A Trip Back Home
written by: Cody Knudson
@cody_knudson_
I never believed in ghosts. Growing up near New Orleans I had of course heard ghost stories. Stories about specters and zombies and voodoo and other stuff that I don’t even want to think about or mention in polite company. After graduating high school, I moved to New York for college in an attempt to escape all of the folklore and small-town mentalities. I believed that I had more to offer than just being the guy that worked at the corner store until he was fifty, then retiring with barely any money to sustain himself. The Big Apple seemed to be where it was at, especially if you were trying to start over.
After a few decades of living in the big city, my life down in Louisiana seemed but just a faint memory, until one rainy Spring afternoon when I got a phone call from my sister telling me that my father had died and that I needed to come back home to help settle his affairs and attend his funeral.
My dad and I didn’t exactly have the best relationship when I was growing up. I didn’t hate the man and when I left home we weren’t exactly estranged, but we weren’t buddy buddy, either. As a kid he did all of the usual dad stuff, like teach me how to ride a bike and throw a baseball, but he wasn’t exactly emotionally available for me, either. As I got older, and the typical teen angst set in I began to resent him for not really being there for me like a real father should be and of course, he just scoffed it off with the usual male pride.
Flying back home from New York gave me time to reflect on all of this childhood turmoil, as if I needed more anxiety-related thoughts about my father. As the plane landed, I got a whiff of that good ol’ southern humidity and the memories of riding my bike through the woods and catching frogs and antagonizing the local adults came rushing in.
“Remember when you fell off your bike and scraped your knee, then rushed back home crying to Dad, but all he said was, ‘Suck it up. Be a man.’,” my subconscious reminded me as I drove my rental car through town to the run-down hotel that I would be staying at for the week. Of course, I do. Just another typical Dad moment; always the emotionally sensitive parent.
The week consisted of speaking with lawyers about my father’s will and meeting my mom and sister at the funeral home and with a cemetery caretaker to prepare for my dad’s burial. I felt like I was on autopilot most of the time, just going through the motions as my family did most of the work. After an evening of an exhaustingly long meeting with the priest and cemetery employees, my mom, sister, and I drove through town, straight past Bourbon Street in an attempt to find a good place for dinner, my mom’s idea to pay tribute to my dad the day before his funeral. More memories came rushing back in, this time of being a teenager in this crazy city; memories of ditching school to get high in graveyards with my buddies, heckling the freaky voodoo practitioners, and using fake IDs to get into Cajun bars to drink until we forgot about our crappy lives.
“Does this place work for you,” my mother asked me, snapping me back into reality.
“Yeah, sure,” I quietly responded.
Again, dinner was like being on autopilot. Shoving food into my mouth wasn’t done with the intent of enjoying my meal, but to be done as soon as possible so I could head back to my hotel and get this stupid week over and done with. As she and my sister reminisced about “the good times” my mom would occasionally glance at me hoping that I would join in on the conversation, but eventually gave up knowing full well that her attempts were pointless. My sister, being the most emotionally open family member, would send small smiles my way every ten minutes or so as a reminder that she was still there for me even if I was mentally absent.
As I stared into space while only halfway listening to my mom and sister’s conversations, I suddenly felt a slight chill run down the back of my neck. In my peripheral, I thought that I saw a man shaded in shadow sitting across the restaurant from me, but as I looked over to the booth there was nothing. I guess the stress of the long week was getting to me.
That night, back at the hotel, after I changed into my sleepwear and lay down to fall asleep to the sound of whatever boring thing was on TV, I heard what sounded like scraping against my window.
“Probably just raccoons,” I thought to myself as I dozed off to sleep.
I awoke sometime later (minutes or hours later, I had no chance at guessing) to the same scratching sound from before, but this time in a corner of the room and accompanied by an odd rustling. I sat up slowly due to the shock of just waking up and squinted my eyes to try and make out what could be causing the noises. After thirty seconds or so I could finally make out what looked like a shadow sitting in the corner chair. It both looked like a person, but also, somehow…didn’t?
The scratching grew louder. The unsettling noise was hard to make out, but it sounded like fingernails frantically, yet subtly clawing at old wood. The shadowy figure also began to breathe heavily like it was eternally gasping for its final breath.
“Who…..what….are you? Are you even real or is this just a stress dream…nightmare,” I asked the figure.
“You know who I am,” the shadow quickly replied in a tired, yet familiar voice.
“Look, buddy. It’s been a long week, and since I’m probably dreaming, just leave me alone and let me sleep in peace.” My persuasion attempt didn’t work, of course, and the figure stood his ground, still sitting in the corner, still scraping his nails against the wooden armrest, still quietly gasping for air.
The next words that the shadowy figure spoke shook me to my core.
“Son, you know who I am. You know why I’m here.”
My heart dropped into my stomach. I tried to force words out, but to no avail. All I could do was stare at the shadow and try to snap myself back into reality.
“There’s….no way,” I whispered to both myself and the figure.
‘This couldn’t be Dad. No freaking way. It’s a dream. It has to be, right?’ I thought to myself, pondering my sanity for a few more moments, but was snapped out of it when the shadow slowly stood up and began walking towards me, his right leg limping in the process. In his twenties, my dad fought in The Vietnam War, gaining a bum knee in the process. The shadow had the very same limp that my dad had had for as long as I could remember. A familiar scent also began filling the room. It smelled like…cheap cologne? The same crappy stuff that my dad always wore, even though we all hated it.
“This is your fault, ya know,” my dad said in a gravelly voice, his Cajun accent becoming more prevalent with each word. “I waited for a decade and a half for you to come back, for you to return to your rightful place here and take over as the man of the family. But what did ya go on a do? Ya left us and never came back, replacing us with those stuck-up city folk. I worked e’ry day to provide for our family. Worked till I dropped dead.”
The figure stopped in the middle of the room and the shadows that surrounded him seemed to be growing larger and darker. Faint sounds of metal hitting metal filled the room, echoing my father’s lifelong trade of welding and metalwork.
“What do you want with me? I never did anything to you,” I finally replied, having to force the words out in fear and confusion.
“I want ya to suffer, boy,” my specter of a father quickly said.
The darkening shadows surrounding him began to take the form of beasts and ghouls and other ghastly figures. They rushed past me, yelling words like “failure,” “nobody,” and “disappointment,” reminding me of the bleak opinions that my dad had for me later in his life.
After what seemed like hours or days or an eternity the shadowy figure that claimed to be my father quickly rushed towards me.
“You’re no son o’ mine,” he screamed as he passed directly through me, giving me electrified goosebumps in the process. One final explosion of darkness blew through the room, filling my body with dread and my soul with overwhelming terror.
I quickly shoved my things into my suitcase and hauled it toward my car, not even bothering to change out of my pajamas. I drove around town for the next thirty minutes or so in an exhausted haze, then pulled into a parking lot, deciding to try and get a few more hours of sleep.
The rising sun woke me, barely remembering why I wasn’t at the hotel in the first place. ‘Right, the shadows.’ I sat in my car, contemplating the night before, trying to determine if it all actually happened or if I had just dreamed it. I decided to go into a nearby restaurant to change into my suit and grab a quick breakfast before the funeral, figuring that I needed some form of sustenance before the miserable day that would follow.
I met my family at the cemetery and quietly sat through the funeral, occasionally comforting my mom and sister throughout the event. The casket was lowered into the ground, family members and close friends said their final goodbyes, then we began our trek back to our cars.
As I was leaving the gravesite my father’s lawyer stopped me and handed me an envelope.
“Your father wanted me to give this to you at his passing,” he said in a reserved tone.
“What is it,” I asked in confusion.
“No idea. But knowing him it’s rather important.” The lawyer patted my shoulder, then joined the rest of the crowd on their way to the cars.
Hesitantly, I opened the envelope, slightly struggling due to the thick paper that the envelope was made of. Inside was a tarot card. The card was worn and faded, but I could still make out what it represented: retribution. Along with the card was a small piece of paper with writing on it. It was in my father’s handwriting.
“I gave everything to you, boy. Everything that a father should give his son to have him raised up right. And what did you do to repay me? Ya left me and your mother and your sister to chase a fantasy, while I continued to toil and provide for our family. Damn you, boy. Damn your very existence from here on out. May you suffer the same fate that I did in your absence. May this card bring you nothing but misery for the rest of your days.”
I stared at the card again and was reminded of my dad’s upbringing in Cajun superstition. I never believed in the stuff, but after the night with the shadows, I may have changed my mind.
I joined my family at the car, shoving the card, letter, and envelope in my suit jacket pocket.
“What was that about,” my mother asked inquisitively.
“Nothing. Just….something from Dad.”
We drove away from the gravesite and out of the cemetery. I glanced at my familiar, childhood surroundings as we drove through town and felt a sense of dread. I placed my hand on my suit pocket and suddenly felt its paper inhabitants begin to make it heavier.
“This voodoo stuff can’t be real, can it,” I whispered with growing horror.
- A Trip Back Home - October 28, 2024
