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fenellaI've decided that the problem with writing Ozorne isn't that he's Ozorne, it's that he wants to be a ghost. As in, refusing to participate in any way, shape or form that isn't incorporeal. It's not that I have anything against ghosts; I love ghosts. Ghost stories are one of my favourite things ever. Especially if a mysterious East Coast ship (rum runners!) is involved. Embarrassingly, I am one of those people that loves to go on haunted walks of the cities that I visit.
See, I attended camp for a number of summers in my teens (largely music related, though none of them properly qualify me to used the phrase 'This one time, at band camp...') and given the number of times I had great roommates, the last summer before university was probably what they call inevitable. Eight girls between thirteen and sixteen, four bunkbeds, three bagpipers (one from New Jersey, one with the emotional maturity of a three year old), two fiddlers, one highland dancer, one harpist, one fire spinner. A profound lack of adult supervision, an obscene amount of unscheduled time (say, uh, nineteen of the twenty-four hours in a day).
The point was, we had an uninvited ninth roommate. A ghost that would scream in the middle of the night. (Coincidentally, it made its first appearance following our traditional graveyard walk. Spooky.) Eight bored girls, two Wiccans, twenty pounds of salt and some serious chanting later (I kid you not) we found ourselves the proud guardians of a ouija board.
The screaming was uncanny; three nights in a row, after everyone had drifted of to sleep in the early hours of the morning, a high, wailing noise came from the empty space between our beds. This was often followed by sobbing. By the time that all of us were awake enough to stumble out of bed and towards the light switch, the screaming had stopped. According to Ouija, Kat the Wiccan from New Jersey told us with great relish, the spirit was the ghost of a young girl.
Kat the Crazy NJ girl: No matter, with my l33t ghost buster skills, I will raise protection shields. She will interrupt our sleep no more.
Wide-eyed Wiccan: Oooh! How can I help?
Kat the CNJG: With the power of your mind.
Highland Dancer: Is... is it safe?
Kat the CNJG: *Pouring Salt* Yes. Just make sure no one enters leaves the room until they've been lowered in the morning.
Seven Girls: *huddled in sleeping bags* ...Why? What will happen?
Lights: *flicker*
Door: *bursts open*
Eight Girls: *scream*
House Mother: What in the name A. WR. MacKenzie are you girls up to?
Eight Girls: *shifty eyes*
House Mother: Are you hiding a boy in here?
Eight Girls: *silence of guilty solidarity*
Highland Dancer: Lindaaaaaa, I don't want you to die!
House Mother: Why would I... wait, what?
Kat the CNJG: *discreet cough*
For the remainder of the two weeks, we totally and utterly convinced that House Mother would meet an untimely end. Ouija assured us that there would be retribution. Who were we to doubt a piece of paper with "Yes", "No" and letters 'A' through 'Z' scrawled in magic marker?
Well, suffice to say House Mother is alive and well. And to this day, despite not knowing whom, or what was causing the screaming, I don't believe in ghosts. So for the sake of Ozorne, make me believe. I want to hear your ghost stories! I am sure they are far less lame than mine! Share, share, share. I don't want to sleep for a week!
See, I attended camp for a number of summers in my teens (largely music related, though none of them properly qualify me to used the phrase 'This one time, at band camp...') and given the number of times I had great roommates, the last summer before university was probably what they call inevitable. Eight girls between thirteen and sixteen, four bunkbeds, three bagpipers (one from New Jersey, one with the emotional maturity of a three year old), two fiddlers, one highland dancer, one harpist, one fire spinner. A profound lack of adult supervision, an obscene amount of unscheduled time (say, uh, nineteen of the twenty-four hours in a day).
The point was, we had an uninvited ninth roommate. A ghost that would scream in the middle of the night. (Coincidentally, it made its first appearance following our traditional graveyard walk. Spooky.) Eight bored girls, two Wiccans, twenty pounds of salt and some serious chanting later (I kid you not) we found ourselves the proud guardians of a ouija board.
The screaming was uncanny; three nights in a row, after everyone had drifted of to sleep in the early hours of the morning, a high, wailing noise came from the empty space between our beds. This was often followed by sobbing. By the time that all of us were awake enough to stumble out of bed and towards the light switch, the screaming had stopped. According to Ouija, Kat the Wiccan from New Jersey told us with great relish, the spirit was the ghost of a young girl.
Kat the Crazy NJ girl: No matter, with my l33t ghost buster skills, I will raise protection shields. She will interrupt our sleep no more.
Wide-eyed Wiccan: Oooh! How can I help?
Kat the CNJG: With the power of your mind.
Highland Dancer: Is... is it safe?
Kat the CNJG: *Pouring Salt* Yes. Just make sure no one enters leaves the room until they've been lowered in the morning.
Seven Girls: *huddled in sleeping bags* ...Why? What will happen?
Lights: *flicker*
Door: *bursts open*
Eight Girls: *scream*
House Mother: What in the name A. WR. MacKenzie are you girls up to?
Eight Girls: *shifty eyes*
House Mother: Are you hiding a boy in here?
Eight Girls: *silence of guilty solidarity*
Highland Dancer: Lindaaaaaa, I don't want you to die!
House Mother: Why would I... wait, what?
Kat the CNJG: *discreet cough*
For the remainder of the two weeks, we totally and utterly convinced that House Mother would meet an untimely end. Ouija assured us that there would be retribution. Who were we to doubt a piece of paper with "Yes", "No" and letters 'A' through 'Z' scrawled in magic marker?
Well, suffice to say House Mother is alive and well. And to this day, despite not knowing whom, or what was causing the screaming, I don't believe in ghosts. So for the sake of Ozorne, make me believe. I want to hear your ghost stories! I am sure they are far less lame than mine! Share, share, share. I don't want to sleep for a week!
