My childhood Kentucky home has seen some odd events.
One Thanksgiving, a glass exploded during the blessing. *pop* Shards flew into grandma’s hair, peppered the table—including the food. Though we had enough for a second spread, leftovers were thin that year.
Still, explanations could usually be had: That Thanksgiving, the glass of water had been ice cold, the nearby casserole dish hot as the oven… physics took care of the rest.
But then there was this one Christmas. It was 2016, I believe.
It was a particularly cold winter. I’d been allowed to decorate, so imagine woodsy pagan decor and crackling wood-wick candles. Fireplace flickering. Mulled wine brewing.
The house had a cozy-calm atmosphere that should’ve cocooned us in lazy predictability, yet that month…
Some of the events could be dismissed: I blew out a bright red candle, and the wax burst into a Jackson Pollock on the white wall behind. But I must’ve blown too forcefully?
Countless wine glasses broke. But hey, I’d been drinking quite a bit from those glasses beforehand?
A bottle of olive oil cracked in my groceries. The full 16 ounces baptized the car’s floor. Though I rested the soaked car mat in the mulch to dry overnight, dad (assuming the mat wet with water, not olive oil) shifted it to the cement porch… the oil bled from the mat outwards, soaking into the porous stone. Frantic hosing, soap and scrub brushes, professional power washing: the amorphous, borderline phallic stain would not be removed.
To this day, a huge outdoor mat covers our front porch. The mat is black. “It wasn’t cheap,” said dad.
Yet even then, the olive oil debacle could be (mostly) attributed to poor communication, right?
Other events though…
I tapped “Start” on the microwave—its display went dark. Dead. The microwave had to be replaced.
The ice machine stopped working. We settled for picking up bags of ice.
The door handle to the coat closet came off in my hand. Nobody else that holiday season had an issue with the door (even though I’d just anxiously tapped the handle back into place).
One night, when I turned on the kitchen sink? The metal faucet launched free with the water pressure, smashing into the lightbulb above. Broken bulb rained onto me as the faucet crashed back down—shattering yet another wine glass, thus punctuating the whole drama with a final spray of shards.
And so on.
That Christmas is an infamous one in my family. Mercifully, it has yet to be repeated. No odd-event flare-ups since then—at least not at such a high concentration. I associated the whole episode with our beloved Kentucky house, which I must’ve offended with one too many wicker reindeer.
Yet just this October, miles away in Peru with my husband, I stepped out of the shower. In nothing but a towel, I crossed the threshold of the bathroom’s doorway and—CRASH. Our shower door splintered with a harsh snap, followed by a roar as it crumbled, littering the bathtub and tiles with tempered glass.
“Good luck,” said dad to my husband. “Poltergeist is all yours now.”
My husband and I are on guard. But shattering shower doors will almost definitely get integrated into my next ghost story, at the very least. Not to mention olive-colored hallways, perhaps some uncooperative kitchen sinks…
So, is this all just me? Anybody else plagued by “odd events” every few years? Where do other writers and artists get their inspiration for how hauntings manifest?