If you don't hear from me by Monday, contact 1-800-Ghostbusters

Okay, so, um, I'm going off to stay in a haunted hotel this weekend. And it has nothing to do with Halloween or is anything I sought out. In fact, the idea of me knowingly and willingly going to a haunted anything is extremely ironic, as my number one fear in life is, without a doubt, ghosts. (Sushi is a close second.)

I am headed down to San Diego this weekend, and my friend managed to snag a room at the famous Hotel del Coronado, a luxury beach resort that, to be fair, sounds like an ideal place to hang out for the rest of eternity. The tale goes like this: a 28 year old woman named Kate Morgan checked in on Thanksgiving Day, 1892. She was found a few days later at the bottom of a flight of stairs with a gunshot wound to her head. For a long time it was thought to be self-inflicted, but now some think the husband was to blame. A recent press release on the site claims regular ghost sightings and weird occurances like things flying off shelves and landing perfectly upright, creaking floorboards and flickering lights, pictures that contain paranormal orbs, and basically everything I have suffered nightmares about for the past 30 years.

I don't know why - for as long as I can remember, I have had a strange fascination yet simultaneous debilitating fear of the paranormal. As a child, I would be drawn to books, TV shows, and movies about ghosts; but then I would be fearful for days of something coming after me. I would delve into Stephen King books, watch cheesy horror movies like Poltergeist 2 or even something as benign as Scooby Doo through covered eyes; and then I would lay awake for hours with my lights on, until finally giving in and running up into my mother's bedroom. In between Steven King novels, I became hooked on non-fiction books about the occult, relishing every ghostbusting tale Ed and Lorraine Warren put forth, and then not sleep a wink for days after. I became convinced there were ghosts in my house, things all around me I could not see; but because I was so scared, I must be picking up on something. Right?

This craziness went on until maybe halfway through high school. (I remember running home from JV Cheerleading practice one evening, convinced the clown from It was after me.) Then one day I decided that I had had enough, that I would never open a Stephen King book or watch a horror movie again. I decided that 15 was too old to be sleeping in my mom's bed. Although I still regularly slept with the lights on until I went to college.

Once in college, I always had roommates, and a life, and so never gave much thought to the stuff. Until I went home, anyway, and my childhood memories would resurface. By the time I was 21 or so, I was going to bed drunk almost every night, so I didn't have trouble sleeping, but I've always had nightmares. To this day, I have nightmares. Almost always about ghosts. And quite often they take place in my old house. Often the ghost takes on the form of my old cat, Pookie. I still have this dream, had it earlier this week in fact, way before I knew anything about the hotel and the lovely Kate Morgan.

Have I shared too much? If so, it's only because it's 11:15 PM and I am absolutely terrified to go to bed now; worried that my thoughts on this subject will manifest into fears that will keep me from falling asleep, and then, turn into nightmares that will keep me awake. It looks like I may finish this wine bottle, and then sleep with the lights on. That is, if I sleep at all.