A Ghostly Encounter-Part One

“Please pull your chairs forward into the upright position. Make sure that your trays are firmly secured to the chair in front of you. We are preparing for landing.” The pleasantly fake voice of a flight attendant rang over the speakers. Her voice really wasn’t pleasant, it was rather annoying actually. Perhaps I only believed that it was pleasant because I associated her voice with ACTUAL LAND, not the ground on the discolored floor of the airplane.

I could feel the steady decline of the aircraft throughout my whole body. My heart racing out of sheer excitement, my ears aching from all of the mounting pressure, and my stomach — doing the best that it could to keep down the disgusting meal that I had just scarfed down; there had been no other food available throughout the long flight. The plane continued to decline until I was all but thrown out of my seat by the earthquake that the pilot called a landing.

After I had recovered from the sudden jolt, the plane began to taxi into Gate 41 of the San Francisco International Airport. I could not wait to be on the ground again, every second felt like an hour. Sitting impatiently, I silently picked at the loose thread that was hanging from my oversized UCSC sweatshirt, stared out of the dingy oblong window, and waited for the “fasten your seatbelt” sign to be switched off. Finally, the plane stopped. We were released - I felt like a slave that had just been freed by Abraham Lincoln. Overcome by the sense of delight that my love of land always brought me, I could not help but jump out of my seat when the flight attendant declared that all passengers could take of their seatbelts. I did not care that I was located all the way at the back of the plane, and that it would be at least 20 minutes until it was my turn to escape from this torture chamber that the Federal-American-Transportation-Regulators called a “sophisticated mode of transportation.” Ignoring the awkward glances that elderly women dressed in orthopedic shoes and cardigans that smelled strongly of mothballs gave me, I impatiently counted the minutes that would lead me to freedom. At last, most of the passengers had vacated the airplane, and my family and I were free to go. We quickly squeezed ourselves through the ridiculously narrow isles, and headed towards Baggage Claim. Unfortunately, our suitcases looked exactly like the suitcases of every body else in the world that just happened to decide to fly into San Francisco at 9:30 in the evening. My father stood in frustration, scouring the carousel for three black, standard-sized, Samsonite suitcases.

At the same time, my mother had gone to customer reports. She returned to us with the knowledge that our bags had been lost, and that they would be sent to our hotel by morning. Slightly depressed, my family and I began to walk the two-block hike up to our hotel, The Beresford Arms. The trip that we had planned to take was not totally destroyed by the loss of our belongings; there still was at least an ounce of hope in all of us. For me, the hope was created by the comfort of sleeping in a soft bed with a feathery pillow beneath my head. Our brisk stroll came to an end when a lighted sign reading “The Beresford Arms” became visible. My whole family felt like they had died and went to heaven. I mean, who could resist the temptations of sleeping in a warm, cozy bed? We all believed that a great night of sleep was only minutes away. However, we were not informed of the shock that was to come.

As we walked trough the high, wooden arches that served as an entrance, my father noticed a plaque on the wall. The plaque read: The Beresford Arms, built in 1910.

“Uhoh. This place is old, I hope there are no ghosts.” My father made a sarcastic remark; he was not the superstitious type.

“Paul, don’t scare your son. We all need to sleep tonight.” My mother replied, in fear that my brother (who was 10 years old) would keep us awake all night. We were already exhausted, the last thing we needed was 12 more hours of sleep deprivation to add on to the last 8. My mother scurried up to the front desk, and checked in. This did not take long, seeing as nobody in their right mind would congregate in the hotel lobby at half past ten. The concierge handed over the key to our room, and gave us directions on how to locate it. An elevator was about three feet to my right, so we all stepped right in (I mean this quite literally). The rickety elevator screeched, as we traveled the four floors to our room. After traveling down a long, poorly illuminated hallway, the room was finally in sight. My brother snatched the key out of my mother’s hand, and pushed open the door to reveal a large suite. There were two separate rooms, one equipped with a fold-out bed and television, and the other with two Queen-sized beds. We sat down, to figure out the sleeping arrangements for the night. My brother, however, was quick to make up his mind. He, like all 10 year old boys, wanted the room with the television. My parents agreed to his request, and took me into the next room along with them. It was not long before we were all settled inside of our beds. The heater was turned on, because of the frost that settled outside. I was extremely worn out, however, I was too excited to sleep. I wanted to get up and explore the city; I wanted to let all of San Francisco know that I was there. Apparently, I was not alone. My parents were having a soft conversation on their side of the room discussing the same topic. After a few minutes, I decided that I should go to sleep immediately, so that I could all enjoy San Francisco the next day. Right as I was falling asleep, I was disturbed by my father’s shrill voice.

“Oh my god! Cathy, I just saw a ghost!” He said abruptly.

“Shut up Paul, that isn’t amusing anymore.” My mother whispered, trying not to wake my brother or me (it was too late though, seeing as I was ALREADY awake).

“No. Cathy, I am serious.” My father said even louder, obviously missing the hint that my mother wanted him to whisper.

“Paul, be quiet. Do not scare the kids.” She said, noticeably getting annoyed. That was the last of the conversation. I was left alone to contemplate what had just occurred. Too terrified to even move, I lay in my bed for about an hour. Eventually, drowsiness set in, and it was only a matter of minutes before I fell asleep. Morning was only a few hours away.

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of my mother and father having a discussion about what had taken place that night. Curious about my father’s hysteria, I quickly joined the conversation. My father had described every detail of this so-called “ghost.” He explained its figure, attire, and where it walked. It was a man, dressed in a windbreaker and beanie. He was slightly hunched over, and seemed to trudge across the carpet. The ghost had apparently strolled right past my bed, and into the room where my brother was sleeping. Slightly shaken by the conversation, I walked into my brother’s room to wake him. After repeatedly shaking his arm and slapping his head, I finally succeeded. We then proceeded to wait by the door for our luggage. In approximately five minutes, the doorbell rang and our bags had arrived. My whole family quickly got dressed into our warmest clothes. Then, we headed down to the lobby to arrange our plans for the day.

When we reached the lobby, my father and I approached the concierge.

“ Have you noticed anything strange about this hotel?” My father inquired.

“What do you mean Sir?” The concierge looked puzzled.

“Oh, I don’t know… Any ghosts lately?”

“I normally work the night shift, so they really don’t tell me much. But, I have heard quite a few stories about ghosts here at The Beresford.” The concierge said timidly. My jaw dropped, I was absolutely shocked. Shaking my head in disbelief, I ran over to tell my mother the news. She had the same reaction as I did. We both thought that my father was delusional because of the lack of sleep that he had suffered. However, we were proven wrong. To my fathers delight, the concierge at the front desk had admitted to the haunting of the hotel.

My father is extremely proud of his “ghost encounter.” However, nobody believes his stories. Every time that my father tells the anecdote, people get the impression that he is some perturbed, paranormal, psychotic freak. I, however, like to believe in what took place on that frigid night in San Francisco. After all, everybody needs a little amusement.