but I cut him off and told him of earlier. 

"That really happened to you?  You're not making it up?'  my husband is asking me this with wild eyes that are not familiar to him or me.  "The same thing just happened to me.  Someone just said my name.  I thought it was you since we don't know anyone, but I mean, we live on the 5th floor.  How's that even possible?" 

It's not.  It's not possible.  Not then.  Not now.  Not ever.  No one knew our names, simply one another.  But they said them.  Beth Ann.  It was whispered, like a breeze blown into my ear.  Maybe it was the ghosts we carry within us that whispered to us that day...maybe it was the ghosts of some time past.  Either way...they called.  They knew.  "Beth Ann...."