Ghosts vs. Lowlifes

vs.

My outlook on ghosts has transformed over the years. As a child, predictably, the notion of ghosts made shivers jolt through my spine. Then as a teenager and into my early 20s, regrettably, I honed a smartass callousness toward ghosts. In one instance, at the reputedly spooked residence of a friend, I paced up and down a hallway taunting the specters. I trash talked to thin air, wanting to provoke a reaction. Sure enough, as I pivoted back toward my scowling friend seated on a dryer shaking his head no, I felt a sudden tug beneath my ankle. I looked down. On that shoe, my laces had been forcibly untied. Later I was told the laces burst open like a flourish of silly string.

In the interest of reiteration, I was 20 and passing through a callous smartass phase, especially when it came to ghosts, and so I laughed dismissively. Undoing my shoelaces seemed petty and underwhelming, as though I was dealing with the spirit of a second-rate junior high bully. All spite, no smite. Pathetic. I knelt down and retied with ridiculous pride. The knots would not be coming loose anytime soon and I felt perfectly fine.

“What's next?” I scoffed. “'Kick Me' sign? Does the ghost scratch out noogies?”

I acted like the snotty naysayer who becomes the second murder victim in a horror movie, the one who makes people shrug and quip, “He had it coming.”

The friend in question had testified accounts of antique dolls somehow relocating on their own, unfounded murmurs from the closet, and most chillingly, waking up next to a disembodied scream in the pitch black of night. Now, I can't confirm the veracity of his accounts. Still, maybe the “ghost and noogies” routine was ever so slightly insensitive.

Thankfully, I'm the type who likes to endure long enough to look back and realize how much of an asshole or coward I could be—having that cathartic moment of smacking oneself above the brow, head swinging like a quick pendulum, sighing miserably but smiling and saying, “Now I get it... Maybe I won't regress this time!” 

With that in mind, I want to atone for my derision of the paranormal, and to those who have been terrified by it. Part of my mindset regarding ghosts was valid, but it was too extreme. It's sane to fear the paranormal, but one has to do so with relativity.

Ghosts are undoubtedly freaky. But the truth is they're not as scary as mortal, breathing, flesh-and-blood lowlifes. Because over 99% of the time, the worst and freakiest atrocities on this planet are committed by somebody with a pulse. Paranormal activity horrifies because it's inexplicable more so than because it's dangerous. When the intent is to inflict harm, being dead is a serious drawback.

Consider some examples: A serial killer who has the advantage of being alive is a greater threat than one who died decades ago. If I was forced to have a sleepover at a notoriously haunted site like the Villisca Axe Murder House, I'd be most worried about packing enough underwear to withstand eight or nine crappings, not realistically getting brained by a floating lumberjack tool. Trust me, an axe-wielding sociopath prowling around any place that has no history of hauntings whatsoever is a lot more perilous than Ol' Ghosty McMurderaxe on his own spooky turf—scowling at people, slamming a door or two, and maybe swaying a chandelier a few times.

Furthermore, there's no reason to fear the tortured spirit of a woman from the 1920s hanged in your attic more so than you should fear a crack-incensed psycho knifing you at the intersection of wrong place and wrong time. Nights of fitful sleep caused by the moans of some phantom flapper who 86'd herself actually make for intriguing, nonviolent stories to tell coworkers, friends, and family. That's preferable to calling home in the second scenario and having to say those three dreaded words: “Daddy got stabbed.”

Perhaps I'm teetering on “too cavalier” again, but the YouTube classic “Real Scary Ghost Pictures” suggests that someday a ghost might startle any one of us with a photobomb. Whereas the nightly news may report terrorists reaping devastation with regular bombs—the kind that blow up and make loud noises. With all due respect to paranormal entities, terrorists with bombs are scarier.

It can be unnerving to sprout goosebumps as you wonder how that antique doll in the living room could have turned its head to face you while your back was turned. But moments of fright like that are not as bad as mass shooters, suicide bombers, stranglers, satanic slashers, child abusers, sex offenders, sadistic religious extremists, thieves, burglars, wife beaters, Grand Theft Auto copycats, coke dealers, fat and rude customers at Taco Bell, homophobic carnies, misogynists running for president, or Dallas Cowboys defensive lineman Greg Hardy, among other lowlifes.

If you're petrified of ghosts, I hope that helps.

Ultimately, the most harmful thing an apparition can do to the living has got to be inciting cardiac arrest. On rare occasions, someone who supposedly spots a ghost will have a heart attack. Imagine that, being so filled with spite or unrest as a fraction of your mortal self that you'd be willing to frighten a fragile human being to death. It's sad, and I feel sorry for all involved.

In the end, ghosts are but a grim, anguished reminder not to live a disgruntled life in vain if you can help it. I'm not claiming there's a heaven, but I've also never heard of a happy ghost.

Happy or not, though, you've got to admit they're still a helluva lot better than evil dictators or the Kardashians.  

Draw.