Science can only answer so much. It can tell me what happens to the body after it dies, but science can’t yet explain why dying people are often visited by dead loved ones, who come to them as vividly as though they were still alive. Nor can it explain why my keys ended up on the Ponderosa tree in my backyard, when my cameras would’ve captured anyone moving in or out of the house and yard. Nor can science explain why my Pulmonary Atresia literally cured itself when I was in kindergarten, or how I just knew when my grandpa Bob passed away at the very moment he did. And, that really freaks me out, because I don’t like it when I can’t logically or scientifically explain something I’ve experienced or encountered. It makes me question my own sanity, as well as how much (or how little) I actually know about the world around me. 

Some people are perfectly comfortable with the mysteries and uncertainties of life. They even embrace it. But, to me, uncertainty is synonymous with anxiety. The unknown is terrifying to me. Yet, the only thing in life that is certain is uncertainty. Something, something, the more you know, the more you don’t know. 

Perhaps, it’s not the paranormal itself that scares me, but rather it’s not knowing that scares me. I don’t get scared when my keys go missing and I find them on the bookshelf behind the TV, because I’ve come to accept that it just happens in this house sometimes. But I definitely shit enough bricks to build a castle whenever Penny cowers, barks, and growls at something I can’t see or hear, no matter how hard I look for it. 

Keys going missing and ending up in weird places is one thing. My dog going apeshit over something I can’t detect is something completely different. 

But, what scares me even more than Penny’s freaky behavior, is when I get the sinking sense that I’m being watched when I know there’s nothing around to watch me. Thankfully, I’ve almost never felt that way at my house. But, damn did I feel that constantly whenever I stayed at my grandparents’ farmhouse in Minnesota. Everyone who visited that house felt that way, at some point or another. And, I can’t explain why. It seems like the more I try to scientifically rationalize it, the less rational it becomes because I can’t scientifically debunk the weird goings-on in that house. However, if I look at it from a spiritual lens, it makes perfect sense as to why that old farmhouse was (and is) so damn strange, and I don't know what to think of that. 

Same goes for the house I now live in. Scientifically speaking, I can’t explain why Penny sometimes acts the way she does, or why our things go missing and end up in the weirdest places. Scientifically speaking, I can’t explain why or how I felt Hunter’s presence leave his body when he passed away. Spiritually, however, I can make perfect sense out of all of it (which, depending on what it is, it’s either really freaky or really comforting). 

In Hunter’s case, I did, indeed, feel his soul leave his body and our house when it did. Thinking about it brings tears to my eyes and chills to my spine, as it was an intensely powerful experience I am both blessed and heartbroken to have felt. When he died, in my mind’s eye, I could literally see him get up out of his body, shake off his old age and pain, and trot off into the presence of the Lord with his little stubby tail wagging towards the sky. Several days after he died, I dreamt that he was he was asleep in the lap of someone I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t a vivid dream, but it was enough of a dream to bring me peace-of-mind that Hunter’s safe, loved, and pampered wherever he now is. Most importantly, he isn’t spending his eternity waiting for me at the door like he did in life. 

In the case of my “ghost dog”, I don’t like to think about it that much because A) I can’t explain it in a way that gives me peace-of-mind, and B) the only other spiritual beings I’ve ever heard about were described as either angels or demons. And I don’t think angels are the ones balancing our tubes of toothpaste on the trim above the door leading to the laundry room. Seems like something a more mischievous entity would do. 

Plus, whenever I bring it up to people who don’t believe in this weird shit, at best they look at me like I have three heads, at worst they accuse me of bullshiting and/or of needing a comprehensive psychiatric assessment. Hell, if I bring it up to people who do believe in this weird shit, either they ask if they can come to my house to interact with it, or tell me that I ought to do something about it (as though I know what to do). 

So, for the most part, I keep it to myself, until either someone else brings it up, or something significant happens (like the death of a loved one) that brings these topics to the forefront of my mind, where they become something I think and write about until life finds something else to catch my attention with (such as college). 

But, since I turned in my final papers for the semester last week (and passed both classes with solid A's), all I'm left with is my "ghost dog", as well as the sting of death that is making this Christmas season a particularly hard one for me. I know it's natural (and, in a way, good) to grieve my passed loved ones, as well as reflect on my faith as the Holy Days come up. But, it's neither easy nor very fun. It's painful beyond words, and spookier than Halloween, and all I can do to deal with it is to write about it.