“She’s hanging on my shoulder talking to me again,” my friend Caren said with wide-eyed exasperation.
“That lady who loves to dance?” I smiled. We had just ordered lunch in the tea room of the swanky old Peacock Hotel, the jewel of the Southwest. Palm trees swayed in the courtyard.
“I wouldn’t mind, but she never quits.”
“She can’t get anybody else to listen.” This ghost talk tickled me. I was fascinated that Caren could hear her.
“I came to chat with you, not her.”
“She’s still talking about those fabulous parties?”
“Nonstop. Oh, the gossamer gowns, the amazing band, the dancing! She would Shimmy all night with loads of handsome men. She claims she danced with Douglas Fairbanks in this very room.”
“No kidding? His photo is out there in the lobby next to Clark Gable’s.”
“I know. This must have been a hopping place back then.”
“Now she’s saying, Lindy Hop.”
“I guess it’s a dance,” said Caren. “She says Lindy hopped over the Atlantic.”
“Lindbergh.” A tingle flitted over my skin. “This woman will never leave this hotel.”
Caren nodded. “Those elegant dance parties mean everything to her. She’s waiting for the next one.”
“She is. She keeps asking when the next dance will be. I’ve told her that was ninety years ago, but she doesn’t get it.”
“Hungry ghost.” I pondered the Buddhist phrase. She was stranded here by her desire for more excitement. “Gosh, she’s totally stuck in that flamboyant party, the music, the shining gowns and tuxedos, the rich and famous.”
“That whole era.” Caren’s face glowed. She was a kindred soul to this woman. She too loved costumes, elegance, fabulous dancing, that season of history.
Magnificent times, I thought, tracing the curlicue on my antique fork. Then it hit me. “Hey, what if? What if she is not a whole person but a fragment of strong emotion?”
“She feels like a person to me. Her spiel is always the same.”
“That’s exactly why I wonder if she is one dimensional, not a whole person. She’s like a recording.”
“She does repeat herself.”
“I was reading about thought forms. What if she’s not a ghost exactly but a thought form?”
“I don’t know. I think she’s a ghost.”
“What’s her name?”
“Don’t know. I’ll ask.” Caren shut her eyes, exhaled deeply.
I wished I was more psychic like Caren. She was so good at merging into people, losing her boundaries, finding cool stuff.
“She won’t give her name,” said Caren. “She’s describing her flapper dress, moaning that she couldn’t get a hot pink color like we can get today.”
“Ask her what street she lived on.”
Caren breathed, waited. “She won’t say.”
“My book said, a ghost that keeps going up the stairs, always in the same direction, is like an old photographic imprint. It’s a fragment of a personality. Not a whole person. Basically anybody’s intense emotion becomes a thought form. That form attracts more of the same thoughts and feelings. The thought form is like a one-dimensional consciousness because it holds one strong feeling and a lot of it.”
Caren gave me a goofy indulgent smile. “But how can you get emotional about going up the stairs?”
I grinned. “Yeah, not a good example, but maybe it was a habitual pattern? Maybe repetitive weariness? They call it an electromagnetic imprint. When they try to talk with the ghost on the stairs it won’t communicate in a personal way. Not like a person.”
Caren folded her hands on the table. “She’s quiet now. Maybe we offended her.”
“I mean, what if one dancing lady got extremely excited and then everybody’s big celebration energy accumulated in her emotional cloud that still hangs around here?”
“A cloud? I think she’s more than a cloud. On the other hand we know vibrations do linger physically, like in violent depressing places.”
“I think it’s amazing that you can feel her so well. I wish I could do that.”
“Sometimes I get pulled around by these things, and I wish I weren’t so sensitive.”
“At least this one is fun and snazzy.”
(So tell us, what’s your impression here? I’d love to hear from you. I took lots of poetic license with this true event, because lately I’ve been reading about thought forms, don’ ya know . . .)
(Thanks to Wikimedia and Pixabay for these images I blended.)