The familiar stranger

PHOTO BY GIL HAFNER

How one woman dealt with an unwanted guest

By W. H. Hinkley

BOZEMAN, Mont. (June 2, 2006) — These days, Barbara Hicks sleeps with the lights on.

As usual, Hicks, 70, is nervous. She doesn’t know if her husband will show. It’s been two days. The last time he came for a visit he got angry and upset most of the chairs in her kitchen.

“I’m scared to think what he’ll do next,” she says in a shaky voice.

Hicks’ son, Albert, 34, isn’t sure what all the fuss is about. His father’s been dead almost two years.

“I keep telling her there isn’t a ghost in her house,” he says, embarrassed. “She must be imagining things.”

Albert doesn’t believe in the paranormal. He considers himself “a realist,” like his father.

He does have a reasonable explanation, though.

“I saw the way my father treated her, the way he abused her. It wouldn’t surprise me if it were all in her head,” he says.

Hicks’ hands are shaking. She hasn’t slept more than a few hours since the last episode. She attempts to lift her coffee cup to her thin lips, but fails, spilling some on her knuckles. Albert notices and helps her, gently supporting the back of her head as he feeds her the black liquid. “You really need some sleep, Ma,” he says.

Albert goes to the refrigerator and gets some cream for his mother’s coffee. “I don’t know how you can drink it so black,” he says, hoping to get a laugh out of her. But she’s not listening.

After a few moments of deep silence, a small wooden chair in the living room falls over, hitting the coffee table. Hicks jumps. “He’s here!” she says, her eyes as large as billiard balls. Suddenly her cat, Cornwall, darts toward her and cowers under her dress.

“See, it was just the cat,” Albert says, shaking his head.

“Don’t you see how scared he is?” she snaps back.

“He was probably the one who knocked those chairs over the other day.”

“But I saw it happen!” she screams, her lower lip quivering wildly. “Why don’t you believe me?”

He slams the refrigerator door, then: “That’s it. You’re coming home with me.”

▪ ▪ ▪

On the way to her son’s house, Hicks is noticeably better, though still wide-eyed. Save for a few grunts from her son, the two aren’t saying much.

Hicks is tracing a run in her stocking with a thin finger, trying to get up the courage to break the ice.

“I saw Bob today,” Albert says, saving her the trouble. Bob is an old high school buddy of Albert’s. They were both star wide receivers on the football team at Bozeman High School. “He’s got a nice house in Gardner. Said he wants us to come over for a cookout.”

Hicks nods, barely looking at her son.

“I think you should see someone,” he says after a few moments. “Maybe you could get something to help you sleep.”

“It’s my home,” she says. “He can’t take it from me again.”

His face bunches. He knows all too well how stubborn his mother can be. “I know,” he says, defeated.

“It’s my home,” she says.

▪ ▪ ▪

That night, Hicks, her son, her daughter-in-law and grandson have pot roast. Hicks is the only one not eating.

“You should eat something, Ma,” her son says. “You haven’t eaten much the last two days.”

“I’m fine,” she says almost inaudibly. She takes a butterscotch candy from her purse and shakily puts it in her mouth.

Albert’s wife, Helen, is pregnant with their second child. Her right hand rests on her large belly. She could give birth any day now. She places her fork down and gently touches one of Hicks’ small, pale hands. “I know someone who can help you,” she says.

“Oh, don’t start that again,” Albert says, disgusted.

She gives him a dirty look, then: “I know a woman who can help you with your husband.”

The woman Helen’s referring to is Betty Wiles, a cleanser and conductor of séances. For a hefty sum, she clears ghosts from people’s homes and communicates with the dead. She even has a guarantee: she’ll shoo the presence from your home — or your money back.

Sometimes spirits take pleasure in controlling us. So it’s up to us to hit ‘em in the mouth.

— Betty Wiles, a cleanser and conductor of séances

Hicks seems intrigued by the idea. She looks happily at Helen. “I guess it can’t hurt,” she says.

▪ ▪ ▪

Two nights later, Wiles arrives at Hicks’ home. She’s wearing a purple dress and necklace. Her hair is white and frizzy. She speaks in a monotone. “I can already feel the energy,” she says, barely through the front door.

Albert rolls his eyes, prompting a rib shot from his wife. “Behave,” she says. Albert doesn’t want to be here, but he knows his mother needs the support.

Wiles walks about the living room, her hands out in front of her. She touches her face every so often. “This part of the house definitely has energy,” she says.

About an hour later, Wiles says she wants to conduct a séance. Hicks isn’t so sure.

“I don’t want him to get mad,” she says, grabbing her dress.

“You want him to control you forever?” Wiles says, to the surprise of everyone but Albert, who hasn’t stopped rolling his eyes.

“No.”

“Sometimes spirits take pleasure in controlling us. So it’s up to us to hit ‘em in the mouth.”

Albert and Wiles take the round kitchen table to the living room and all, including Hicks’ grandson, form a circle. Wiles gets three candles and lights them, then turns off all the lights, scaring Hicks’ grandson, 5, who hugs his father at the waist.

After about 10 minutes, everyone sits and Wiles tells all to join hands. Wiles’ eyes close. One of the candles flickers, startling Hicks. A few moments later, Wiles begins speaking in her usual monotone: “I’m going to ask you all to think of the person in question. Remember anything you can about that person.”

An uneventful hour goes by. Then another. Without opening her eyes, Wiles speaks again: “Someone in the circle thinks we’re wasting our time.”

Helen glares at her husband, increasing her grip on his hand. “Ouch,” he says, pulling his hand away.

Wiles turns the lights on and blows out the candles. “I knew I should have screened everyone,” she says. “I felt some strong energies. I thought this would come easy.”

On her way out the door, Wiles tells Hicks she’ll grant her a refund — unless she wants to keep trying?

“No,” Hicks says, “I think I’ll be fine.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah, I’ve decided he can have the house.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Hicks says confidently. “But he can’t have me.”