Ghostly Encounter on Dorrington Avenue

I opened my front door on Dorrington Avenue in West Hollywood at exactly 2:15 p.m.

Standing in a shimmering light was a thin, curly-blonde-headed woman, loaded with gypsy-marks, and holding a 6-foot staff of smoking sage. She wore a thin gold lamé bikini top and mini shirt, with her muscle-toned arms almost completely covered with bangles, charms and bracelets. Kind of hot in a kooky kind of way.

“Hi, I’m Ursula. Arna asked me to stop by. Said you were having a ghost problem,” she said.

“I am?” I muttered.

“Said there have been lots of disturbances since you bought this place,” she said.

“Well, there have been some—“

“Darling, I am not here to cat around. I feel something already, so don’t bullshit me. If you are happy with the way things are, then say so. Otherwise invite me in and I will take care of it. Arna is our mutual friend. I’m doing this as a favor, and I am very busy this time of year.”

This was already entertainment at its best, right out of a casting office. And she was a beauty, if not eccentric. But I was still surprised Arna didn’t let me know she was sending someone.

Before I could motion to Ursula to enter, she already sensed what I was thinking. She brushed me aside and strode in with long, graceful strides, like a dancer. The burning sage made my eyes water as the acrid smoke wound its way inside my virgin nostrils.

I swear there was a cold wave when she swept past me. She seemed familiar with the place, and immediately went to a corner of the living room and stared at the ceiling.

“Let me guess,” she said to me, as her eyes darted back and forth. “Lights flashing? Women pacing in heels on hardwood floors? Cold drafts?”

“Do you really think I have a ghost?” I stammered.

“Ghosts. A couple. And a ghost-cat. He’s for security,” she said matter-of-factly.

“What?” I said, shocked. Cocky now. “I haven’t seen any.”

“If you were expecting Casper and a posse of white-sheeted spirits, you grew up with too much television. The key to a real ghost is that they are there, but you don’t know it until they are gone.”  

She raised the staff and her face became instantly enraged.

“Don’t give me that crap," she glared at the ceiling. “Yeah, am talking to you! I am not afraid of you, Colin!”

Colin? This was getting nuttier. I reached for my cell to call Arna.

A loud shriek!

“Get out! Get out! I want you to stay in the attic from now on, and leave your wife alone! She doesn’t want you anymore. If you go near her, I will kick your arse!”

Arse? That was the first sign of her accent, strange as it was. Couldn’t identify it, exactly. Eastern European?

Suddenly the lamp by the door flashed brilliantly, then died. The lamp wasn’t even plugged in! And it was broad daylight.

Ursula smirked. Tracking from the lamp back to the ceiling. “Oh, no, no, no,” she said. “Tricks? Is that all you’ve got?”

With that she swung the sage around like a baseball bat and began to conjure some weird language, like from a Mummy movie. I was starting to think she was making it up, as it resembled nothing I’d ever heard before. As her perspiration began to bead on her skin, I noticed it glimmered, like glitter makeup. But it wasn’t makeup.

Maybe that extra drink last night at should have stayed with Patrick, the shaved-headed bartender. He was studying mortuary science, part-time, I think – and from what I remember of it.

I was starting to tidy up now. It was a nervous reaction. Ursula shifted into frenzy mode, whipping and swaying that sage-bat like a major-leaguer.

I have to admit, I was mesmerized (and also a little concerned that I had a wacko in my living room). Why didn’t Arna call me first? How did Miss Whack-the-Sage-Bat even know I was home? 

After another few minutes of swearing and cursing at the ceiling, Ursula collapsed in the sofa chair. Puddles of perspiration began to form on my newly refinished 80-year-old white oak floor.

“They were a couple,” she said in a lower, breathy voice. “He was older. She was young and alabaster-beautiful. “

She wiped her brow. 

“They built this house in the ‘20s. But he was a philanderer. Slept with prostitutes, contracted syphilis. Made him dysfunctional. So she took on a young lover. The husband found out, then offed them all.” 

“Some story,” I said, straight-faced. Somehow relieved.

She slammed her hands down on the armrests, and then hoisted herself to standing.

“Well, that’s it for me. Give my best to Arna.”

With that she swooped by me, the perfume smell unlike any I’d ever scented. She reached the door and opened it. She turned back to me.

“You just never know, do we?” she said, in the most fractured English.

“I’ll say.” That’s all that I had left. The door closed.

After a few long beats, I picked up the cell and dialed.

“Hey, John,” Ariel said excitedly. “What’s new?”

“Um, you know, that crazy ghost-lady you sent, just left,” I said too curtly.

“What friend? What are you talking about?"

Then it hit me….