The Supernatural

I believe in ghosts. I believe we are like Transformers. There’s more to us than meets the eye.
I don’t really care what you believe in, nor do I care how many people read the previous statement and judge me as a potential schizophrenic. Let it be known that those of us who are the most judgmental are the most likely to be judged themselves.
In my eyes it is impossible to perceive this human life of ours and not stop to wonder at how exactly we came to be. Are we simply a biological anomaly born of the random yet perfect placement of a massive burning star? Or was there really a superior being that cascaded down from the Heavens to create an intelligent, yet corruptible race in its own image?
Me? I don’t subscribe to human-fabricated belief that there is one holy being that oversees all life on this planet like a shop foreman.
Let me also add that any group that masses together to worship a single being and follows its ‘rules of conduct’ could also be called a ‘cult’.
And yet despite all my personal beliefs, I saunter passed an older building in the nicer parts of Kelowna, and I feel as though I’m being watched. It’s a feeling that’s nearly impossible to put accurately into words.
When I’m being ‘visited’, the symptoms are often visible. Teary eyes, shaking hands and arms, heavy breathing. It’s as if I’m being watched by a thousand eyes, like all the deceased that came to be that way were holed up in a room and I just walked into it with a huge sign on my chest that reads ‘I hate ghosts’.
Images appear in my mind, images that I honestly can’t say I’d ever seen before or thought of before. It’s for that reason that I have a hard time accepting that it could be an over-active imagination. I see people – people with very specific details. A slender young woman in a long, red dress with spaghetti straps over her shoulders and long, black hair draped across her right shoulder. She’s standing atop the height of a tall staircase, staring down at me. I don’t think she knows she’s dead.
A gruff, middle-aged man storms into our home looking for someone. He has a thick, dark mustache and a displeased expression on his face. He doesn’t speak English, but he understands when I tell him he’s in the wrong place.
My Mother stands in the living room of my new apartment, watching me do the dishes, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows as she watches. She’s not happy with how I’m handling certain things, so I remind her where she’s supposed to be and where I am.
I don’t see this as a curse, as often this sense has helped me steer clear of what could’ve possibly been some malicious spirits in the past.
It makes me wonder. When it comes to the spirits of the dead, those lonely souls that wander our Earth trapped and in some cases oblivious…is ignorance really bliss? Or does a spirit’s influence hold sway over even the most closed-minded of fools?
After all, spirits are just as capable of evil as we are.