“It was during the middle years of my childhood that there was an influx of Newfoundlanders to my home town of Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. Most of those I got to know were fishermen who had come from the remote and disadvantaged “outports” to make their fortune working on the deep sea trawler fleet that sailed out of what was then among the most famous fishing capitals in the world.
“I recall several conversations that took place in my youthful presence, between adult members of my family and some of these men who had come into our family circle, usually by way of romancing certain female members of it. It was in one of these nocturnal gatherings assembled around a well worn kitchen table, over rum and shrouded in a combination of pipe and cigarette smoke, that a wide eyed boy with ears attuned to adult conversations first heard anyone speak the name of “The Hag”. There would be reference to a troubled family member “back home” who had “The Old Hag”, and everyone at the table would nod their heads in somber sympathy. All except for me, whose curious queries were inevitably met with a look of concern, a tousling of the hair, and a change of subject.” ~ Dark Sentiments 2013 – Day 11: The Old Hag
Tales abound with ingredients that torture the imagination of the susceptible, even long after the story has been read, heard, or watched. The effect is the same whether the tale comes from experience or fiction, for the imagination is a wondrous thing if taken in hand by someone who can play it like a harp.
An example is the Old Hag, medically known as a manifestation due to an actual sleep abnormality called “sleep paralysis”. In short, it’s all in your head, and most cultures have their own word for it naming the visitor rather than the condition. I’ve written of the malady here before in my piece from the 2013 season of this series quoted at the top of the page, and you can read it by clicking the title. Needless to say, people who’ve experienced this find it hard to believe it wasn’t real. Literally, the stuff of nightmares.
In The Beginner’s Guide to Vietnamese Ghosts, Violet Kupersmith tells a slightly different version of the experience involving visits from a much younger Hag than one normally encounters, and a most interesting solution —
“I finally got rid of the little ghost girl in my room,” one of my Viet friends announced to me over coffee some time ago, in the casual way that a person might say, ‘I finally got rid of the squirrels in my attic.’ My response to hearing this (spilled drink, dropped jaw, subdued shriek) must have seemed like an overreaction to him, but in my defense, I was still new to the land and to the idea that here ghosts weren’t a superstition, they were a fact. I begged him for a full account. My friend complied, prefacing the story with the disclaimer that his ghost was not terribly exciting, just your everyday, pedestrian phantom. Nevertheless, it is the only one that still gives me nightmares regularly.
“I would see her in my sleep,” he began matter-of-factly. “Not dreams, exactly. These felt too real to be dreams, but while having them I knew that I was sleeping. My body was unconscious but I was fully aware on the inside—it was like I was able to see with my eyes closed. I would see my own room, from where I was lying in my bed, and everything was as it should be. That’s when the ghost—this pale little girl with braids and crooked teeth—would climb out of the wall directly across from my bed.
“The wall across from me would start splitting about three feet from the floor, and then it would part like a curtain and out she slipped. Even though I could see her I couldn’t move, or cry out, or do anything, because my body was still sleeping. The girl would crawl across the floor over to the bed, and then she would inch her way up over my legs and sit on top of my chest. She would just perch there, cross-legged, staring down at me silently, sometimes smiling and sometimes not, all while I was frozen in one place. This would go on for hours. And then eventually dawn would arrive and I would wake up and be able to move again, and the girl would be gone and my wall was intact. But my chest would hurt and my body would be sore all over.”
“What did she want with you?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Who knows? After five nights of it I went to see a monk for advice. He told me that sleeping with a knife under my pillow would keep it away. I did, and the ghost stopped coming. It’s been almost a week now since I’ve seen her.”
Mine’s not under the pillow, but for all practical purposes it might as well be. Who knows? Maybe that’s why I’ve only had one visit from a little ghost girl of my own, and she never entered my room. If you’re unfamiliar with that tale, see:
Sleep on this Goode Reader, and next time we convene we’ll look at another pluck at the strings of wide eyed imaginings.
