Your True Tales
November 2008 - Page 26
Mr. Bell's Ghost
by Kat Z.
In the late summer of 1992, my family moved to a small town called Winthrop, Washington. Upon unloading the moving truck, I was walking out into the backyard to explore with my step-dad when we came across this old shed behind the house. I had just turned six earlier that summer and remember us both stopping and looking down to see a tombstone leaning against the shed. The tombstone was for a Mr. Bell. (It listed his first name as well, but from that day on he was and is Mr. Bell to me.) It also listed his date of birth, but there was no date of death inscribed.
I turned to look at my step-dad and told him that the tombstone didn't belong there and asked him if he would help me put it where it was supposed to be. He looked confused, but agreed to help me. I led him to the very back corner of the property where an old apple tree was and had him put it just to the east of the tree. Once he had done that, I gathered some flowers that were growing nearby and placed them on the headstone. My stepfather said at this point I touched the headstone and told Mr. Bell that he could rest now.
We lived in that house for about 8 years, and as the years wore on, my mother became a more abusive woman, toward me in particular, though no one was really safe. Throughout those years, I would gather some of the first flowers of spring and place them on the headstone as well as other random other times. I would also sit up under the tree and read as well as talk to Mr. Bell.
As the years passed, strange things started to happen around the house that seemed to center around me, to a point where it became a family joke that Mr. Bell had a crush on me. Clothes would be laid out for me to wear the next day, though my window and door were locked. The radios in the house would randomly turn on if I was in the room, and though we always listened to the same country station it would inevitably be the only oldies station we could get.
There were a rash of other small things, but it will always be the doors that stick with my family and I the most. When my hands were full, more often than not the door I was going to try and open would open for me then close again once I had passed through. Even when my hands weren't full, the doors would occasionally do the same thing. When my mother was mad and looking for me, the door would slam in her face and nothing anyone could do could get the door open, be it one of the bedroom doors or one of the bathrooms until she had left the area.
The most memorable of these incidents happened when my uncle and cousins had come to visit. I was sitting on the bed with my cousin, just chatting about random stuff, when my mother screamed my name. My bedroom was at the end of a long hall that led into the kitchen and living area. My cousin looked over at me and I stared down the hall shaking with fright to see my mother starting to come down the hall. As I stared at my mother in obvious full view still curled up on the bed, the doors to the bedroom from the hall and from the bathroom (which also had a door that led into the hall) both slammed shut. My mother was ranting and raving and tried to get in through both doors, but they held firm even though the locks had not been thrown on them.
Shortly thereafter, the adults left for the bar and as soon as they had left, the doors both swung back open to returned to where they had been pressed against the wall. I hung my head with a whispered thank you, and my cousin, who was a few years older then I, turned and looked at me speculatively. Her words stick with me to this day: "He certainly does seem to care about you." I remember her saying that and I turned to her in some confusion as I wasn't aware that she knew about the ghost. So I asked her who she was talking about. She smiled and said, "Why, your Mr. Bell, of course."
The day we moved, I cried and said my final farewell to Mr. Bell with one last gift of flowers on his grave. For the first and only time, I felt as if a hand was laid on my shoulder and a sense of peace washed over me. Mr. Bell had faded to a family legend by the time I moved out on my own at 16, and while all activity stopped once we had moved, I still think of him fondly and hope that he has moved on to a happier place.
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