Seneca, PA: Is There a Ghost? (an edited post from before)

I spent five years living in Seneca, PA. I had great fun during those years, and remember a few stories. I could still see the way everything used to be in my imagination.

I could see our old shed-barn that we raised pigs and chickens in; fed cows and our one pony from; and got into lots of trouble in and on. It sat maybe 100 yards to the side of the house, amidst the other 10 acres of grass (there was another 10 acres of woods) that the church owned.

I could still see myself as a six year old coming out of the barn, asking my neighbor not to tell me the joke--I had to pee, I pleaded. No luck. She went ahead anyway. Naturally, the realization that if I laughed I would certainly pee myself made me laugh, and, well, start to pee. So, being the clever chap I am, I pulled up the leg of my swimming shorts. No, I hadn't been swimming. I just liked to wear swimming shorts (Now I think it's too bad Nike encourages foreigners to mistreat children in order to make such things...how naive I was). Anyway. I pulled them up... She was pleased. And by pleased I mean she was laughing. And by laughing I mean she was probably still laughing at her own joke and still hadn't noticed what I was doing. Who knows. Nevertheless, I was peeing. And it felt great. And she was laughing. Life was good. But, you know what's better than good? Great! of course. So I went for Great! It seemed like it would be funnier if I were peeing on her. Now don't fault my logic too much (I was six), jokes are always funnier when someone gets peed on after the punch-line. And so I peed. I soaked her leg, and a little of her denim shorts. She kept laughing. Well, sometimes it was hard to differentiate between her laughing and her screams. I could never tell whether she was upset or whether what I said was very funny. Often, I figured, I was just a funny child. And there's nothing girls like better than a boy who's funny. But, sensing the noises coming from her to be screams rather than laughter, I ran to the house to grab a washcloth.

Now, keep in mind that I'm watching myself do this while other people I haven't seen in a decade stand around...

So--I grabbed the washcloth. My mother, being the ever-wise woman in my life, curiously followed me to the back door and watched me run to the barn. From the porch she asked what had happened. The girl quickly confessed, and, well, later that night I got a spanking with a bamboo stick. And then I screamed that I hated my dad--quite on accident, pain really brings the worst out in a boy--and was mandated another 40 minus one lashings. Luckily I had hidden the cat of nine tails.

And so I tell you all that to wonder about this:

staying in my old house--Seneca's parsonage--that night brought back all kinds of visions. It was like I was unable to think normally. The very structure I was in continually triggered images and memories. I hadn't experienced anything like that, and all from a simple structure. It was like it had pieces of me. Pieces from my past that still existed, if only in that structure. I find the same thing happens with people. The people at Seneca still had pieces of me, even if they were from a more incomplete age. Those pieces still exist. And instead of something profound, all I'm wondering is this: Do you think it's possible that if the pieces were infused with such emotion--or human power--that the pieces from someone elses life could take on an aura, feeling, shape, or energy of their own that others could sense? If I'm horribly murdered, for example, and my fingernails are scratched off and into the wall, is it possible that the pieces of myself that I left in that room could cause someone else to sense them like I would sense them if I walked back into the room?