In the basement of the Biltmore House in the mountains of Western North Carolina, there’s an indoor swimming pool at the end of a long hallway. Only a certain number of people touring the house can stand in the actual swimming pool room at a time, with the rest waiting patiently (or impatiently) in the hallway. The pool room itself is still fairly large, and even though the pool has been drained for at least three quarters of a century for safety and to help preserve the facility, the historic architecture and design are impressive enough to immediately conjure “oohs” and “ahhs” from everyone entering the space.

From my position in line that day, I could just make out the voice of the tour guide echoing in the main room, giving out various facts and information about the pool. One of the first things that caught my attention was their recounting of tales of the erstwhile laughs and giggles of children, and the sounds of wet, pattering feet on the small, square ceramic tiles on the pool room floors… decades after the pool stood closed and dry. 

The long, single-file line in the hallway was moving slowly that day. I was looking curiously at the vintage guest dressing rooms in the narrow, stone-walled corridor. I can barely recall the details now, but there was a vintage telephone on the wall, and various exhibits and photographs conveying information about the history of the house. It was easy to take all of this in, moving forward one, maybe two steps at a time. I recall that it was raining outside and the thunder could be felt, even in the basement.  

Have you ever stumbled for no reason at all? Tripped and then looked behind you to see why, as though to instinctively blame your clumsiness on something, or someone, that had impeded your forward motion?

As I was slowly advancing in the line… one, maybe two steps at a time… I started to take a fateful step forward. Only to find that my left foot was fully pinned to the ground. Not stuck or stubbed on the lip of a tile. Not caught against the friction of the sidewall. Pinned. Held down with such force that I was lunged forward by my own weight and thrown hopelessly off balance. And it remained pinned. 

Instincts are instincts. And human nature is human nature. I instantly turned with a scowl to say something curt, maybe even rude, to the family in line directly behind me, knowing from past experience the feeling of being tripped. Someone had taken a step forward too soon and stepped on my foot. The feeling was undeniable. Only that feeling was wrong. 

To the best of my recollection, this was my first encounter with a ghost. With something that wasn’t there, at least not in the same world I was in. 

As I turned to confront the person behind me with a cold stare, I saw that the group behind me had evidently been talking amongst themselves and were deep in storytelling and conversation. To the point they hadn’t moved forward in several minutes. They were a good 15 feet behind me. There was no one immediately behind me. There was nothing on the floor or on the wall beside me. As I looked down at the leather shoe on my left foot, the kind I’ve worn on-and-off my entire life, I saw the pressure slowly lift from the area above my toes. As the leather expanded to take on its normal shape, I felt the pressure lift from my foot and my foot slowly lifted off the floor in the direction I had been trying to step the whole time. No one in front of me or behind me saw my momentary struggle.

And I heard a giggle.

Happy Halloween!