I had planned to post today, in keeping with the season, about Wolf and Blood Moons.
However, in yet another example of hive mind, the Church Lady beat me to it.
Instead I will recount a ghost story from the family archives which ties with yesterday's parapsychology post.
A young man had taken a teaching post for one year on an island in the cold Atlantic, before returning to law school.
He rented a vacant, semi-furnished house by the shore for a ridiculously low sum -- though warned by the family who owned it that the old house was haunted.
By the ghost of a brother who had died there.
They had abandoned the dwelling, because, at certain times on certain nights, they heard his tubercular coughing as he sat, unable to rest, in his rocking chair in an upper chamber.
Exactly as they had heard him on many nights before he died.
But the young man was both bold and skeptical. He had faced down dangers before -- and the price was right. Law school is expensive, and he needed to save and miser every penny.
For weeks the house by the shore where the breakers rolled and broke on the rocks below was quiet. Empty. Silent.
And the young man revelled in the evening solitude.
Until one night.
Above the rising wind, the young man heard from the room above a rasping cough and then the slow rock-rock of a chair on the broad boards of the wooden floor.
He listened, alert, as the slow sequence of sounds repeated.
Needless to say, the hairs on the back of his neck became instantly verticle, and his heart beat increased considerably.
But -- being the young man that he was -- he crammed down the primal fears which leaped, shrieking and gibbering, from his sub-mind, loaded his rifle, found a flashlight, and went up the creaking stairs.
Down the hall to the dark rectangle of the open door, from whence came again the harsh sounds of tortured lungs.
Swept the light around the bedroom chamber -- bare except for an iron bedstead, a warped dresser and a rocking chair close by the window casement.
An empty chair that moved , back and forth, back and forth.
Then he lowered his rifle and sagged against the door jam for a moment before he crossed the room.
To shove aside the rocking chair - probably with a degree of violence.
When the wind rose from a certain quarter, it blew through cracks in the window frame and agitated an old fashioned blind, producing in the process a rasping, hacking sound.
The window blind in turn billowed out to strike the back of the rocking chair and set it in motion.
The young man never said, but I doubt, though, if he unloaded his rifle that night after he went back downstairs.