Still in Austin. Saw four movies yesterday: With This Breath I Fly, a beautiful and unsettling documentary about two women in Afghanistan; Clean Slate, an uplifting documentary about two men in and our of recovery making a short film; The Worst Person in the World, which is one of my two favorites at the fest so far, a narrative about a woman's path to finding herself; and It Hatched, a comic horror film set mostly in Iceland.
Four movies in one day. And it was amazing. Yet another facet of this diamond of creativity that is the Austin Film Festival. Just Groovy beyond belief, soul filling, mind blowing, life affirming stuff.
But I want to tell you a story about another event that happened here, a few nights back, which feels like two years ago or more. I signed up for a chance to tell a ghost story at A Night of Ghost Stories presented by Phantom Wines, a cool event at the Driskill where the first 20 or so people who signed up could pitch a ghost story to the room. Being a lifelong fan of all things spooky, I signed up immediately. This was a few weeks ago, I didn't get a response email, and thought maybe I didn't make the cut, but wanting to be sure, I followed up at the festival itself, and found out I made the cut.
Which was both cool and scary because I had assumed I didn't get in, and hadn't really prepared. I figured I would pitch a version of American Spirits, a pilot for a limited series I'm working on about a small town slowly being taken over by a pair of ghosts who are total assholes, but who a good chunk of the town find charming and delightful. My back up plan was to tell an actual ghost story that happened to me long ago in NYC.
We got to the event, and before things go started, a real life paranormal investigator was introduced, who gave us all the haunted history of the Driskill Hotel, which is quite extensive and full of all sorts of spooks and spirits. He keeps mentioning how there is this one room that is particularly active, where all sorts of things happen, and where a woman killed herself.
And then he says the room number.
And it's ours.
We freak out, and then, being the actor and ham that I am, I use it when I introduce my story, saying "Just so you all know, my wife and I are stying in Room #I-Can't-Say-at-the-Hotel's-Request." Everyone in the audience gasps. "And if I see a ghost there tonight, it won't be the first time". More gasps. And I launch into my tale, which is as follows:
When I was in my twenties, I lived in NYC with my brother in a garden level apartment on the Upper East Side, on 89th Street between 2nd and 3rd. One night, I couldn't sleep, because my brother can snore better than anyone in the business. I think he might have kept some folks up in Jersey that particular night. So there I was, laying in bed in my room, which was the lower level of a two floor apartment, which was located right behind an old church.
Probably where the Boneyard was located at some point.
I felt this strange sense of calm overcome me, and I looked to the spiral staircase that led to my room. Coming down the stairs were two children: a young girl who looked to be about 9, and a boy behind her who looked to be about 6. They were both dressed in black, in clothes that were from an earlier time. Maybe Victorian, but certainly no later than turn of the last century. The girl was very serious, and the boy had this horribly sad energy, like someone who has been severely traumatized. He sort of hid behind the girl, who I just knew had to be his older sister.
They stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and the girl looked me right in the eye and said: "We just want you to know, we are here."
I still was overcome by this strange stillness, and nodded my head. She continued.
"And there are many of us."
The boy peeked out from her side for a moment, then quickly ducked back even further behind her.
"We want to show you something".
And then I was given what I can only describe as a vision. It was like what happens in most versions of A Christmas Carol, when the various ghosts take Scrooge to various places. Suddenly, the girl, the boy, and I were in this massive, cavernous room, full of people frozen in time. Not literally frozen, like a film on pause. More like frozen in emotion. Some were joyous. Many were wracked with sorrow. A few were clearly furious. And all of them we so wrapped up in their various emotions, none of them could move.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, the vision was over and I was back in my bed, and the girl and boy were back at the foot of the stairs.
"We just wanted you to know that", the girl said. And with that, they turned and retreated up the stair, slowly vanishing as they climbed into the darkness.
And then I freaked out. I ran to my brother and woke him up, asking if he had seen or heard any of what had just transpired.
He said he hadn't.
I did not go back to sleep that night, even though it was just around 3 am.
I looked up ghostly visits the next day, and apparently, it is not uncommon when encountering a ghost to feel a sense of calm, even though one would find that counterintuitive.
The next night, I was laying in bed, sound asleep, when I awoke. I had that feeling you sometimes get when you are certain there is someone in the room with you. I looked at the clock. It was again around 3 am. This time, I didn't feel calm. I felt frightened. I pulled my covers over my head, like I did when I was a kid and scared that The Boogie Man would get me.
And then, I felt someone tapping my pillow, right next to my head. Insistently. Over and Over. Like someone trying to wake me up so they could play or talk or do whatever it is they wanted to do.
I kept my head under the covers and repeated, over and over for what seemed like a very long time, "Go away! Go Away! I don't want you here!"
At some point, the tapping stopped.
I never saw them again, and never had anyone tap my pillow. There was always a strange energy in the apartment, and a feeling that we were not alone. But nothing was ever quite as extreme as those two nights.
Still, there are nights when I wake up, and wonder where they are, what happened to all those frozen figures stuck in the past, and when I will once again feel someone slowly and insistently tapping on my pillow.
Here's a song. It's Ghost Story by The Avalanches.
