A True Seattle Ghost Story

Greetings friends, it's been a while since my last post, but I've got plenty to share here in the coming days, not least of which is my deal with Reedy Press to author "Secret Tampa Bay: A Guide to the Weird, Wonderful and Obscure." More on that later - for now please enjoy a Halloween throwback to the dreary and haunted year I spent living in Seattle.

A True Seattle Ghost Story

Seattle is a pretty strange city – it's really more of a small pacific town that woke up one morning and discovered hi-tech startup companies, sky scrapers, a population boom and MTV camera crews in its midst. But the city has retained its secret underground nature, literally. The original city was burned in a fire circa 1900, and since the city had been built too close to the water, rather than relocate it further up the hill, which would have been, perhaps a more rational solution, the hill was blasted and brought down to the water. The new city was built atop the old – what used to be ground floors became cellars, and what used to be cellars became sub cellars, thus spawning from almost its inception a vast network of lightless underground passageways, connecting building like a network of veins pumping unseen shadows through the organs of the city. The secret heart of Seattle, still beating to the pulse of hard house DJs spinning in backrooms and basements, under the endless folds in the pitch black cloak of Seattle night.

It's the kind of city that'll flash you a coy, waitstaff smile and wink while you eat French toast and Applewood smoked bacon over brunch and write an address on the back of the bill for you. So you show up late that night, navigating the labyrinth of back streets and alleys - the cracks between buildings, seeking out the whispered promise of some secret, sexy smoke-filled strobe-lit after-hours club of swank urban adventure. But you find yourself jumped by thugs in the alley, gut punched and mugged. No sweet sensual smiles or tongues gliding soft and alluringly over full ruby lips from across the bar for you. Instead you're vomiting up that morning's French toast on the asphalt, doubled over in pain, cradling your fractured ribs, with your vision tear-blurred while some punks run off with your wallet.

Suffice it to say, Seattle is tender and sinister, sexy and tough all at once. And most of all, it's the sort of town where few things are ever quite what they seem…

I was living in one of the most spectacular apartments I'd ever seen. I had a decent job over the bridge in Redmond. But all was not well. The rains and gloom had settled in, and Amanda and I had gone our separate ways for good.

Now, I should say right off the bat that I don't believe in ghosts. As much as I like a good horror movie and as many times as I've watched X-files reruns, it all just seems a bit far-fetched. Don't get me wrong, there are things that I won't ever be able to explain rationally (and generally I don't try to), but all the same I tend to file supernatural spirits in the cabinet somewhere between voodoo hexes and the Easter Bunny.

On the other hand, it's entirely possible that the place I lived may have been haunted. It certainly looked the part. From outside on the sidewalk, it had the malevolent splendor of a Gothic cathedral or keep. It still stands on the corner of East Roy and Broadway, if you're familiar with the area. With several unique design features, it was the brainchild of Annholt – a west coast designer of some renown. He was fabled to have spent his final days in the building, which was originally intended as a luxury hotel back in 1927, finally passing on from his ground floor apartment – like my own.

Complete with stained-glass windows, a wildly verdant courtyard, spires, spiral staircases, creaky hardwood floors, arched hallways with torch-like light fixtures and cavernous, cobwebbed underground passages behind wrought iron gates, the only things missing were gargoyles – sinister gray stone sentries perched on the rooftops, and a Lestat type vampire from one of Ann Rice's novels to lord over the estate. It was as beautiful to behold as it was daunting, and sometimes flat-out creepy, to live in alone.

When I shared the apartment with Amanda, it wasn't uncommon for me to have an elbow jab me in the chest, a small hand clamp over my mouth and a quite, shaken voice ask me, "hey, did you hear that? Did you see something move?"

At 4:20 AM and fast asleep just seconds before, I it was hard enough to remember my own name, let alone what phantasmal happenings I might or might not have been seeing and hearing. So we huddled close, her nails digging into my arms and wrists, waiting for odd sounds or flickering lights and shadows.

But, as I mentioned, Amanda had moved out and the only ghost still haunting the apartment was the specter of my recently-failed relationship. I was still a stranger in a strange town of strangers far stranger than I. So after work, when I would arrive back at my apartment at hours that now confound my mind, I found myself in the habit of lulling myself off into dreamless oblivion with a quick shot of Basil Hayden. Okay, maybe two shots, but only on the nights that were really rough for me.

It was on an October night early in three rainy season – which seemed to last two or three seasons that year, setting a new record for consecutive days of rain. I'd had my nightcap and was sitting quite content on my black and gold futon, looking out into the courtyard when I heard it. Faint and distant at first, it was almost inaudible over the staccato patter of rain against the stone walkway and leaves outside.

"Sonnnnyyyy…"

Maybe just the rain, I thought. Or may be some misheard snippet of a heated quarrel between the gay couple that lived next-door that had the unfortunate habit of getting into screaming matches at odd hours. But the tone was wrong for one of their pitched battles – mournful and sullen, not angry. And there was no lisp.

"Sonnnnyyyy…"

There it was again, unmistakable and much closer this time. It emanated from the center of the courtyard. It was a high, thin, quivering woman's voice, at just that pitch that sets your skin crawling and spikes your veins with shards of ice. Like some restless soul, pining for a lost lover. But from my view, all I could see the endless, soggy mist and rain casting halos around the few lights on the ground, partially obscured by vegetation.

Too curious now to ignore the voice, I pressed my face against the window, my breath fogging the pane.

"SONNNNNYYYYY…"

I shot back from the glass, imagining myself almost able to feel and see the window vibrating from the sound waves. There I was, staring into the very space from which the voice originated. But all I saw was nothing. A disembodied voice, inches from my face.

I looked down at the bottle I was holding (actually, clutching, to be precise), promptly put it back in the kitchen cabinet, turned the lock and threw the key into a far corner.

And being the intrepid and courageous fellow that I am, I bravely retreated to the bedroom, pulled the sheets up over my head, vowing to spend more time outside of my apartment and in the company of others, while I waited for the voice to dissipate and for sleep to rescue me.

Which it did. Eventually.

And the pale light of the sun cast a murky light over Seattle the next day. Life went on, much as it always had. I managed to chalk the whole thing up to bad bourbon and loneliness-induced hallucination. Faced with the choice of accepting the possibility of ghosts or just losing my mind, I opted for the latter.

After a while I forgot about it. There were people to meet and lines of html code to check for errors. There was a life to build, and I applied myself to the task with a vengeance. Slowly all the specters,  real, imagined and self-created, faded into the background and dissipated like vapor in the wind.

Until, of course, it happened again.

After months, I had decided that it was safe once more to unlock the liquor cabinet and resume my occasional nocturnal ritual. It was near midnight, and now towards the end of the rainy season when I heard it again – slowly growing in volume and proximity. A crescendo from some nightmare choir song.

"Sonnnyyyyy…"

Electric blue shivers wracked all the nerves in my shoulders and spine. Every follicle of hair on my head and neck stood on end. That heartbreaking, lost voice without a body. And now it had reached the center of the courtyard again.

"Sonnnnyyyyy…"

Now, last time I'd chosen flight over fight, which hadn't seemed to have done a whole lot of good. This time I decided to try a new tactic. I went to the closet, tossing aside pinstriped business suits and tee shirts until I found what I was searching for. My Louisville Slugger. Because everyone knows that no spirit or demon can possibly withstand the awesome might of a baseball bat – it's like a silver bullet doused in holy water, right? Okay, so my weapon of choice left a little bit to be desired, but it was going to have to do the trick.

I threw my robe on over my boxers and went around to the front door, bat gripped so tightly in my hands that my knuckles had turned bone white. I drew a deep breath and swung open the thick wooden door. The bat heavy, but something short of reassuring in my hands.

"Who the hell is out there?" I bellowed into the darkness, catching a face full of rain.

No response at first. I yelled again. And then, from the bushes right under my windowsill there was a rustling. Here it is, I thought, this is the part where Josh gets torn limb from limb by the talon-like, grave-stained fingernails of the ravenous dead in Seattle. I wondered briefly if my insurance policy covered this.

But instead of a horrid apparition, a pale, frail looking girl raised her head. Her blond hair was rain-matted against her face and cheeks. She looked at me with terror-widened green eyes, so timid that she looked like she was about to burst into tears.

"I'm… I'm so sorry," she stammered. "I was looking for my ferret, Sunny." I felt my death-grip loosen around the baseball bat as I stopped shaking. I began to chuckle. Then laugh hysterically. The bat clattered to the floor as I almost doubled over with laughter.

"God, you scared the hell out of me," I told her between fits of laughter.

Feeling a bit awful that I had nearly beaten to a pulp some innocent young woman, I invited her into the apartment. It turned out that there was a small hole right under my window which her pet ferret had a propensity for crawling into during heavy rain showers. Under any other circumstances, knowing that some slinky, elongated rodent was running around in the cellar beneath me wouldn't have exactly qualified as a relief, but it was definitely an improvement over the undead roaming the courtyard.

She eventually found her ferret and made her way home. I actually became friendly with her and her husband, sharing a laugh over beers and barbecues about how I had nearly taken a swing at her.

But that's Seattle for you; it's the sort of town where few things are ever quite what they seem…

Especially the ghosts.