So.

I have a friend who has been asking me to share our most-recent ghost-y story, and I've promised her I would.

I know. It sounds strangely Dickens-ian to be sharing a story about ghosts at Christmastime, but I swear I'm not appropriating here. Plus I for one think this story speaks of a house anointed with good juju, derived from good humans who have lived here over time. But that might be just me. Here we go.

It all started with Gabe.

This past early summertime, he wandered down one morning saying he wasn't feeling well. My Mommy-reflex guided my hand to his forehead. The kid was burning up.

He spent the day on the sofa, alternatively covering himself up and tossing the covers off. And, by the end of the second day, was much cooler and feeling better.

I had a niggly feeling.

I asked about ticks, which seemed to be holding a family reunion in our gardens at the time, and he insisted he hadn't found any on his body.

I made him strip down to his boxers and we searched (he searched his nether regions himself). We checked his hair carefully, and were satisfied that he was tick free.

And general rash free.

And also bullseye free.

I was dubious...

Had that 'mom feeling'.

Gabe did that eye-rolling teenager thing. An indication that I was overreacting when I said Lyme.

And, go figure, for a couple of days he was perfectly fine, going for runs and working out and getting ready to start his summer job.

But then the fever came back, and aches.

Down to urgent care we went.

The nurses and docs were great, and suspected Lyme right away.

They drew blood and started him on a prophylactic dose of doxycycline. They'd had enough cases in Maine during the spring and early summer that they weren't messing around.

We headed home and Gabe took some Tylenol, nibbled at some food, and we binged a bit of Netflix as he lounged on the sofa. At some point, after night had drifted over the island, he announced he was headed to bed.

The next morning he came downstairs with a look on his face.

"I've been awake since four o'clock." he deadpanned. "The ghost is back."

When I laughed, he added "Not. Funny."

He went on to describe the happening that had prompted his announcement.

When he went to bed, he'd kicked all the covers off the bed because he was so hot. The quilt, sheet, and blanket all ended up in a heap on the floor.

At 4:02 a.m. Gabe woke up freezing.

He sat up, and reached down to the floor to grab his blanket.

That's when he realized he could feel it, with his feet.

On the bed.

He sat up slowly and saw his blanket, folded perfectly - perfectly, he stressed. It was laying across the foot of his bed in that accordion way that allowed him to just reach down, grasp the top, and pull it up to cover his bed - and himself - easily.

He asked if I did it.

Nope.

He asked if JoHn did it.

Nope.

His eyes were wide, eyebrows standing at peak position, a conclusion implied.

He quickly added, heading off any possible accusation from either of us, that he was not delirious when this happened.

He didn't have to say anything about his folding abilities. I'm pretty sure I've never seen Gabe fold anything.

JoHn was all "Whoa!"

They both looked at me because I'm... well, I'm Mom ('Bellweather' is part of my job description.)

I smiled, much to their consternation.

I told the now two eye-rolling men that this is a good house. I wasn't worried. Nope, not even a bit.

Any spirits hanging out here are clearly good, and warm, and welcoming.

It's all good, I said.

And I meant it (and mean it).

Us being here - in this house - for whatever reason, was meant to be. I've known this since I first walked through the door, and I still believe it now.

Also, nor for nothin', but not one nasty ghost has turned my television all snowy. Not one tree has come alive, smashed it's creepy branch through my window during a storm, and tried to kidnap one of my kids. Plus I hardly ever hear that strange baby-lady voice urging me to stay away from the light.

Which is pretty much proof (I'm just sayin').

So, in the spirit of a house that will happily - and apparently perfectly - ready your favorite warm and snuggly blanket for you should you get Lyme disease (and Anaplasmosis) from an invisible tick, I share with you some photos of The Inn* (in the gallery to the right) and its little Christmas vignettes this holiday season.

I've been dreaming of magic-ing up the The Inn at Christmastime for years, and had such a great time working on it.

Whether I did it all alone... or with some guiding energy from good folks passed?

I'm not tellin'.

Thanks for readin’.

*The Inn is not an inn right now, but was the old Southport Inn (known for its ‘shore dinners’) until about 1944. 

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