Pagan Parables~The Ghost Buster
by Natalie Zaman art by Robin Ator

Myrtle was a ghost-buster. For her birthday, she asked her brother Rowan for one of those fancy infrared lights ghost hunters use to find ghost footprints. Then at Yule, she told her mom and dad that what she wanted more than anything in the world was a meter that measured high energy frequencies; she wanted to test her room for spirit activity.

She tried calling spirits on a Ouija board. She gazed into scrying glasses late into the night. She counted the days until Samhain—when the doors between the worlds opened up and spirits came to visit—only... no ghosts ever came. None sat on the edge of her bed to watch her sleep (she checked). No disembodied soul mischievously rearranged the carefully laid plate, silverware and glass that she set out hopefully each morning (she videotaped it).

“If someone wants to contact you, they will,” her mother tried to explain. “You can't force it.”

But Myrtle was desperate.

The Autumnal Equinox approached, and Myrtle was excited. It wouldn't be long until Samhain, and she was sure that this year, she would see something.

The family packed up their camping gear and headed out to the woods to take part in the community Mabon Circle. The sky was clear for the ritual, but shortly after clouds rolled in. Lots of people decided not to stay in the woods overnight, but Myrtle's dad liked camping in all types of weather, so she, Rowan, Mom and Dad set to work assembling tents.

“I knew it!” Rowan grumbled as he eyed the overcast sky. “It's going to pour! My new sneakers'll get ruined!”

Dad shot him a warning glance, and Rowan stopped complaining.

At 2:46 in the morning, it was raining. Hard. Myrtle couldn't sleep. She rolled over and saw that Mom and Dad were missing. At first she panicked, but then she heard them talking outside. They were trying to put up a rain cover. She crawled over to the tent opening and stuck her head out. Water streamed down her face as she blinked and squinted into the darkness.

Then she saw something.

Something in the trees.

Was it white and billowy? She couldn't tell, but her heart fluttered in her chest.

“Mert! Get back in the tent!” her mother scolded. It started to rain harder.

“But—”

“Don't even try it,” Dad cut in. He sounded grumpy and tired.

Myrtle ducked inside, picked her way over to her sleeping bag, and crawled back in. Next to her, Rowan snored, oblivious. Well I don't want to go out there now anyway, she thought, I can investigate tomorrow.

In the murky light of day, she found only mom and dad's sneaker prints in the mud. Nothing else. No hooves, no tell-tale boot-marks or ghostly strips of shroud. The sky threatened to open up again, making even intrepid, can-do-dad want to leave. He crumpled up the tent, shoving it and their other gear into the back of their van, not making his usual last round of the campsite to check for forgotten stuff. Myrtle took note of this—maybe he saw something too.

By the time they got home it was pouring rain again. Myrtle showered and slipped into clean clothes, but she couldn't stop thinking about spectre she saw in the woods. She wandered downstairs and onto the front porch, but when she looked out over the walkway, and her heart stopped.

On the the concrete block at the foot of the porch were two, unmistakable oval shapes. They gleamed tooth-white against the slickly dark path that ended at the front step. In the center of each oval was a wet patch.

Myrtle jumped at the sound of the door slamming behind her.

“What're you doing out here, Mert?” Dad stepped out onto the porch.
She said nothing, but pointed at the walkway.

“They look like... footprints,” he frowned, peering into the gloom. He was right. The dark patches in the ovals were shaped like feet. One left, and one right, facing away from the house. The rain continued to pour down, but the footprints remained unchanged, standing steadfast in their ghostly halos. Dad spoke again. “If those are feet, they're in a defensive stance.”

A tight tingling crept up Myrtle's neck and settled like a hot hand on the back of her head. The ovals did rest quite apart from each other, conjuring images of stooped figures and crouching threats. She slipped a shaking hand through Dad's arm. What were they? Or, if they were feet—and they certainly looked like it—whose were they?

Dad unwound himself from her grasp and stepped out of the shelter of the porch. Rain trickled down his face as he bent to the ground, running his fingers over one of the ovals. He looked up, squinting into the porch lights.

“It's all wet!” he called, looking perplexed. “The water runs right over it and into the street.”

Myrtle cringed. This wasn't the dad she knew. Her dad didn't crumple tents into backs of vans. He folded things out neatly, straightened every crease. He was skeptical about everything—but here he was, seemingly believing that a real ghost was watching them. Her mind raced, who would want to protect them this way? And why? Or maybe it wasn't a friend. Maybe it was an evil spirit, not standing on guard, but in wait.

“Well?” her dad asked, looking over her shoulder. “Who do you think it is? Who would be... watching?”

“What's going on out here?” They both started at the sound of Mom's voice. She joined them on the porch.

Myrtle shook with fear now. She wanted to run upstairs and dump all of her ghost hunting equipment and books about spirits into the garbage, and hide under her bed. Scenes from a million ghost movies she'd watched flashed through her mind. No, she wouldn't go under her bed—something was probably under there waiting for her.

“Mom?” Myrtle whimpered. She pointed a finger out into the night.

Dad looked on, nodding grimly.

Mom looked out onto the sidewalk and stiffened. “Are those eyes on the sidewalk?” she asked in a choked whisper.

Myrtle looked down at the walkway again. Now it seemed to swim in the rain and gray light. Mom was right. They weren't footprints, they were eyes, the patch at the center of each oval a dark, moist pupil. And they didn't face away from the house, they looked in. Peering into the windows. Seeking. Had more than the rain followed them home?

At least we'll be safe together, Myrtle thought. But then she caught her breath. They were missing one person.

Rowan was still inside.

Alone.

She called hoarsely over the wind and rain that raged around the porch, but there was no answer. She ran to the front door and pounded on it, calling his name over and over.

“Mert! What do you want?” came a faint call from above. Rowan sounded annoyed.

“Come outside! Now!” Dad yelled.

They all watched him through the storm door, sauntering down the steps, seemingly unaware of any danger. Rowan caught sight of his parents and sister when he reached the landing, and a strange look—surprise mixed with worry—came over his face.

“What's the matter?” he asked as he stepped outside.

Dad pointed ominously to the footprint-eyes.

“Oh.” Rowan put his head down after a short silence. “It's where where I scotch-guarded my sneakers. Sorry Dad. Mom.”

He shrugged, and walked back into the house, and out of the rainy summer night.

Moral: Imagination is a wonderful thing—don't let yours sweep you totally away! (And ghosts do come for visits—when they want to...)