When I was young, six or seven, I had a sleep-over at my Aunt Ida’s apartment on Miles Street in Fort William, Ontario. It was uneventful in itself and was something I did on a regular basis. I played hard and slept well when I was there.

On this particular morning, I woke up before my aunt and lay in the spare-room bed waiting for her to begin moving around. Bored from waiting, I decided to get up. I tip-toed down the hall to have a potty break, then continued quietly past my aunt’s room to the kitchen.

A bright sunny day was beginning. I sat down at the Formica table and looked out the window as I wandered through my little girl thoughts and watched the sun wake up.

At the opposite end of the table, where my aunt would park herself, sat an old radio that was plugged into a nearby outlet. My thoughts were shattered by the sudden blare of music from the radio. I hadn’t touched it. I don’t even recall looking at it before this. I stared at it, frozen. I didn’t understand what had happened but I remember being scared and afraid to move.

My aunt came out a few minutes later and asked me why I had turned on the radio and then proceeded to scold me for lying when I told her it had turned itself on.

It still freaks me out today when I think about it. Looking back I think it may have been a ghost who saw I was bored and wanted to provide me with some entertainment; tunes. Perhaps.

So to answer the question: Do I believe in the supernatural? Yes I do, now if I only could get others to believe me.

*published at FATE Magazine/ June 2003

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