I know I’m late getting this Post-Portland-Poltergeist update on the blog, but it took me this long to recoup from four days of acting like I was 23 again. Props to my scuzzin, Mikey, who is an amazing host, often making me and Vanessa dinner or late-night snacks, showing us all around his incredible city, and taking us to the coolest bars and restaurants. Isn’t he adorbs? (ahhh the pasty glow of our pigment-lacking genetics)
First things first – let us discuss the ghost I wrote about before I left for Portland. Let me just say – most bizarre thing ever. Now, I realize there’s the tiniest possibility my cousin was doing some or all of this to freak me out, BUT, he was also talking about these paranormal happenings (making excuses for them because he approaches this from a science perspective and all but refuses to admit he has a ghost) months before my visit was planned. So while entirely possible….it’s also doubtful.
Regardless, the terror-seed was planted weeks prior to my visit, tucked neatly inside my over-active imagination and I was skeert, more so of my own imagination than anything. Turns out I handled it just fine. And by fine I mean I drank straight through those four days and only slept about 5 hours in total. #coping
A few days before my arrival, my cousin thought it’d be a great idea to share with me a video he took while in his dining room late at night. A wall candle had lit itself, and he was attempting to catch the second candle lighting on video. Watch. If you dare. I’ll wait here. *teeth chattering*
You back? Can you believe that shit? CAHrazy, but luckily my powers of denial are strong-like-bull. For some reason, we decided this was a female energy. Probably because there seems to be a concentration of activity in the dining room. We named her Mags, short for Margaret. (mother, do not read into this; this name had nothing to do with you. Most likely)
((sidenote: Prior to leaving for the trip, I did receive a private message from an intuitive who – after viewing the video via my Facebook post – informed me she *felt* the energy of an older woman who lived in the late 1800’s. As you can imagine, this did nothing to ease my anxiety))
Kayso, back to the story. Mikey lives in a very old house. And he has no TVs. As in zero. As in no noise to drown out the creaks and groans of an old house at night. This is unacceptable and he was urged to stop living like a troll and buy a damn television immediately. In the meantime, I downloaded a sleepy sounds app and cranked “OCEAN WAVES” so high I could taste the salty air.
Night one: Vanessa and I share a room (per my request cuz I’m a giant wuss) and she has no problem crashing the second her head hits the pillow (#snoreslikeamower). Meanwhile, I sit straight up in my bed, wide-eyed, sphincter tight, trying to cope with this ghost bizznizz. After a while I start cruisin’ Facebook, intermittently dozing on and off, when a noise gets my attention. I look up and our bedroom door is open. Just like that. Without a sound.
Night Two: It’s evening and we’re having homemade veggie lasagna made by Mikey. We’re drinking wine and talking about our day on the coast when I run upstairs for something-which-I-no-longer-recall and find the closet door (which we never used or opened a single time) ajar and the inside light ON. (no photo cuz my phone was downstairs) Of course I handle this like any mature adult. I promptly turn off the closet light, shut the door, get the hell back downstairs and drink until dawn. #denial
The cruelest irony? On the back of said closet door was a full length mirror that FACED MY BED.
Day Three: The three of us head for some waterfall-viewing hikes and have packed a bag with snacks (pumpkin seeds, M&Ms, Triscuits, and bread: aka normal hiking food) and a few Oo7 books to drop off at these ZOMG ADORABLE “Little Lending Library” things they have all over Mikey’s neighborhood.
ANYway, about halfway to the hiking area we realize (after much “Who did this?” “Did you?” “No! Did you?”) that a banana and pear had been placed in the bag. By no one.
Later that night, post hiking, we sit around the dining room table, drinking and eating and talking. It’s been unseasonably warm in Portland, so we prop a few windows open with hardback books, as one does in a hundred year old house. After several hours we decide to change locations and move to the family room. We pick up our plates of munchies and carry them into the kitchen to straighten a bit. Upon returning to the dining room, we are greeted with this:
Fortunately, we are sufficiently inebriated at this point, so we thank Mags and proceed into the family room.
Night Four: 3:00AM to be exact, so technically it’s morning of the fifth day. I’m in
the carnival fun house bed, again cruising Facebook to see who was up and would talk to me, with my ocean sounds blaring in the room – not quite loud enough to drown out Vanessa’s snoring, when BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BONGITY BONG BAM.
“MICHAEL!!!!” I scream. “MICHAEL!!! What the f#ck was that?!?!”
He runs into the hallway. “What was what?”
“You didn’t hear that? It sounded like a ball rolling down the stairs!” I leap out of bed and we stand at the top of the pitch black stairway hyperventilating. Mike finally runs downstairs to flick on the light. “Omg,” he murmurs.
“WHAT IS IT?”
“A baseball. But not like the last one. This was looks used.”
This is when I recall this has happened before, a month or two ago. In the middle of the night, a baseball rolled down the stairs.
I can see that Mikey has burrowed into a thick blanket of denial at this point and is blaming it on his cat. #yeahright He nonchalantly checks the house for burglars and then proceeds to go back to bed.
On no, Maria. You can’t go back to bed. I’M TERRIFIED. But he assures me in his best “everything’s fine” mask that it was just the cat and all is well.
And then leaves me. Alone. In a deathly quiet house with a ghost that lights candles, closes windows, and throws baseballs. So naturally I message Lizzi in state of sheer panic. That’s the only time I’ve ever been grateful for our time difference. She talks to me for over an hour – including when I have to walk past the stairs to the bathroom for a whiz.
Finally, about 4:30am, I remember thinking, “only one more hour ’till the sun comes up,” and then I crash for a few, unsettled hours. After breakfast and a walk, we leave for the airport trip home. I look like a deranged crack addict at this point.
But you know what? I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. Portland is eccentric and cool and popping with gorgeous Skittle colors everywhere you look. The districts are unique and accessible. The feel is unforced and laid back and naturey. Urban and hip without being uber trendy and obnoxious about it.
In other words, It’s kind of perfect. I do have one word of advice, though. If a local tells you something is “just across the bridge” or “only a few blocks that way”, promptly slap that person and call a cab. #myfeetbled
I’ll be back, Portland. I promise. But I’ll stay in a spirit-free hotel thankyouverymuch.
Have you ever had a paranormal experience? Have you ever been to Portland? DID YOU LOVE IT TOO? Finally, what’s your favorite city?