{"id":2070,"date":"2018-04-08T06:58:31","date_gmt":"2018-04-08T06:58:31","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/?p=2070"},"modified":"2019-11-09T15:00:55","modified_gmt":"2019-11-09T15:00:55","slug":"benjamin-bandosz","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/benjamin-bandosz\/","title":{"rendered":"Benjamin Bandosz"},"content":{"rendered":"

 
\nToronto Haunting<\/span><\/p>\n

You really don\u2019t know if you\u2019re being haunted until you stare a ghost straight in the face. Everything becomes pretty clear at that point. Beforehand, it\u2019s just a series of weird coincidences, shadows stalking you while you run errands, and faint footsteps waking you up at 3:33am on still December nights. These experiences are usually discarded as hallucinations, and quickly forgotten as you trudge to work the next day. You\u2019re not quite sure how long these weird things have been happening. Maybe they started when you first moved to the city, or when your medication ran out. It could have been when you moved into the house on Wychwood and your roommates insisted on holding a s\u00e9ance. But when a ghost stares at you, and you see through its paleness, everything becomes quite clear.<\/p>\n

But Toronto is not a city of ghosts. It\u2019s too young and gawky. In Prague, you often see Rabbi Loew\u2019s golem peering at you over tall brick walls during late-night walks; in Rome, you see Julius\u2019s blood trickling down the street while you regret an overpriced lunch downtown; in Mexico City, usually around Coyoac\u00e1n, you see La Llorona leaning through taxi windows, directing cabbies to free parking spaces. But Toronto, other than hosting some unceremonious run-ins with Wendigos in rural Huron-Wendat territory, is way too self-conscious to let its ghosts wander around. Its streets shuttle people from place to place so quickly that most folks don\u2019t even remember one another, let alone ghosts. The older Victorian buildings scattered throughout downtown are covered in the shade of the countless, sprouting condos that obscure the alleged ghosts and phantoms. I guess that\u2019s why it\u2019s so easy to forget such uncanny experiences even exist, you\u2019re lost in the city\u2019s pubescence. You can feel pretty alone and awkward in Toronto, but not haunted.<\/p>\n

My first run-in with the city\u2019s ghosts was through a medium. Her name was Ula, and she would float in and out of different community events and functions I would frequent. Eventually, she recognized me and introduced herself at an art show. We exchanged a couple shaky lines that could pass for a movie script. As far as mediums go, I found her quite agreeable, and a little infuriating because she had a hard time differentiating between the living and the dead. Her pale skin, complacent expressions, and radiating orange hair cast her in a phantasmal aura; to round off the clich\u00e9, she worked part-time in an occult shop.<\/p>\n

Since we ran in the same circles outside of work, we ended up organizing some events and projects together. We often scheduled to meet Saturday mornings at a local cafe, and she would routinely miss these meetings. I arrived hours before the usual clientele showed up, occupied a large corner table, and had a small breakfast with coffee. Around noon, hazy droves of jean-jackets, sneakers, and beanies would trudge into the cafe for their Saturday morning coffee. They often grimaced and mumbled to themselves as I excused myself politely.<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry, I\u2019m waiting for someone. We\u2019ll be using this table and chair for our meeting. Sorry…\u201d<\/p>\n

After two more hours of waiting, I was all alone at the same table. When packing up, I avoided making eye contact with the sets of horn-rimmed glasses that flashed with anger. When Ula did happen to arrive, and vindicate me and the table, she always explained that there was some trouble, spiritual or otherwise, that kept her occupied\u2014and so often did the two overlap that it was difficult to know whether it was a demon or a flat tire that caused her delay, or if one had anything to do with the other.<\/p>\n

She usually described how these drug-induced, sleep-depriving spiritual encounters overwhelmed her. She explained to me how dabbling in too many spells warded off her lovers, and instead would summon stubbly old men who stalked her online and worshipped her ghost-like skin and well-defined figure. Ouija boards also caused problems for her\u2014don\u2019t ever summon someone or something you\u2019re not ready for! I didn\u2019t take her warnings seriously, and I soon found out how invasive and impolite ghosts can be.<\/p>\n

\u201cHave you read Jung\u2019s Red Book<\/em>?\u201d she asked me flatly. \u201cYou have to read it. We should watch that movie about him sometime. What was it again? A Dangerous Method<\/em>?\u201d I nodded.<\/p>\n

The difference between a medium and a ghost, as well as witch and a medium, can be difficult to establish. I began to see Ula sporadically throughout the city, and more rarely at our usual meetings. It was around this time that I began to see different apparitions, who all bore the same features, but whose differences kept me in a state of paranoia and disbelief. Every time, it became more difficult to distinguish between Ula, witches, and the ghosts of Toronto since my magicking is by no means advanced. In fact, I may be a bit too focused on cryptozoology. I\u2019ll effectively distinguish between a Goatman, a Wendigo, and a Skinwalker, but cannot guarantee a successful smudging or incantation when left on my own. So when I ran into more extra-dimensional entities, it became more difficult to know if it was Ula running errands, a witch whispering to her familiar, or a ghost phasing through a crowd. What was, what wasn\u2019t, and what could be, seemed blurry.<\/p>\n

I was working long hours as a clerk. I spent my mornings and afternoons in a heavy haze shuffling between bus stations and subway stations, where I had my first encounter with the extra-dimensional. There were a few reoccurring characters with whom I developed a wordless familiarity during my commutes, but the rest of the faces and bodies I saw on the subway began to double with others I had seen earlier in the day or week. Rush hour and the faulty air-conditioning on the TTC often cause nausea. Commuters build a passive solidarity through the dizzying ennui<\/em>. Some train cars become steam rooms in August, the humid vapours accented by piquant body odours. Needless to say, this collective discomfort, along with the heat-induced vertigo, made it difficult to see clearly. But I\u2019m quite certain I saw some figures phase through the train cars and station walls.<\/p>\n

My first lucid run-in with a ghost was at the Museum subway station in downtown Toronto. I had migrated from my office in Mimico to the university campus downtown. My friends and I were working late in the graduate student offices of some nondescript graduate department\u2014they called it la cueva<\/em>. It was getting late, and most of us had inhaled the same recycled air for many hours. A friend of mine lived in my neighbourhood, so we decided to catch a train together. We were having an idle conversation as we descended the stairs down the subway platform.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, taking the shuttle bus to Mississauga every week to teach sucks, forty minutes there and forty minutes back\u2014 and that\u2019s not even in traffic! Oh, God, the traffic!\u201d<\/p>\n

Her gesticulations were hushed as a black figure glided along the platform toward us. Without moving its limbs, it simply slid without making a sound. It, or rather she, was adorned in a black-laced gown, and her eyes were dim. As we descended the final stair, she began to climb them in a silence that mirrored my muted shock. My friend\u2019s words became muffled, as my body began to seize internally. The acid in my stomach froze and my organs contracted. My chest was hollow. In my panic attack, I did not catch a glimpse of the figure\u2019s face, save for a pair of familiar glasses that glazed her dim eyes. By now, my friend\u2019s voice was distant. I tried to figure out what I had just seen. My stomach acids only began to thaw halfway down the platform.
\n
\n 
\n\u201cDid you see that person walk up the stairs?\u201d<\/p>\n

My friend looked at me, and quickly looked over her shoulder.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, I didn\u2019t notice anyone? Did you see an ex or something?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe, I don\u2019t know. She looked familiar, but it was hard to tell. I couldn\u2019t make out her face.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEh, it\u2019s a big city. It could have been someone you saw at a party.\u201d<\/p>\n

If my friend wasn\u2019t with me, would I have followed the ghost? Was there even a ghost? I remember trying to trace out her face, but all I could remember were vague details. <\/p>\n

\u201cThere have been so many times when I thought I saw my ex in public, and like, holy shit, I got out of there quick. Or just snubbed him.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt looked like a ghost to me\u201d I responded absent-mindedly.<\/p>\n

\u201cBeen playing with the Ouija board with your roommates?\u201d<\/p>\n

I shrugged, \u201cNo, but they won\u2019t stop bugging me about doing a s\u00e9ance.\u201d<\/p>\n

We stopped at the end of the platform, and from the bowels of the tunnel the echoes of an approaching train grew louder.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou commute every day out to Kipling. You probably see more than a thousand people in a week, so it\u2019s possible some random person might appear familiar\u201d she said trying to speak over the echoes.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou may be right.\u201d<\/p>\n

A stale, warm gust of air burst out of the tunnel and then the train rushed by us. It slowly screeched to a halt, and commuters gathered around the doors which slid open simultaneously.<\/p>\n

Time passed before the second incident occurred. These occurrences seldom happen regularly. Time strangely dilates; weeks and then months blur together without any event. And then in the middle of the night you notice a hanged figure in the corner of your hotel room, floating, and rotating. You rub your eyes, and it\u2019s still there. So, you decide you should brush your teeth. After you\u2019re done, it\u2019s still there. And then you call the front desk because you need to be coherent at your meeting the next morning. While the staff are figuring out how to fix the problem, you remember your last ghostly encounter and you cannot properly determine how much time has passed. A month, at least. Or maybe just a couple of weeks. No, it couldn\u2019t have been, because you distinctly remember that there was snow on the ground then, and that it melted by the time before last. Even as I write this, the chronology of these hauntings is pretty muddled.<\/p>\n

I ran into Ula again, a few other times. We always exchanged a few words before heading our separate ways. Although, one time, we spoke for a while and her presence may have acted as a conduit. We met at a meeting and decided to walk back to the subway station together\u2014 several blocks north of where we all met. During the walk, we idly chatted about upcoming community events and other things. And, of course, she began to muse about different energies and spirits she has been able to detect or contact in the recent past.<\/p>\n

\u201cI went to visit a friend I haven\u2019t seen for some time\u201d she said in a staccato. Ula often spoke in non-sequiturs. At first, it came off as inconsiderate and odd. But with time, the abrupt changes in topics or unprecedented remarks became endearing, in a way.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen was the last time you saw them?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cProbably a couple of years ago… We were sleeping together, and then he took off all of a sudden, moved up north past Barrie; he lives in a hermitage now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s a bit extreme. I envy his resolve.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI always consider my former lovers as part of me. Like, I don\u2019t feel any hatred or ill toward them. I still love most of them. Even the ones that have passed on.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo, did you two get along?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe seemed, distant. His energy was completely different. It kind of felt like I was haunting him after the third day.\u201d<\/p>\n

I let out a chuckle and smiled. It wouldn\u2019t be surprising if she evoked a few ghosts or sprites by her presence. Her ghostly complexion could easily fool spirits into believing they were already among kin. I empathized with her friend. But how is a haunting realized? To haunt or to be haunted requires two. It can only be done in the presence of someone. It made me wonder if I were complicit in my own ghostly visitations.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, wow! Someone left all this stuff on the sidewalk, do you wanna look through it?!\u201d Ula exclaimed as she bent to examine the forsaken treasures.<\/p>\n

\u201cUh, sure. But I need to head back home quickly.\u201d I replied.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh wow, lots of books. Ugh, mirrors. I don\u2019t trust mirrors anymore, I won\u2019t let you take one either. Here, take this.\u201d<\/p>\n

She handed me an ornate, bronze paperweight in the shape of a pyramid. It was scuffed, but its weight in my hand made me feel like a child who was holding a baseball for the first time\u2014 mesmerized by its form and weight, and eager to see how far it can be thrown.<\/p>\n

\u201cPyramids have amazing spiritual and energy values. Four perspectives meeting at one point, stability, energy pinpoint and distribution. I think you could benefit from it.\u201d she explained.<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks, I\u2019m sure I could use it at work\u201d I said through a weak smile. \u201cI should be headed home, thanks for the pyramid.\u201d<\/p>\n

She looked at me for a second, pursed her lips as though scrutinizing me, and abruptly waved at me. As I turned my heel, I quickly thrust the pyramid into my backpack and doubled my pace to the subway station. The pyramid was then forgotten in my bag. But I suspect that it was transmitting my movements to the spirit world.<\/p>\n

It may have been a week or two after my walk with Ula that I stumbled through a ghost in a grocery store. Oftentimes after work, I would scramble into one of the grocers in my neighbourhood. I would drift in and out of a haze during my commute, roughly listing ingredients for different meals as I tried to read the latest propaganda I purchased from a second-hand bookstore. Going straight to a grocery store was always a risk for me, because I was never sure if I could fit all my groceries into my backpack; conceding to buying a plastic bag always felt like a humiliating defeat. But on this particular day I was being stubborn. I was already seated in the northbound train that would take me right to the grocery store.<\/p>\n

When I walked out of the subway station, I was met by a lukewarm breeze that mellowed the sting in my lungs left by the subway\u2019s metal particles. Within a minute I already had my grocery basket and was meandering through the produce aisles. The grocer franchises in Canada are known for their catering to gaudy tastes; within a ten-meter radius of the store’s entrance, there was a fully staffed sushi bar, an espresso bar, a lunch deli, and on the second-storey balcony overlooking the produce area was a grand piano that anyone could play\u2014from time to time, they also had folk or jazz musicians perform live for customers. However, the tall, metal-beamed ceilings produced cold, dampened reverberations. At that time, someone was feebly trying to play a romantic piece, the piano was out of tune and it sounded like it was coming out of a tin can.<\/p>\n

After sifting through a few stands of assorted fruits and vegetables, I proceeded to the columned aisles of packaged food. I debated whether I wanted to pay double for organic canned soup and decided I\u2019d just buy more fruit, and I headed toward the end of the aisle. As I prepared to go round the corner into the next aisle, I stopped short in front of someone who was going around the corner from the other aisle. As I looked up, a smiling face looked right through me. With my momentum, I knew we would collide, so my body braced for the anticipated impact. But then the figure walked right through me. My eyes widened and the awful tinny vibrations from the piano echoed through my limbs, giving my sinews a dull rattle. Ghosts aren\u2019t as cold as people think they are. They\u2019re humid, chilly and humid\u2014the kind of humidity you feel and smell in the depths of a cave in Northern Ontario. I understand how someone could mistake it as cold, but the sensation is akin to a heavy moisture seeping into your dry bones. I blinked without daring to look back and entered the next aisle. Rather than looking for the food on my list, I quickly scampered to the end of the aisle and peered around the corner to try to catch a glimpse of the ghost who had just violated my space. There were a few middle-aged women intensely scrutinizing nutrition labels, but the smiling figure was gone. The candour in that smile betrayed a secret knowledge and made me panic in disbelief.
\n
\n 
\nI whipped back around, just in case it had decided to go round another corner to pass through me again. For the rest of my grocery trip my eyes scanned each aisle I passed, searching for that unforgettable, haunting smile. Every time the inexperienced piano player played a wrong note, or if the tuning was too poor to sustain a passable triad or unison, my spine contracted and I did a double take behind me. A number of people asked me if I needed help with something, or if I had wanted to say something to them because I was staring intently trying to distinguish whether they resembled the ghost. After a disorienting forty minutes at the grocery store, I managed to check out and pack the purchases into my bag. I then proceeded to the local liquor store to buy overpriced, domestic beer, hoping it might take some edge off. In reality, I didn\u2019t think I was being haunted, nor did I consider that the bronze paperweight could be channelling energy from another dimension. I was distressed and processing the event, but there was still a tinge of disbelief and hesitation. I didn\u2019t want to believe. There were some other minor encounters, but they were eclipsed by the most uncanny event.<\/p>\n

I gave up my job as a clerk. The endless, nauseating commutes, and my dreary administrative work bored me, although it gave me time to read a lot of propaganda, and corresponding philosophies. So I took up a job in the academic circles. It has a different pace, but it attracts similar people to the insurance industry.<\/p>\n

Universities are full of ghosts. It\u2019s an old profession, and the campuses have even older buildings. Contracted faculty and graduate students often complain of the dungeon-like carrel spaces with burnt out light bulbs, the smell of asbestos in the air, and resident mice. Coincidentally, grad students\u2019 paleness often resemble ghosts, and they slide in and out of your peripheries with the same effectiveness. I would like to give you brief history of the building in which this haunting happened. After breathlessly explaining my encounter to a friend, he shook his head and explained why it happened in that particular building:<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Jackman Humanities Building, eh? You know, my old doctor\u2019s office was there. Before that building was leased out by the university, it used to be mostly doctors\u2019 offices and medical facilities. It was a really weird building to me as a kid going in for check-ups; the elevators were all different shapes and sizes, even though they were all next to one another; in the lobby the ceiling was so high and the pillars were obsidian black\u2014 and clashed with the green marble floors. My doctor was this hilarious old, Jewish dude. He always lightened my mood and I always left there laughing.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnyway, I\u2019m not surprised you saw a ghost there. Did you read about the first ACT scan of a mummy? It was done a few decades ago, in that building! They scanned Tutankhamun in that building! After I heard that, the weird vibe suddenly made sense. Remember that the guy who discovered Tutankhamun\u2019s tomb was cursed? His dog died the same night that he died, just like it was said in the curse inscribed on the sarcophagus, or whatever. I\u2019m telling you now, even some weird deaths and illnesses happened in that building.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd that voice in the elevator…\u201d he paused for a second \u201cIt never changed. I remember taking the elevators when I was a kid\u2014the voice creeped me out. And then, after the university leased out and gutted the space and elevators, the voice remained. How is it the same voice if they changed the elevators?! That place is weird. I don\u2019t even like going there to work, or to meet with my course coordinator. I\u2019m not surprised you ran into a ghost there.\u201d<\/p>\n

His bewilderment and conviction made me laugh. My friend was right, though, the building\u2019s elevators were filled with a strange air, and they were so unbelievably fast in comparison with any of the other elevators on campus. Their musty green-gold decor, lacquered by low lighting and accented with dim mirrors on all sides, produced an absurd portal to the next floor. Sometimes, it felt like you were about to enter a scene imagined by David Lynch rather than the English Department\u2019s administrative floor.<\/p>\n

It was early afternoon on Halloween, and I had just finished one of my seminars on the 7th<\/sup> floor. In the hall there was a modest bench on which I sat as I made a phone call. I looked in my bag and found the pyramid. After I hung up the phone, there was no one in the hallway. The building seemed to hum through its walls, filling the emptiness. I sighed, and picked up my oversized knapsack. I called the elevator and slouched from the weight of my bag. As I fiddled the bronze paperweight, the elevator shot up in seconds.<\/p>\n

When the doors slid open, a pale and familiar face stared at me from within the reflective chamber. The face fluctuated between an expression of peevish surprise and a bashful regret of being caught unawares. My stomach froze, and seemed to move upwards to my chest and outwards to my limbs. A strange stillness overcame my mind, unlike the times before where a distilled anxiety saturated my brain tissues. Before the translucent figure made any motion or sound, I found my voice enunciating a phrase,<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, how\u2019s it going?\u201d<\/p>\n

After so many unceremonious and awkward encounters, we had developed some kind of weird familiarity. And so before I knew it, my mouth was uttering a casual greeting, like it was unaffected by the paranormal circumstances. Despite my tempered speech and attitude, my body had seized entirely.<\/p>\n

The ghost broke eye contact, gave a veiled smile and started out of the elevator. At the threshold, the ghost whispered, staring at the ground,<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m fine, thanks. Bye.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stepped out of the way to avoid another embarrassing phasing-through incident. As the ghost passed by, I tried to hold the elevator door open as it began to close\u2014my right hand gripped the edge of the door and it pulled me so that my body turned and I faced the ghost\u2019s backside. It walked straight for the wall in front of it. My hand lost its grip on the paperweight which slipped and fell into the gap between the floor and elevator, echoing as it tumbled down the elevator shaft. The ghost was quickly and timidly shuffling away, as though it was caught doing something it shouldn\u2019t have. I was unsure whether to anticipate another response, or say something else. This ghost had followed me for years, and, finally, we both acknowledged each other after many awkward encounters. These thoughts knotted my mind as I fumbled with the elevator door at its threshold. I stumbled when the door closed stubbornly. I looked up and saw the ghost phasing through the wall.<\/p>\n

I debated whether I should poke my head through the nearest door to see if the ghost had taken a seat or was pacing back and forth in distress. But it was evident it didn\u2019t want anything to do with me anymore. I didn\u2019t want to start haunting the ghost.<\/p>\n

           <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A Letter to Jealousy<\/strong>
\nDear Jealousy,<\/p>\n

I hope this will be the first and only time I address you. They say do not talk to your enemies, destroy them. But what if they live inside your head? Therefore I sit here, in this shabby motel room with its gaudy painted walls, and write to you. The wobbly desk with three legs stands at the open window. The cold October breeze blows through the burgundy greasy curtains, making them move like the sleeping child’s chest. I lean over the torn-out piece of notebook paper scarcely visible in the lemon light of the lamp. The clock on the bedside table shows 2.47 a.m. I have not held a pen in a while. It feels as if I try to move the amputated fingers of the paralyzed hand. I have not written a letter in a while. Much less a letter to my enemy.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":3738,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[12],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2070","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-creative-non-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2070","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2070"}],"version-history":[{"count":18,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2070\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3937,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2070\/revisions\/3937"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3738"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2070"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2070"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.mtls.ca\/issue24\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2070"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}