My girlfriend Mandy went on a ghost tour with a friend. I didn’t go. I didn’t believe in ghosts. I saw stories about ghosts and haunted houses as made up nonsense.
Mandy didn’t return home the night of the ghost tour. I searched everywhere for her, called her parents, and talked to the tour leader who said she’d been fine after the tour.
Two days later, Mandy returned. She said her name was Angela, and everything about her had changed, as if she’d become an entirely new person. Her voice, her expressions and even her words were all different. Her change was scary and eerie. I hoped it was just a temporary condition that would end with a little time, and I’d have my Mandy back again. I hoped she hadn’t gone insane.
With some research, I learned a woman named Angela died in one of the houses the tour visited. She had hung herself to death after killing her husband and baby with a kitchen knife while they slept. Desperate, thinking Mandy had become possessed, I contacted a priest, Father Michael, who said he’d try to help but couldn’t visit us until a couple of days.
But before Father Michael could come to help, I woke up one night and saw Mandy standing over me with a kitchen knife holding it with two hands raised above her head, her eyes looking empty and evil. She backed off when I yelled at her, but I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night and told Mandy about Father Michael.
The next day while I was at work, Mandy had gone back to the house Angela died in. The caretaker of the house found her hanging on the end of a rope, dead, a ghoulish expression on her pale face.
I’ll never get over Mandy’s suicide. I have no doubt she was possessed by Angela’s evil spirit. I blame myself for not doing more to help her. I pray to God for her daily, hoping Angela’s evil spirit didn’t drag Mandy down to some hellish place in the afterlife.
Bob Boyd