I approached my sister’s new shop with delicious anticipation. She had marvelous taste, knew just how to arrange her wares so that the casual browser would become an avid buyer. So I couldn’t wait to see what she had done with this effort. The theme was just lovely things for the home.

It was not a large place. As I entered I could see that she had devised separate rooms out of the square space. Her own desk and cash register area was in the far left corner. A gentle lady might use such a space to write out her invitations, notes to friends and perhaps pen a delicate love letter. In the entry way was a foyer which led to a living room with a two seated sofa and a small coffee table. To the far right was a fireplace with an elegant mantle and behind that was a bed, with the finest of real linen sheets, an intricate country quilt in pale shades, white on white embroidered pillow cases and shams. Lying on the bed, was a fine long white cotton nightgown with delicate pastel embroidery. And a book of poetry, lying open.

Suffusing the air was a tangy citrus aroma, in the background, a celtic harp recording of an old folk song. Placed here and there were occasional tables covered with more embroidered linen, holding tiny baskets of dried roses, small booklets of poems, a hand carved cow, sheep or chicken. In the area around the fireplace were scented soaps, gift sets of toiletries and lotions. The mantle itself held collections of candle holders and a variety of lightly colored candles of all sizes from tiny white ones, to real green bayberry tapers, to stocky ones with two and three wicks. Light diffused through lace curtains at the display window in front, from floor lamps, softly glowing, around the shop. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling.

I stood inside and took a deep breath, inhaling the soft scents, noting the music and well placed displays and knew she had another winner in this shop just a block off downtown Blowing Rock, North Carolina. I was about to give her a hug and congratulate her for this inviting ambiance, when I noticed a worried look on her face.

“What’s wrong?”

She handed me a cup of tea and we sat in her office area.

“There’s something not right in that part of the shop near the fireplace.” I glanced over at it. It appeared just fine, more than fine.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Something out of place?” I thought she meant with the design or placement of things.

“Well,” she said, “it’s cold there. I noticed that when I was setting up but I thought it was just that the building was cold or that there was a draft down the chimney. Now the heat is on and it’s still cold.

I got up and carried my tea cup to that part of the store. Yes, it w as cold. I even shivered, it felt sort of creepy but I wasn’t going to mention that to Pat. The cup rattled in the saucer. Was I shaking?

I came back and sat down. “yes, I see what you mean. Do you have any ideas?” Maybe the air conditioning is still on.”

“Wait.” she said, “there’s more.” I’ve only been open a week People come in and are really enthusiastic about the store. Then they wander over there and after a moment or two, they put down the merchandise they had in their hands and just walk out. Now that isn’t good for business.”

I nodded my agreement to that. Just then, a group of five people came in, all fresh from a walk, they said, on the Parkway, bringing some of the crisp autumn air with them. They smiled at us and started browsing around. If you’ve even been to Blowing Rock you know that it is a lovely little town that prides itself on its upscale stores. Maybe I was partial but I thought my sister’s shop had one up on all the others. There was an elegant freshness about it and Pat was the soul of graciousness. You could see that on the faces of these shoppers, oohing and ahing at the quilts in the far right corner, the gift sets, and surroundings. Then they walked into the cold space. Their faces went blank and they backed out, put down the items they were holding and quickly left.

“Like that? I asked.

“That’s about it.”

“Enough of that for a while,” I said, “Here, I brought some sandwiches for lunch.” We ate in silence, each with her own thoughts. In that quiet, I considered what might be causing the coldness and strange behavior of the customers. I had sensed more than cool there. Near what looked like a cheerful fireplace I had felt a presence. Not evil, just--oh, the term wretched came to mind. The more I thought of it, the more I came to the conclusion that there was a sad spirit, a ghost inhabiting that part of Pat’s sparkling new shop.

“Mary Noel, could it be that I have a ghost there?” Clearly, Pat and I were on the same wave length.

“My thoughts too, Pat.”

“Even if we agree,” she said, “what can we do about it? I can’t stay in business if people keep walking out.”

In the background, the tape played “The River is Wide” on a celtic harp. The song is a lament about the inconstancy of love.

“I think...“ I paused as the words came back to me, “false love.” “Pat, I think I have an idea about who is haunting your shop and maybe why.” She was accustomed to my flights of fancy but still seemed ill at ease with this whole problem. She shrugged and went back to her desk work. She turned the tape off and put the radio on to local mountain music.

I walked over to the fireplace and stood there, willing myself to be open to the ghost. Though I was really cold, I stayed, stood there quietly, attempting to empty my mind of its own agenda and just listen. Listen. Gradually, I began to see and hear, not in reality, but in my mind, an argument between an old mountain man and a woman in a worn cotton dress. I couldn’t actually hear the words, but felt his rage and her fear. Just then, another group of customers came in. I glanced at Pat, she nodded and I went outside.

This group was no different from the last; they left quickly. I hoped that word wouldn’t get around town but since these were clearly tourists, I didn’t think they mattered yet. While they were in there, though, I kept up my connection to the man and the woman. As I looked at the building Pat was in, I saw it waver and turn into a shabby shack of a house, for mere seconds.

From that, I assumed that the fight hadn’t taken place in the store but in a building that predated it. I could find out for sure by going to the county seat, which was in nearby Boone but decided to do that only if an attempt to release her spirit failed.

Back inside the shop, I told Pat that I thought I might be able to coax the cold away and we made a plan to come in before business hours two days hence. Pat was skeptical but at the moment, this was all I could offer.

That night, I sat in my apartment, considering the situation of ghosts. It is suggested in the literature that those who stay on earth after what is usually a traumatic death, don’t know they are dead. Stories of Civil War soldiers abound, hovering around the fields where they fell. I thought this was the case with this woman, that she had died suddenly and probably violently. That night, my dreams were full of half formed visions but none clear enough to advance my plans.

I worked as a Hospice nurse the next day. Nothing I do in the spirit realm was as important as the work with the living, yet I had had more familiarity with the dying and death than the average citizen. Maybe that is why I am not afraid of the idea of ghosts; the transition from breathing to not breathing is a split second one, yet the soul of that person is not to be feared because it had separated from the body. And further, maybe my work of being present to and helping the suffering of the living was just the same as wanting to release that poor woman’s spirit into the Eternal.

I wasn’t such an experienced ‘exorcist’ that I knew exactly what I was going to do for Pat’s ghost. So, again I sat and listened. Perhaps it would be useful to have items on hand, I thought, that she might have had or used, so I went from room to room in my apartment, picking up a handful of dried beans in the kitchen, a thimble, a piece of muslin from my mending basket, an old clothespin and a candle.

We met and drank coffee in a shop on Main Street in Blowing Rock early the next morning. We didn’t speak of the ghost but talked of her children and mine, of another shop on that street where I had recently purchased a near-life-sized, hand-made wooden statue of St. Anthony. He was one of my favorite saints because of his love of animals and nature.

We entered the shop and stood for a moment, enjoying its silence and its sweet aromas. Pat went to her desk area with some order forms and packaging materials and I approached the cold area. Respect was, I hoped, in my manner. Opening the muslin bundle as if affering a sacred gift, I put each item and a little pile of beans on it. I lit the candle and stood there, again listening.

In my mind, I asked her to hear me. I may be imaginative but I thought the cool air jostled around me. Telling her that she had died, that her family and friends were waiting for her, I encouraged her to go to the Light of the candle. I told her that she was safe, that she would be treated kindly, that she had done no wrong and deserved Eternal peace. The room stayed cool. I know Pat was watching; I wanted her to be a peace with this process as well.

Repeating this mantra I again waited. No change. I wondered what it was that she needed to feel to accept her transition.

“We all love you, all of us, on this earth and the next,” I finally said, knowing that all beings want loving acceptance. Maybe that would work. And again waited. Suddenly, the room warmed; I felt chills nonetheless, all over my body. “Goodby, goodby and many blessings.”

Just then, Pat went over to open the open the door to the people walking up her front steps. Clearly a family, they spread out over the whole store, enthusiastic. I knew I should leave so I quietly gathered up my bundle and blew out the candle. Waving to Pat, I hurried out into the sunshine, feeling full of the wonder of what had just happened - like the elation after the birth of a healthy child.

I glanced at the only car in her parking area. A Mercedes! Later Pat called to tell me she had made a significant number of sales, from the whole store. And she thanked me. Later, she sent me a quilt I had admired. A very generous sister. We both are.

All was well in that part of town. In my years in North Carolina, I encountered more spirits and even more stories of them. That is why I now live in Virginia. Pat is still in North Carolina, but not in Blowing Rock. (Mary Gorka, October 29, 2009)