From the time I was seven, I spent my summers at Christie Lake, a small lake located in Lawrence, Michigan. On the weekends, I would go up to the lake with my friend Chris, whose family owned a cottage. Most of our days were spent lazing on the water in the inner tube or zipping around in her father’s boat.
One summer day when I was eleven, my parents and my older brother came up for the day. We were cruising around the lake and my brother noticed a “For Sale” sign planted in front of a cute, green cottage.
“Come on,” my brother said, “Let’s just go inside and take a look. It won’t hurt to see how much it is.”
The next thing I knew, we were unpacking suitcases inside the cute, green cottage. My parents had placed an offer that very day and purchased the place.
While getting to know the new next-door-neighbors, we learned about the previous occupants of the home. The original owners were Mr. and Mrs. Eberhart and their two sons. Mrs. Eberhart had a reputation of being a rather tart lady and Mr. Eberhart often meekly complied with her demands.
One day, the combination proved to be a fatal one. A storm was brewing and it had started to rain. Mrs. Eberhart turned to her husband and insisted that the boat needed to be covered. Mr. Eberhart protested as there was lightning in the distance.
He didn’t win.
He and his son headed out in the storm to cover the boats. As the rain pelted down, they were suddenly both struck by lightning.
Mr. Eberhart lost his life as he fell into the boat.
After a few years, Mrs. Eberhart and her sons moved away and sold the cottages to another family, who in turn, sold it to us.
Hearing the story sent chills through me, but I didn’t give it another thought. My sister and I eagerly unpacked our things in the room we shared. In the bedroom, we discovered an unusual closet with two doors. One door was at eye level and the other door was high up near the ceiling. We had to get a step stool to reach the upper door and found it difficult to open. We stuffed a sleeping bag inside that closet and went off to explore the rest of the cottage.
We spent many wonderful summers at the lake. At night time, I wasn’t too crazy about the room that my sister and I shared. It was dark and paneled in pine, with a single lamp illuminating the darkness. I didn’t like
falling asleep there, especially late at night. I always felt as if someone else was in the room with me.
Every now and then, we would have a guest and have to get out the sleeping bag. This was no easy task, as the upper closet door was often hard to open. A chair was required to reach the latch and it would take some tugging to get the closet door to budge.
One night, while heading to the bathroom, I noticed that the upper closet door was ajar. I shrugged it off, thinking that someone grabbed the sleeping bag after I had gone to sleep and simply left the door open.
The next morning, I woke up and noticed that the closet door was closed. I looked around and observed that no one had used a sleeping bag the night before.
Hmmm, I thought to myself, I must have been dreaming.
During a few more occasions, the same thing happened. I started to wonder if perhaps Mr. Eberhart was actually around.
Oh come on, Karen, I mumbled to myself. Of course, I didn’t believe in ghosts. How silly.
Fast forward, many years later, and my parents hauled away the cute little cottage to the other side of town. They built their brand new retirement home on the same land.
One evening, my father and I were watching TV and he casually turned to me and asked, “Karen, do you believe in ghosts?”
Startled, I looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”
So Dad went on to explain how at night, he would hear strange noises. He would often get up to check, and find nothing. There were many nights he felt that someone was in the house. He could hear the stairs creaking as if someone was walking up.
But no one was there.
So I told him about the closet door and how I would find it wide open at night. Just at that moment, my sister walked into the room.
“What are you guys talking about?”
We filled her in, and to my utter surprise, she said, “Oh yea, I remember seeing the closet open at night too. It was really weird, because in the morning it was closed. I always figured you closed it.”
And I had always figured she had closed it!
Hmmm. We looked at each other and we all burst out laughing. We figured that Mr. Eberhart was living with us all those years.
He must still be mad at his wife for sending him out in the storm.
Fast forward to this summer. Two weeks ago, the radio in my boat kept turning on. We thought the kids were leaving it on but they vehemently denied even touching the radio. Joe replaced the cables on the battery that week and I had taken the boat to a mechanic for some repairs. We thought maybe the wiring was loose or the rocking of the boat had turned on the radio.
Last Friday, I took my Mom and sister for a boat ride in the evening. When we arrived back at the dock, I made sure everything was turned off, including the radio. I climbed on to the pier and I was talking with my Mom, when suddenly, a light caught my eye.
The radio turned on.
I nudged my Mom. “Take a look, Mom! The radio is on! You just saw me turn everything off!”
We took one look at each other, then at the boat, and we burst out laughing.
I guess Mr. Eberhart has a sense of humor turning a radio on for a deaf family.
