Psychic NOT Psychotic

Tell Me A Story, Mom! When we moved into our current home, one of the first projects we tackled was digging a fire pit. Living in the city we really missed having campfires in the evenings. We chose a safe spot in our huge back yard and took turns digging down in the ground. We found the perfect and seemingly heaviest rocks to mark the edges of the new pit. Stephan found some bamboo torches at the grocery store’s garden centre and planted them in a circle. When lit, the torches created an extra primitive ambiance. While gathering wood after supper for our maiden burn, Byron, age eight at the time, kept rambling on and on about telling ghost stories by the fire later. He was thinking out loud putting ideas together mashed with things he had seen on television. He was adamant that we have a story to share around the fire and kept asking Papa and I if we had picked what tale we were going to tell. In some of our learning curves, Stephan and I have had our hair stand up on end and curl back with the heebie-geebies. I was having hard time thinking about what story I could share with Byron that wouldn’t scar him, cost us a mint in therapy bills and have him sleeping in bed with us for weeks. Settling in by the fire, Byron takes the first turn. He clears his throat and holding the flashlight under his chin, he tells a suspenseful story I thing was called “And Then”. Feigning interest and parental support badly, I tried to hold attention to his story. When he finally finished, he asked me to take my turn. I took a deep breath, still unsure of what exactly was going to come out of my mouth. As I was inhaling, a huge gust of wind came up blowing out three of the torches. “I see the spirit that is going to tell our next story has just arrived.” I commented with a grin. I was surprised myself at how smooth the words rolled off the end of my tongue. As I glanced over to Byron to tell him another story I was thinking of and he was almost glowing white in the dark night of rural Northern Ontario. My comment had clearly rattled him. “That’s enough ghost stories, Mom. I want to go inside to bed. Do you want me to put the water on the fire? You’re going to stay in the house, right Mom?” Byron muttered as he puttered around nervously. You could actually see him realize that anything else that was going to come out of my mouth would be true and not some Hollywood movie BS. He wasn’t really ready for the truth and was looking to exit stage left as quickly as possible. We’ve had many other campfires, but never since has Byron asked me to tell him a ghost story.