You scared Jody
It’s Halloween 2020, and I thought it a fitting day to launch my first blog post.
As the child of a famous psychic mother, I attended seances and overheard stories about ghosts and spirits roaming the halls and rooms of our house. Later, my mother would tell me that I talked for hours in my room alone, as if in conversation with someone else.
In the first few drafts of The Scientist and the Psychic, I tried to document as many of these stories as I could remember, only to have my editor suggest cutting many of them and chronicle only those that were critical to the storyline. One of the biggest lessons I learned while learning to write a book was that many of my favourite stories and passages would end up on the editing room floor.
One of the deleted scenes, a real-life ghost story, sticks out because it fuelled my childhood fears. I share it below — be gentle, it’s from an early draft ☺️
(c1975)
The cheerful, sharp sounds of piano music fractured the silence. The music they heard had the stereotypical melody of a piano playing in an old Western saloon or on a soundtrack accompanying the comedic antics of Laurel and Hardy in a 1920s silent film. My grandmother immediately recognized the melody. Shine On, Harvest Moon (listen here) was her father’s favourite tune to play on the piano when he was alive.
Seated at the kitchen table that night were my parents, grandparents, and my great-grandmothers, Nanny May and Nanny Dolly. They could have been playing cards like they frequently loved to do, or they could have just been relaxing with a drink, deep in conversation. One thing was certain; there was no one else in the house capable of playing the piano.
My family jumped to their feet and rushed down the dimly lit stairwell toward the rec-room where the piano sat. They moved quickly down the dark hall, the music getting louder with each step. The rec-room was masked in darkness yet the music was palpable, reverberating around the wood-panelled room.
Someone flicked on the light, and the music stopped. The oak piano was up against the wall, opposite to the door the group came in. The piano’s lid sat in place, covering the ivory keys. No one else was in the room.
At the time, I was only six and fast asleep. Or so they thought. When the piano music stopped, Nanny heard muttering coming from the next room where my bed was. They darted over and slid open the accordion doorway leading into Nanny’s office that doubled as my bedroom. I was sitting upright in my twin bed, eyes closed.
“Crossed knives mean danger,” I muttered in my sleep, “Crossed knives mean danger.”
As the story goes, I repeated the phrase over and over until my mother nudged me. I lay back down, rolled onto my side, and continued sleeping. The superstitious expression was something my great-grandfather had said many times when the blades of two knives inadvertently overlapped on a plate — a bad omen.
In less than a week, my mother would have a car accident.
Growing up, I learned ghosts were real. So when my father brought me to see The Amityville Horror when I was only ten-years-old, one scene shook me to the core.
Click to watch:
In the scene, the young girl sings to an empty chair, much like my mother said I did when I was young. My child-brain immediately connected the real-life stories I’d heard with that scary scene in the movie, and every time I approached my bedroom window, I was convinced I’d see the ghostly pig eyes from the film. From that point forward, I would only close my curtains with my head turned sharply to the side, eyes shut tight.
Today, I know my reaction was childish silliness, and I’m skeptical of all ghost stories. But even to this day, when I peer out of a darkened window, I think of those glowing eyes.
Happy Halloween