“This one goes to Monica’s room,” Christy instructed her husband. They really enjoyed having company-paid corporate movers, especially when the company paid to pack things up. But the movers did tend to box up everything in the house, even obvious garbage.
This New Hampshire house was more than three times the price, ten times as old, and only half the size of their home in Michigan. The colonial revival style home was more than a century old, with a different configuration than their last house. When the corporate packers back in Michigan wrote “kid’s bathroom” on the box, it didn’t help the unloaders figure out where to drop the box in a home that didn’t have an obvious “kid’s bathroom.” The home boasted less square feet but more bedrooms, allowing each of Derek's three kids to have their own room, with another for the baby on the way. Unpacking also meant opening boxes and reshuffling them to the correct kid’s room.
Monica’s younger siblings were already in bed, as the parents had marched seriatim in putting them down from youngest to oldest. “And Wolfy needs a hug too,” Monica instructed her dad, holding out a worn-down stuffy that once resembled a wolf, stalling as usual. “And will you fill my water cup, Daddy?”
“Of course I will, honey.” Derek returned to find her half asleep. He quietly prayed over her before switching off the lights, pausing to see how dark the room would be. They put up a string of Christmas lights over her windows to provide a little extra night light for her first evening in the new bedroom. Christy worried that the kids would be scared with the creaky, drafty nature of the old home. There was no guarantee of finding the nightlights in the boxes quickly enough either, but Christmas lights were an easy purchase at almost any store this time of year. Assured that the room wasn't too dark, Derek retreated to the monstrous task of unpacking.
At 9:26, Monica came into her parents' room, stopped in her tracks by a minefield of bubble wrap, packing paper, and empty boxes as she sought a hug. “Daddy,” she said with a serious tone, “I think there were bad angels coming to my room.”
“Oh, honey, why don’t you say a St. Michael prayer with Mommy while I go check.” Derek handed her off and walked into Monica’s room. As he stepped in, the curtains briefly swayed with the wind. Derek walked over to close the windows, only to find them shut. The curtains stopped moving, but he still had a chill. The old house, he concluded, must have drafts that defied expectations.
“Christy, will you sit with her in bed and pray with her,” Derek called out as he bounded down the stairs, hunting for the box with the religious items. He quickly found Living Room -- Bookcase. But it took longer to dig through the packing peanuts to pull out the little bottle of Lourdes holy water they inherited from someone and a crucifix. A quick room blessing later, and Monica was back to bed.
The next evening at the same time, Monica returned for a hug.
“Is everything okay, honey?” Christy asked her daughter.
“I think an angel came back. But it might not be a bad angel. Maybe good angels can be scary too?” Her parents did not like this. They settled her and prayed outside her door.
The next day, Derek Googled how to properly bless the house. They prioritized unpacking religious decor and sacramentals. Christy had noted that Monica seemed to be disturbed just before 9:30, so she decided to go sit with her on her bed then.
Derek was unpacking in his bedroom when Christy's scream brought him to his feet. Without thinking, Derek dashed into Monica’s room, his eyes briefly struggling to adjust to the half-dark room as he searched for the problem.
A wispy figure of a middle-aged man stared back at him, translucent and glowing white. His hairline was receding but not quite balding; a close-cropped pale beard framed his face. His mouth agape, he moved towards Derek, eyes flaring in anger, and his eyebrows pulsing in rage.
Derek acted on instinct. It wasn’t until he was in the hallway, with Monica under his right arm and his left hand dragging Christy by the elbow that his movements became conscious. The scream from his little boy, standing in the hallway and seeing the apparition bearing down at them, brought Derek’s focus back to the room. He let go of Christy, plopped Monica down on her feet, and grabbed the top of the door to start pulling it closed.
Derek let out a breath. Little Matthew screamed in his shark pajamas. Derek turned and began hurrying Matthew and the sobbing Monica towards the stairs as Christy emerged from the baby’s room.
“Go, go, go!” Derek called out as he shooed them towards the stairs, arms wide, his voice getting louder but calmer as he spoke.
“Come on,” Christy called to the bigger two kids as she carried the baby down the stairs.
“Grab your keys and go to the car,” Derek called after them as he saw them approach the table at the bottom of the stairs and disappear towards the front door.
Derek turned back to the still-shut door of his daughter’s room, his eyes narrowing and muscles tensing as flight turned to fight. He rotated towards his room, bounding in and looking at the mess of packing materials and partially unloaded boxes. Derek found a St. Benedict cross with its little stand on the floor next to the un-mounted TV. Scooping it up, he raced towards the suitcase laying on its side next to his bed. He flipped its already-unzipped top and found the mini safe. The corporate movers didn’t transport guns, so this little safe rode in the luggage in his car. Four quick digits later, he had it opened. With the crucifix in his left hand and the snub-nose .38 special revolver in his right hand, he went back to the hallway and approached the closed door.
Derek seethed in anger--this demon came to his house and messed with his daughter. He wanted to kick the door in, but calmed himself in the extra second it took to steady himself for the kick. Derek took a deep breath, reached out with his left, cross-holding hand and turned the knob to unlatch it. He gave the door a firm-enough kick to fling it open but not so hard that the knob broke any drywall as it flung around. Derek plunged in, searching for the fiend in the gloom. In the corner, staring at his daughter’s bed, he saw the spirit.
Derek’s anger fizzled as he realized he had no idea what to do. This is a demon, he thought, taking the Lord’s name in vain in his mind in a way he’d not say aloud. “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, Satan be gone!” He yelled, in rapid succession, raising the crucifix high.
The spirit turned towards him, its mouth going from wide open to slightly open and back again. It moved closer. Derek stepped forward, squaring his shoulders.
“In the name of Jesus, be gone!” Derek yelled at the top of his lungs. He tried to invoke the rituals of all the exorcism movies he had not actually seen. But the spirit floated towards him, opening its arms wide as Derek’s voice boomed louder than he thought possible, flinging halves of prayers and invoking Saint Joseph. When it came almost close enough to touch, Derek began to step backwards. He tripped over a box, falling awkwardly and slowly in reverse.
Derek dropped the cross and twisted, bringing his left hand back to help catch himself as he fell. He roared, bringing his right hand up. The pistol pointed at center mass--if it could be called that--and Derek pulled the trigger as he landed on his rear. The gun gave a soft metallic click, quieter than the sound of the now-dropped metal cross bouncing off the baseboard. The spirit grew wider, whiter, brighter, and then disappeared. Derek looked at the gun in his hand. Of course it was unloaded. Having just accepted a job as a lawyer for a gun company, he made sure to follow the interstate transport laws when he moved here. That meant no loaded guns.
Derek stood up slowly and looked around. He could see no sign of the spirit, or whatever it was. The room looked messy and chaotic, just like before. Whatever had happened, Derek needed to get his family out of here. He walked out of the room, flicking the light off as he closed the door--he was still a dad after all. Back in his room, he placed the gun in the safe, zipped his suitcase, and grabbed it up along with his wife’s. Derek heaved them up by the side handles and walked purposefully down the stairs, keeping his eyes on Monica’s bedroom door as long as he could. At the bottom of the stairs, he approvingly noticed that Christy had taken his wallet from the end table. He grabbed his jacket and braced for the cold December air as he stepped out into the night.
The crying children drowned out the sound of the running car engine. Christy stepped out of the driver’s door. “Are you okay?”
“Open the trunk, and let’s go!”
* * *
The Residence Inn was the obvious choice for them; they had stayed there while house-hunting. The kids fell asleep with surprising ease. The parents couldn’t sleep. Though wired at first, Christy faded as the baby fell asleep on her. The days of undersleeping and the exhaustion of early pregnancy overcame the excitement of the night. As the adrenaline faded, Derek switched to problem-solving mode.
He sat in the dark, researching on Christy’s phone--his was still back at the house. He Googled the town, his home, ghosts, and demons. Hours of reading on obscure Catholic websites, some useless detours with ChatGPT, and a random Eastern Orthodox podcast later, Derek began to feel like he had some ideas about what he observed.
The kids woke up early and hungry. After taking them to the hotel breakfast, Derek laid out the simple plan: “You stay with the kids, I’m going to extend our stay a few days, check on the house, and grab some stuff. I’ll bring the kid’s bathing suits, they should still be in their suitcases. I’ll go to the nine o'clock daily Mass at St. Stephen’s and pull the priest aside after. Later, you take them to the pool, and I’ll take a nap.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
* * *
Daily Mass at the suburban rite parish was as expected. The short-haired old ladies performed the readings, sat for the priest’s brief homily and consecration, and distributed communion to each other. The priest shook their hands as they exited, smiling and greeting them by name as he stayed just inside the door to avoid the cold New England air.
“Father,” Derek interrupted when he realized the chit-chat wasn’t going to end any time soon, “do you have a few minutes?”
“Of course,” the sixty-something priest said, squinting as he tried to suss whether he should recognize the man.
“Could you hear my confession?”
“Well, probably,” the priest replied, looking towards the aging parish administrator.
“It’s Advent,” she retorted firmly, squaring her body posture. “You don’t have time to hear confessions.”
“Oh, I’m sure I can spare a few minutes. Step into the reconciliation room with me.”
* * *
“Thank you, Father,” Derek said as they walked back together out from the confessional into the now-empty vestibule. “But I need a few more minutes.”
“Okay?”
“Father, we just moved here. My family and I. I mean, we just moved here.”
“Well, I’m glad you came, and I hope we can be your spiritual home.”
“Of course, Father, but there’s another issue..uhh…a spiritual issue.”
“Okay.”
“Well, we’ve only been here a couple of days.”
“Okay.”
“The first night, my daughter--she says she’s seeing bad angels in her room. We get all concerned.”
“Okay?”
“And, well, we pray, we bless the room, we use holy water, we pull out our religious decor--put the cross up. Everything.”
“Good, and did she feel better?”
“Um, well, yeah, the next night, though--and this is the real thing--my wife goes in there. And she’s screaming. And I come in, and Father, I see. I don’t know what I saw. It looked like a ghost. Like, really a ghost.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I mean, I don’t believe in ghosts. Well, I didn’t. Then I saw one. I actually thought it must be a demon. I got the family out and charged at it with a crucifix--a St. Benedict cross to be specific. I guess that part doesn’t matter.. I prayed at it, yelled at it, invoked St. Joseph.”
“And?”
“Well, eventually it went away. We left and stayed in a hotel. This was just last night. I went home this morning and everything was quiet. Then I came here.”
“Okay.”
“So what do I do?”
“Well, son, ghost stories are very common in New England. Where did you move from?”
“Michigan.”
“Well, I haven't heard ghost stories about Michigan. You still haven’t found Jimmy Hoffa’s body, right?” The priest chuckled at his own joke.
“Huh?”
“Well, what I mean is, people tell these stories here. But if this is disturbing you, I think you should make an appointment with a counselor and a physician. Get yourself checked out. This kind of thing can be a symptom of---.”
“Father, I’m not imagining this. My wife saw it too.”
“Oh, did she?”
“Yes, and my kids. I talked to them separately. They both describe seeing the exact same…face? Thing? I don’t know what to call it. I think it’s a ghost, not a demon. I’ve been reading online, maybe it’s a soul in purgatory---”
“Well, you shouldn’t believe everything you’ve read online.” The priest smiled. “Did it mess with the thermostat?”
“Huh? I don’t think so.”
“Then it’s probably not a demon.” He smiled.
The parish’s business manager had entered the vestibule, scowling at the delay from the important business and crossing her arms when her presence wasn’t formally acknowledged.
The aging priest smiled and walked towards the coat room. “Here,” he said, grabbing last Sunday’s bulletin off the shelf, “Doctor Johnson’s got an ad in the bulletin. I suggest you call him.”
* * *
Derek knew he wasn’t crazy. The next day, he texted his priest back in Michigan, asking if he could talk. When he didn’t get a prompt reply, he texted that it was “kind of a spiritual emergency.” Ten seconds later Father Roger called.
“Hey Derek, I got your text.”
“Father, I have quite a story for you, and I need your advice.” He told him everything--except he left out the part about pulling a gun on a spirit and dry-firing like an idiot. “I have video now,” Derek added.
“Video of the spirit?”
“Not exactly, but last night I went back around the same time, and I saw him for just a few seconds before he left.”
“What happened?”
“Well, I approached it with that same St. Benedict cross. I was a little less scared this time. I prayed the Our Father, the Hail Mary, and the Glory Be, and then it went away.”
“And this is on video?”
“I just texted it to you.”
“Okay. Hold on. I can hear you praying but I don’t see any--” Father Roger stopped talking.
“Yeah, the spirit isn’t on the video.”
“But the curtains moved.”
“Yup.”
“And those Christmas lights twinkled out.”
“Yup, that was right when he went over by them. Replay it, you can kind of make out a human shape as the lights twinkle out as he walks past.”
“Wow.”
“So, Father, I was worried this was a demonic thing, but I’m thinking this might be a legit ghost, like a soul in Purgatory.”
“Well, let’s analyze that. Can you tell me about your personal state…are you in … uh… grace?”
“I hope so. I went to confession after seeing it and saw it again. And it was in a kid’s room, Father, a little kid.”
“Well, I think you’re right to start with the assumption that something supernatural like this is demonic until proven otherwise.”
“Right.”
“And the spirit didn’t recoil when you approached with holy objects or prayers?’
“That’s right, Father.”
“In fact, you said he came towards you when you held a cross, and towards you as you invoked the name of our Savior.”
“Yes, actually.”
“I am not an expert in this. But that doesn’t sound demonic to me. And you made it sound like he was angry, but he might just have been in agony. Those outstretched arms might have been reaching out to you for help, not aggressively. This just doesn’t sound demonic to me.”
“Not to me either, really.”
“How did you feel?”
“I mean, I was scared as hell the first time. But later, not as much.”
“Has this encounter drawn you closer to God or further from him?”
“The next day I went to Mass and Confession.”
“Well, I’m not an expert. But this sounds like a holy soul in Purgatory, not a demon. I’ve read about that online.”
“Yeah, me too. Some say that the souls in purgatory can come seeking prayers. Peter Kreft even says that.”
“So, let’s assume for a second that’s right. What should we do?”
“I guess we need to pray for him?”
* * *
With less fear and a leg sore from the fall, Derek went back to the home to continue unpacking. Christy kept the kids in the hotel. Thinking that it’s the safe kind of ghost is not the same thing as experimenting with your kids present. Derek’s phone buzzed: Disciples of Mercy Remind Message: Please pray for a soul in purgatory that we think is requesting prayers. Derek still received messages from a prayer group at the old parish back in Michigan that would send out requests to pray for the dead and the dying. Father Roger must have added his ghost to the prayer list. Derek thought that was awesome.
He was a little less enthused an hour later when Father Roger texted him directly. Hi Derek, this is Father Roger. I’ve been thinking a lot about that spirit. Would you join me in fast for him until Christmas Eve? I don’t think Mark 9:29 really applies here, but this seems very serious and fasting is a great spiritual message. The hunger can focus us more on praying. Of course Derek had to say yes. He didn’t like the idea of fasting, but if someone a thousand miles away fasted to try to help with his ghost problem, Derek had to go along with it.
That night, Derek went back to the home after dinner with the family. The ghost had visited a little bit after 9 the other two nights, so Derek thought this was not random. He prayed for the soul--and all the souls in purgatory with no one to pray for them. He prayed for courage for himself too. Derek posted up in Monica’s bedroom, moving in a camping chair from the garage boxes. He brought everything he thought he might need. The little Bible he’d received when going through RCIA, the big family Bible that he had unpacked today, his late mother-in-law’s rosary, the St. Benedict cross, and the Lourdes’ water. He absent-mindedly grabbed a bag of goldfish crackers to bring too before remembering he was fasting--three fish in. At least it wasn’t a sin. Having to stop mid-snack actually felt more penitential than not snacking at all.
At 9:20, the lights flickered, the curtains moved, and the hair on Derek’s arm stood up. He stood up too. The ghost stood there on the other side of the room. Derek stared at his face. He could see the pain. His mouth opened. Derek didn’t know what to do, whatever plan he’d had--if any--was gone now. The spirit moved a little closer to him, mouthing at him but Derek couldn’t understand it.
“Hello there,” Derek addressed the ghost. It didn’t respond, but kept drifting and mouthing. Derek resisted the urge to flee. He didn’t know what to do. But praying a rosary seemed like a good idea. Scooping the rosary out of the cupholder on the campaign chair, Derek began praying. The ghost moved even closer to him. Derek closed his eyes to keep his calm and kept praying, his fingers moving along the beads as he whispered the words. When he finished, he opened his eyes to find the ghost absent.
Derek decided to leave his gear in the room. He called Christy on his way back to the hotel, relaying the exact timing of the ghost’s visit and confirming that she too prayed. Father Roger’s text message played over the car’s bluetooth after the call. Did the ghost come tonight? The Exodus 90 Men’s group is also praying for him and took up a fasting routine too. I talked to Father Will at St. Mark’s, and they prayed for him at their young adult adoration night. One of the college students had a great idea and started Googling indulgences. They’re all going to do a half-hour group Bible reading session there as an indulgence tomorrow. Isn’t that cool? It was cool. All of these strangers praying for his ghost--the most distant stranger imaginable.
* * *
Derek waited in the room, with a more refined plan this time when Christy called.
“Hey,” he answered, “he should be here in a like a minute”
“I think I know who he is.”
“What? Really?”
“Yes, I got the kids to bed early, and then I realized that obituaries were great for genealogy, right? Remember when I was doing the research on my own biological family?”
“Yes, of course.”
“So, I found the old real estate records from the government. They charged some fees, but not too bad.”
“Okay.” Derek would check the credit card account online later to see just how much those fees were.
“And then I found obituaries that match the families that lived there. And check this out: Thomas Tracy died on December 24, 1921. The obituary is real short. It doesn’t show a wife or kids, and it says he died ‘at the age of 42, after a life of suffering from a disorder of the mind.’”
“Wow, so that might be him?”
“There’s more. When I found the obituary of his sister, mother, father, and nephew--I could probably find others, but it doesn’t seem necessary. Well, in their obituaries, it says a funeral Mass will be held at yadda yadda, and that they will be buried at the Catholic cemetery. His obituary doesn’t say they had a Mass. And it says he was buried at the town cemetery. I don’t think he got a burial Mass. I think they just assumed he was going to Hell because he was a suicide. But he’s not.”
“Wow.” Derek softly smiled in amazement and pride. This seemed right. This spirit had a name, and his wife found it. “I’ve got to go,” Derek said, abruptly turning off the phone when the ghost appeared. “Thomas?” he asked, hoping the ghost would say something. “Are you Thomas Tracy?”
The ghost didn’t say anything. But his mouth wasn’t opening and closing either. He didn’t look nearly as distressed. For the first time, Derek didn’t feel afraid. He made the sign of the cross, and the ghost drifted in slowly.
“May the Lord forgive you of your sins and welcome you into heaven. St. Thomas, pray for him. St. Thomas More, pray for him. St. Thomas…uhh..Becket. St. Thomas Becket, pray for him. Our Father. . .”
* * *
“Did he come back,” Father Roger asked immediately upon answering the phone.
“He did,” Derek replied, “But I think we know his name. Christy figured it out from real estate records and obituaries. Thomas Tracy.”
“Wow, that’s great to know. Are you sure--”
“There’s more, Father. We think he was a suicide--I mean, he committed suicide. He came from a Catholic family but it looks like he didn’t get a funeral Mass and wasn’t buried in the Catholic cemetery. He might have had nobody to pray for him, Father.”
“You really figured this out?”
“Yeah, I think we did, Father. It also just feels--accurate.”
“It kind of makes sense. Suicide is a sin. And there were obviously Catholics in the past who died in a state of mortal sin. But a sin requires not just a grave matter but full understanding and free consent. Someone who dies by suicide might be too mentally disturbed to be committing a mortal sin. At least my approach is pity, not condemnation. I pray for the deceased. I’ve offered a funeral Mass like that before. I mean, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t more worried about the salvation of a person like that, but . . . hey, we have a name.”
“Thomas Tracy.”
“Thomas Tracy.”
“Oh, Father, he died on Christmas Eve.”
“Oh, wow. A lot of people get depressed around holidays. Well, we’ll say tomorrow’s Christmas Eve Mass for him.”
“Thank you, Father.’
“I’m going to call Father Will at St. Mark’s right now; I’ll bet he’ll say their Christmas Eve mass for Thomas Tracy too."
Eight minutes after their call ended, the text went out to the parish prayer chain in Michigan asking for prayers for the soul of Thomas Tracy.
* * *
Christy put the little two down for a nap and tasked Monica with quiet time so they could stay up a little late tonight. They rested at the house, having checked out of the hotel that morning. After Mass, they went home, keeping on their Christmas finery. Now that they knew Thomas’s name--and since his face looked more neutral and less scary--Derek felt comfortable bringing the kids back. Christy wanted to get in on all the praying, even though pregnancy gave a good excuse not to fast. She put the baby in his crib before bringing the older two. The kids wanted to pray too, and the parents were not about to deny a prayer request. They waited in the room, all clutching rosaries.
At the appointed time, Thomas Tracy appeared again. Little Monica got down on her knees and began praying; her parents followed suit. When Monica ran out of prayer ideas, Derek prayed for the intercession of St. Thomas, St. Thomas More, St. Thomas Becket, St. Thomas Aquinas, St. Thomas of Constantinople--he had Googled more St. Thomas’s. They kept praying. The Ghost of Thomas Tracy watched them. When his calm face started to show the making of a smile, they prayed all the harder. As he broke into a full smile, they fell silent.
Derek felt wind in the room again, but this time the curtains didn’t move. Thomas’s smile broke into full ecstasy. Derek started to panic. He could not breathe. He fell sidewise, catching himself with one arm as he became overwhelmed with guilt. It felt like the sins of his life were actually burning him. Though he had closed his eyes at some point, his eyes hurt from bright light. The light stopped as suddenly as it came. Derek gasped for air and opened his eyes. Thomas was gone. Christy kneeled next to him, crying. Derek put his hand on her, asking if she was okay. She nodded. Monica was standing now, she turned around smiling, her little brother following suit.
“Daddy,” she said with a smiling voice normally reserved for her wolf stuffy, “I think he went to heaven.” Derek nodded in silent agreement and mouthed thank you, also realizing he needed to text some people back in Michigan but unsure of what to say. Monica, still smiling, turned and looked upwards towards her Christmas lights. “St. Thomas, please pray for us.”
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