The Happening

"Damn. Mom would be so disappointed." Was the last thing that crossed my mind as my life finished flashing before my eyes.

My mother never approved of my fascination with the paranormal. She wanted a 'normal' daughter, one that loved sports or was ambitious enough to do something like debate or student government. Instead, she got me. From the first moments of childhood, I was odd. I was never scared of the dark. It wasn't that I didn't believe in monsters or anything. I just considered the 'monsters' in my closet, my friends. In my childlike opinion, they weren't scary. They were my protectors. To my mother, my "imaginary friend" was a source of embarrassment.

Other than my perceived weirdness, I met all milestones at or before expectations. I just... didn't meet them in the way my mother thought was appropriate. I refused to read the cute kid's books. I read voraciously even as a kid though, any book I could get my hand on with elements of magic or ghosts were my favorites. By middle school, I became interested in mysteries. Not Nancy Drew style books, but actual adult mysteries with graphic depictions of bodies and murder. She didn't tell anyone else, but she took me to a therapist. I think she may have thought I had an anti-social personality disorder or something, what would've been called sociopath at the time. The therapist said I didn't. That the criteria of low empathy didn't fit me. Especially after I spent an entire session inconsolable after my hamster died the day before. He actually seemed more worried about my mother's reaction. She was irritated over my behavior. He tried to express that it was 'good' that I had an emotional response and that her answer tinged with irritation rather than comfort worried him.

The most disappointing thing I ever did, though, was after graduation. With a full degree in journalism, which was already sub-par because I had "the aptitude" for science or math. Something that was "marketable." My degree wasn't the Great Betrayal, though. Rather than getting a job at a respectable location, which my mother could boast about, I applied and was hired at a supernatural-themed e-magazine. We're not a tabloid or anything. It's mainly spooky stories and advice for paranormal stuff like ghost hunting or how to smoke cleanse. Mom couldn't boast about me doing that to her charity drive friends though. Their children were going into respectable positions as med students, politicians and even into the peace core. Then I came out as a practicing witch and donned a large stainless steel pentagram with a braided chain. Mom and I went no contact.

Life continued, I started writing articles for the webpage. Began to go to group rituals and pursuing my faith. Life got better. I got better at writing and living.

Then "it" happened. Someone called the magazine about a local haunted place. It was a retired mental hospital. Of course, an article on an actual haunted site would be excellent content, so I started researching and discovered some history. A doctor did some experimentation on the patients living there. They were... gruesome, like drug trials with horrible side effects, lobotomy studies, and even one twin study. It was all very Mengele reminiscent.

That's how I ended up in the decrepit, old asylum. My boss called this "paranormal research." I called it as I saw it. I was ghost bait. My coworkers laughed at me often over my fear of spirits. After all, wasn't I Wiccan and working at a paranormal magazine? Shouldn't I be enamored with all parts of the supernatural and be excited about this type of assignment? Sure! I love research! I love learning about anything paranormal, ghostly, or just weird. That doesn't mean I wanted to poke it.

I've never used an ouija board. I've never sought out my ancestors. Never tried banishing anything from a space that wasn't mine. Unlike some, I never invited a benign spirit into my space. I worked with deities, of course, Freya mainly, but I refused to mess with anything like a spirit. They're simply too much. Too unpredictable. It's like loving nature but never wanting to encounter a mountain lion on a walk in the woods. Some people have tried to tell me that the 'monsters' in my closet were real. Nope, just an overactive imagination and somewhat normal childhood development, lots of kids had imaginary friends. Thats what I've convinced myself anyway.

So. Never having experienced anything with a spirit, I needed to research before coming to the forsaken place. I brought black tourmaline, amethyst, and white quartz from a shop. I had basil, mint, and rosemary in my pocket. I drew no less than three protection sigils on myself and put Freya's rune fehu on my hand. Basically, I was as prepared for a spirit encounter as much as I ever could be. A fat lot of good it did me.

I entered the asylum fighting trepidation. Spirits could sense fear. More than that, it gave them power. I don't know what color the walls and floor used to be, but in the afternoon light, the walls were grey while the floor was covered in dirt, sticks, and leaves, turning it almost black. Some small animal had made a nest in the left corner of the entrance. It looked small. Possibly rat-sized. I shivered. Gods, I hoped not. I didn't see anything. Didn't hear anything. So far, so good. I moved to the staircase. The entrance looked like it would've been fancy at its peak. You know, keep the front looking nice, torture the residents in the back. I began to move up the steps. As my foot was about to land on the fifth step, everything went wrong.

A jarring screech sounded. My hand, I tried to reach for the banister, but it stretched away from my grasp as I fell backward.

Crack!

My head hit the floor. Before my vision entirely blurred and I blacked out, I saw the source of the sound. A large barn owl perched in a window above me, its head tilted and looking decidedly confused with its wide eyes.

Death by barn owl. Not possessed. Not suffering from anything cool. Just me, being an idiot and a klutz. My funeral was nice.

Just kidding.

I woke up in a bed two days ago—a hospital bed. My mom was next to me, tears in her eyes. It's so jarring to see your parent cry, especially one that seems so powerful and poised. We talked. Really talked for the first time in years, maybe ever. Before she left, I asked her how I got there, and she seemed confused. Not wanting to mess up the moment I let the matter drop.

Instead, I talked to a couple nurses, they recommended calling the non-emergency line. So I did. I managed to get in touch with the responding officer. He said that they received a call from my phone. While I was passed out. No one talked on the phone, but they traced the call and found me. It would be impossible unless someone... or something called. The hospital released me, telling me I had a concussion and that I needed to follow up with my primary. I made the appointment, but I have to do something else first.

So now, here I am. In front of the asylum. Flowers in my hand. I walk up the steps for the second time. Surveying my surroundings, looking out for any erstwhile barn owls in particular. It seems a lot less scary in the morning. Probably shouldn't have come at dusk. The space appears empty, but it doesn't feel like it.

There's a soft breeze scented with lilacs. I'm holding roses and babies breath so the scent isn't from me.

"Thank you." It comes out whispered. I could swear there's a giggle off to my left. I smile and leave my gift.

I'll be back. After all, I've made a friend.