Release Me - Stories

†• Stories •†

Okay then: here’s one I can prove is true, I have witnesses. My house is home to the ghost of the former occupant. His name is Jim, Jim Leonard. He lived here with his wife Jenny for most of their golden years. He also died here, in the living room in a lazyboy recliner. A heart attack grabbed him by the balls and drug him off to see God.

The house itself is a raised single story with a full basement and a hip roof. Next to our house is a Knights of Columbus building. Always a party of some sort happening (and Thursday night is poker night). Seems Jim used his honorary K.O.C. badge to crash about all the gatherings.

Rocky, my former neighbor (now deceased) told me of nights he’d look out the window or front door and see Jim practically crawling home.

From what Rocky said, Jim was a pro-drinker. He loved his alcohol. When my wife Jacquie and I moved in, we found plenty of empty whiskey and wine bottles under the front porch. Rocky was really fond of telling tales of Jim’s enormous drinking muscle.

We bought the house from Jenny’s daughter in the spring of 1998, about the time Jenny was losing her gourd. She had Alzheimer’s and would forget to eat. Her daughter put her in a home and became executive of everything; power of attorney and all that shit. I’ve never met Jenny but I’m told she was a real sweetheart.

The first few weeks were spent renovating the place. (They may have been nice people but their taste in decor was early 1940s; little one-inch square ceramic tile in damn near every room. My wife totally destroyed my good wood chisel set removing those stubborn little fuckers.) We painted this and replaced that and turned the Leonard residence into the McGee’s Home.

Things were quiet for the first month or so, then we started hearing noises. Subtle things at first, a bump or a scratch. Stuff like that. But as time progressed the noises became louder and more often.

I took a few weeks off work to remodel the basement and was amazed at the ongoings during the day. I’d be working on studding up a wall and clearly hear the front door open and close, then footfalls as someone walked to the back bedroom. I figured it was Jacq coming home for lunch. So I’d drop what i was doing and go say hi.

Nobody was there.

I was off for three weeks and some days I didn’t hear a thing. Some days though I’d hear several things. After the first week I grew used to it. Well, I built walls and nailed paneling and laid carpet until I was satisfied with the downstairs. (I took the biggest room for myself; it’s where I’m sitting now as a matter of fact.)

Jim let his presence be known anytime of the day or night. We could be watching TV or eating dinner or screwing, it didn’t make any difference to Jim. He made his noises as he damn well pleased.

Neither Jacq nor I saw any harm in it; he wasn’t a violent ghost. Not yet anyway.

This was when I was still playing in a band. D.B.Rocker was the name. We were what you might call a heavy dance band (can you believe girls actually dance to war pigs?) but we didn’t play any of that mony mony shit. Also, I drank heavily in those days. Wouldn’t you if you were a rock star? Now don’t get me wrong, Jim wasn’t a figment of some drunken stupor. Other people, sober people knew about Jim. My wife for one.

So, after a gig one Friday night, we tore the equipment down. There ain’t nothing like the thirst a man can work up tearing down PA columns.

I’d been drinking since nine o’clock (D.B. took the stage at ten) and at three in the AM I was still raring to go.

So was Jeremy. Jeremy ran lights for us. He would regularly do a great job until the end of the last set, then he got sloshed and that must have caused colorblindness cause no one in their right mind would shine a dark-green spot on my black SG. Christ, the fucking guitar disappeared in that lighting.

This particular night, Jeremy was still thirsty, as was I. We bought enough beer to last the night.

About six in the morning we called it quits and crashed. Me in my bed and him in the guest room downstairs.

Around noon i awoke. Jacq was cooking omelets and man did they smell great. I walked (stumbled) into the kitchen. She told me to call for Jeremy so being the perfect husband that I am, I did.

Okay he yelled sort of raspy. Be right up he added.

I sat in my regular chair and began reading the Saturday paper. (Jacq was kind enough to walk to the end of the driveway and fetch it) when Jeremy let out a holler.

Then he yelled, “Are you down here Perry?”

I returned his yell by yelling no, no I wasn’t

Moments later he crested the top step, his face white. This in its self was not unusual after all the booze we drank the night before; probably my face wasn’t a normal shade of flesh-tone either.

“How long you had that ghost?” he ask sarcastically.

“Since we moved in,” Jacq said. “He came with the house.”

Jacq and I didn’t think anything unusual about his question.

“You’ve been up here all the time?” Jeremy asked. Now his face took on a concerned look.

“Yea” we both said. Then i added, “Why?

“Someone just threw a piece of 2x4 at me. It flew sideways past my head.”

“Must be Jim,” Jacq explained. “He must not like you, usually he don’t throw things. Wanna’ omelet?”

“Jim who?”

So we took turns telling Jeremy the story of Jim Leonard.

Needless to saw, Jeremy hasn’t spent the night in my house since.

Over time, Jim made his noises less often. Two years ago, we bought a Siamese seal-point kitten and whether it was the cat or some other reason, Jim left completely.

Until recently that is. My wife’s office is in what was his bedroom. Two months ago she bought a new computer (I got the old one, It’s what I’m writing on now.) seems the damn thing won’t stay shut down. Every morning either her or I go in to check the weather or the Crack the Sky bulletin board or maybe a porn site, and damn if the machine ain’t up and running.

Also the touch-lamp is shining brightly.