Op-Ed Contributor
The Ghosts of Halloweens Past By JENNIFER FINNEY BOYLAN
Published: October 31, 2007 - NY Times
THE house in which I grew up was haunted by a cloud of cold mist, a mysterious woman in white, and an entity we called “the conductor,” since he walked around wearing a mourning coat and carrying a baton in one hand.
For the most part, these spirits manifested themselves in what I suppose is the usual manner: as mysterious footsteps in the attic, as doors that opened and closed by themselves, and as clouds of sentient fog.
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Shelly raised a pair of copper divining rods, which immediately began to spin around wildly, like the blades of a helicopter. “Is there anybody there?” she asked, but I could already sense my father’s shy, gentle presence.
“It’s my father,” I told Shelly.
“Talk to him,” she said. “Talk to him just like you used to.”
This was more difficult than it sounded, since I’m transgendered, and had morphed, since my father’s death, from the entity known as James to the current one, known as Jennifer.
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