Los Angeles is filled with ghosts. There are the ghosts of the once glorious buildings on Broadway downtown. The ghosts of a Spanish settlement at the Pueblo. Ghosts of railroad tracks and crumbling walls of once grand manors in the hills surrounding the town. Ghosts of times once glamorous, before it all sort of lost it’s sheen.
There are also lots and lots of actual ghosts. Yes, the sometimes spooky variety. Footsteps and creaking closet doors opening and closing on the top floor of the house I lived in my first half year in the States, and nobody there but me. The comforting spirit of my close childhood friend – he had passed just a couple of months before my move- sitting on a bench with me on New Year’s Eve.
The two ghosts at the doggie daycare, that would flip your neatly folded towels back on the floor when I turned your back, threw spices at me when I sat at the break room table and got all the dogs barking and howling after they had settled in for the night. The male spirit wearing a top hat at the warehouse, making my computer go all crazy and giving me dizzy spells.
Most of the myriad of ghosts I encountered in Los Angeles were harmless light beings that liked to play jokes or talk into my ear when I tried to fall asleep. Except for one really dark one in Griffith Park on a steep side trail that goes off the beaten path. At its steepest your hair will stand on end and you will feel a dark cloud come over you, literally taking your breath away. The bad energy was so thick it clouded my vision. Even Lola started to freak out, hackles up, tail between her legs and pulling on the leash like there is no tomorrow. First I thought it was just a fluke, second time it happened in the same spot I swore off that trail forever.