No matter where you fall on the ‘believing in ghosts’ spectrum, I have a story for you.
The year was 2011. At twenty-two, I had just convinced the managers of my favorite bar to hire me as their new hostess, despite my having zero experience working in the restaurant industry. My entire resume was made up of nothing but impressive acting credits and two summers of part-time retail. But the managers thought I was cute. And I thought I’d move up to bartender in no time, imagining I’d audition by day, and fix flirty cocktails by night. It was an absurd plan for me; even in my youngest coolest years, I have never been a night owl. My idea of a good time has always been overpriced jammies and snuggling cats by nine o’clock. But for two whole months, with the help of 5-Hour Energy, I forced myself to try on a new candlelit life.
My new bosses told me to dress as if I was “on a date.” So I carefully chose outfits that were chic, sexy and conducive to standing out in the cold, hugging a clipboard as I broke it to party-goers that they couldn’t yet come in. I was paired with a beefy man named Antonio, our security guard. We each wore identical ear pieces and senses of humor, but were alike in no other ways. We’d gossip in between moments of taking our respective jobs very seriously. He was an excellent listener. When I came to work one night with puffy red eyes he yelped, “Oh no! Tell me it’s not Ashley?” And I nodded my head yes before bursting into tears, because Ashley was my senior cat, and I’d just put her down the day before; Antonio could tell just by looking at me, after only knowing me a month. Another night, a drunk customer threw a full glass of whiskey at me for telling him he couldn’t enter the parking area with open alcohol. Antonio had that d-bag by the scruff of the neck before I even realized I’d been hit. Despite the chaos of that late night job, I always felt sincerely protected.
The bar, in Santa Monica, was appropriately named The Basement Tavern, located under a two story mansion turned venue called The Victorian, built in 1891. It was technically all one establishment, but there were bars located on all three floors. The top floor, known as The Attic, was often blocked off, reserved for fancier events, and where we’d count receipts at a cold counter ’til 4am.
The most popular item on the menu was our signature drink, Delia’s Elixir, named after a woman who had apparently lived in the house when it was first built. I remember getting a tour on my first day of work, appreciating the sound of my high heeled boots on those original wood floors. I remember how every single employee spoke of Delia matter of factly saying things like, “You might feel Delia.” “Don’t worry about Delia.” “If she freaks you out, just say you’re okay with her out loud and she’ll leave you alone.”
I took it as a fun way to bond with my new coworkers, playfully teasing, “Okayyy, and what’s Delia’s story?”
I’ll never forget the dryness of my boss’ response,
“No, seriously. We got a ghost here.”
The rumor was this; Delia lived happily with her husband and two boys until one day, her piece of shit husband up and left her for someone else. And then Delia died, of sheer heartbreak, and chose to haunt the house instead of crossing over to the other side. She was just that pissed at her husband I guess. And I loved the way the almost all-bro team at the Basement Tavern honored her fury. Everyone spoke of Delia with the utmost respect. And everyone had their own personal story of encountering her in some way:
“I feel her most in the attic. She likes to turn the A/C on up there no matter how many times I turn it off.”
“I remember one time we heard the piano, but nobody was up there. I swear to God. I went up the stairs and nobody coulda walked past me. There was nobody there and the piano was covered.”
Their stories got to me. I avoided being in the attic alone. But sometimes there was work to do and nowhere else to do it. I did always feel an indescribable chill up there. But wondered if that chill was simply induced by my fear of having a ghost experience. It was either that or Delia's literal presence. I didn’t know the difference.
One Friday night in October, after we’d successfully kicked out the very last patron, and most the staff had gone home, I counted receipts with my boss, Val, as the building’s housekeeper, Mara, tidied up and put away chairs. The crowds and the music were gone but the ringing in my ears lingered, now soothed by the gentle echoes of just us three in that big old house. Once my work was complete, I grabbed my knock-off Balenciaga motorcycle bag to clock out. Val turned to me, “You want extra hours? Tomorrow morning? We need more hands for a wedding here.” I excitedly accepted, preferring to work hours in the friendly light of day. I said bye to Mara and Val, leaving them to finish the night alone.
That next morning, I came in and saw Val seated, frozen. I couldn’t understand why he’d be so still, why he wasn’t frantically preparing for the wedding. I crossed over to him and registered the unmistakeable look on his face. No other way to put it; he looked like he’d just seen a ghost.
I pried. And he took a moment to de-scramble his brain. He goes, “Mara’s upset. She’s in the kitchen. Because, after you left last night…” He went quiet like his voice was stolen. I remember it taking forever for him to spit it out.
“After you left last night, Mara and I prepped the attic. We were up there. You were gone. Everyone else was gone. Mara’s sweeping and the A/C kicks on. I turned it off, and it came back on. Mara and I laughed, saying like, must be Delia. And after 30 minutes I left. I left Mara by herself.”
I felt my heart rate pick up, and he continued, “then apparently, Mara’s vacuuming and she feels the air come on again, but this time she’s scared. Because this time she’s alone, and the cold is too much. And now she’s certain someone is behind her. And she’s so scared that she can’t bring herself to turn around. She's so certain someone’s behind her, she couldn’t turn around.”
Val held up his hand, miming the story, “She couldn’t turn around, but she had her camera phone. Her old flip phone. So, without turning around, she held her phone over her shoulder and took a picture of whatever was behind her. And she was too scared to even look at the picture too. So she closed the phone without looking at it, and just walked straight on out. Didn’t turn the lights off. She just walked out. Didn’t close up. She’s never done that. She left all the lights on.”
I couldn’t wait any longer, blurting, “Did she look at the picture? What was in the picture??”
Val turned his head towards me and said, “two little boys hiding under the piano.”
My face must’ve turned the same color as Val’s in that moment. I go, “Val. Are you telling me Mara’s in the kitchen right now with a photo of two ghosts on her phone.”
And like we’re in a fucking horror movie, Val says, “Don’t look at it unless you can handle it.”
I darted into the kitchen. Mara really was upset. But she wanted me to see the photo too, because I’d also just been there with her. She opened her cracked flip phone for me. And I saw them. No mistaking it. Two abnormally pale boys sat crouched, hiding under the piano, their arms wrapped around their bent legs, their glowing eyes peering over their knees into the painfully shitty camera lens. I trusted my eyes but couldn’t find a way to believe them, how two boys were in our bar at 4AM.
Whenever I tell this story, this is where I’m asked to share the picture. Mara did not have the technical ability to share this photo, with her flip phone considered old in 2011. Which is fine, because I don’t wish to have the photo now. I don’t need it. The image was seared well enough in stone behind my eyelids that morning. And their little elbows and knees reemerge anytime I hear someone mention the possibility of an afterlife. I would never claim to be an expert in death or what happens after, and, I guess I’m someone with a real ghost story.
As I mentioned, I didn’t last at that job long. I kept getting sick, actually. Really sick. Horrendous, repeated sore throats. I blamed the lack of sleep, working hours I barely knew existed as a lover of healthy slumber. After two months working at the Basement Tavern, I was so sick my doctor sent me to the ER, because my throat was closing up. My throat infection was so bad I was hospitalized for almost a week. In that hospital bed I thought, my body is begging me to stop forcing this not-me life. I quit that job from my hospital bed, but was so grateful to the night life team that let me try them on for size.
I don’t live near the west side anymore. I also don’t go out to bars the way I used to. I have no idea how much the Basement Tavern or the Victorian have changed. Thanks to time and space, my stint there feels like another lifetime. Someone else’s lifetime even.
After I turned thirty, I moved to Silverlake, met my husband, joined a dance class, and built a fitting new community and routine for myself. We had our wedding on a chilly day in France, on a property built in the 13th century. A building that has seen many lives come and go. And a week after our wedding, our photographer and good friend Ashley sent me and Jon some ‘sneak peak’ photos. One of them, a black and white wide-shot, felt unsettlingly familiar.
Ashley called me to single out the image that struck me, saying, “Okay. This black and white one may be my favorite photo I’ve ever taken. I can’t get over this photo!” In it, Jon and I are kissing in front of a large gate. And two boys watch us from the side like our own little cherubs. On our call, Ashley pointed out that, if you zoom in, one of the boys has his fingers crossed, and in the other hand he’s holding a wishbone. Crossed fingers and a wishbone. The boys look absolutely posed or photoshopped. They were not.
Jon, Ashley and I marveled at the fact that none of us remember seeing these boys that day.
It really is a beautiful photo. It is also a witchy photo, with literal symbols of otherworldliness. My man of honor saw this photo and immediately predicted, “You and Jon are going to have two boys.” So far we’ve had one. More will be revealed I suppose.
I want to know what these boys mean. In 2011 and 2022, two boys watching, when no one knows they’re there, caught only by a camera lens. How they got there. Where they came from. Who they are. And what they’re trying to tell us.
All interpretations welcome.
So spooky!!!
Ok well I made the mistake of reading this before bed…such a wild story!