Third Eye Gypsy Publication Writing Contest
You Will Never Guess Who Was All Sexy in my Bed
Hot. Believe it or Not.
Imagine this, if you can, it’s wild, I know. And believe it or not, this is a true account of a 1997 visitation.
I was seventeen years old.
Anyone who knows me, knows I’m woo. But this was even a little extra woo for me. A waking memory I will always remember.
It’s a cool fall night, about to get hot, my bedroom windows are open. You know that time of the year when the curtains between worlds are a little more threadbare.
As usual, I have music playing from my grey and blue plastic block of a cd player/radio. Classic rock is bouncing off my walls, as I jam out folding laundry.
As an only child, I’ve been alone for many moments of my life, not lonely — but also never quite feeling alone. Sometimes I feel presences, but they are nothing I have ever seen.
Until this cool fall October night.
And if this is the first and last spirit I see in full form, yeah, full form, my friends, I’m a lucky gal.
As I whip my bleach blond hair with the rainbow underdyed and dance my socks into their dresser, I feel someone in my room. Mind you; I do have a very active imagination. Never one to conjure ghosts, and for the record, stone cold sober on this night.
High on life and classic rock.
Did you know Incubus is now Classic rock? Shit, when did that happen?
Anyway, my back is to my bed.
I feel chills up my spine, flirt with my ear lobs, and then wrap around to the top of my head. Music, cool air, woo chills, and laundry. Just a regular night at the Lane household.
“For Those About to Rock (We Salute You)” by AC/DC fills the very already filled room.
I turn a slow half-turn around to the open doorway; it’s empty, only the darkened hallway in contrast to the lit bedroom.
There’s no one there.
I turn another slow half-turn around to my bed.
And I am certainly not alone!
.
.
.
There is a man on my bed.
.
.
.
And I know, for sure, this man is dead.
His hand is propped under his head, his ruffled long hair intertwined in his fingers. His feet are bare, as is his chest.
Oh my.
The only thing he wears is some tight-ass leather pants and a smile. A smile that would have definitely stopped any woman in their tracks when he was alive. I’m now stopped in mine, and this guy has been dead for decades.
And he is now sprawled out on my bed in his hotness.
Who is in my bed, you ask?
Have you guessed?
Can you even imagine this?
This isn’t some rando ghost in my bed.
.
.
.
This is —
Jim Fucking Morrison.
In.
My.
Bed.
I forget to breathe.
And no way am I calling the Ghostbusters for this one.
Hello, Jim. How do you do?
Fuck, the ghost of Jim Morrison is in my bed.
Swear on Miracle, fucking Jim Morrison is in my bed!
Breathe, Jenny, Breathe. It’s just the ghost of Jim Morrison, rock god, on your bed, no biggie.
Please stay as long as you’d like. How about a song or two Jim?
The Classic rock station cuts to an ad. And in the one moment, I look to the radio and back, Jim Morrison is gone.
Boooooooo!
I didn’t even get one song, dude.
But let’s be real here.
I was thoroughly freaked out.
I’ve believed in spirits my whole life, had never seen one, have never seen one since — but having the ghost of Jim Morrison in my Queen bed, although quite hot, scared the begeebies out of me.
Laundry be damned, I’m out of here!
I sat on the living room couch, eyes on my bedroom doorway in my peripheral. No, Jim and I sadly didn’t watch Back to the Future on the couch with popcorn that night.
I never saw the ghost of Jim Morrison again. And to this day, if anyone seriously asks me if I’ve seen a ghost — I do say yes.
And jokingly, I always answer:
“Yeah, I have. It was the ghost of Jim Morrison on my bed clad in leather pants shirtless.”
And I laugh and they laugh and that’s it.
And no one knows (except for the handful of trusted loved human beings I’ve told this story to and now you too) that when I answer, it’s the truth of that cool fall October night in 1997, at the age of 17, when Jim Morrison smiled at me on my bed.
Not a joke.
Hot.
Hey, if a ghost is going to visit, let it be a rock god with abs and tight leather pants. Yes, please.
Believe it or not. My full woo is out now.
Have you ever seen a ghost?
I’d love to hear your story! If you happen to write your own and get your woo out today, please tag me so I can read it! Yes, please.
With radical love
and now full-on woo,
🌈💜
~namaste~
Fact or Fiction? This is a piece written for the awesome pub here Third-Eye-Gypsy:
of Marilyn Glover for her writing contest. : )
Thank you dear Marilyn! And thank you Lotus Empress for the inspiration of this story in hers about Chunk, the cutest ghostbuster around!
Note about authors who personally narrate here on Medium: As of now, our human narrations are NOT calculated into our read time earnings. (Ai narration listening is, human narrations bypass any earnings) So if you listen, it would be a great help to us if you could also scroll through/read along. Thank you for listening!
Dear Tony Stubblebine,
Could we please make human narrations a priority here on Medium in the year of peace, 2023? It would be a wonderful gift for us. Hearing the human heart behind the words brings all of our hearts closer together in humanity. And good gracious do we need this. ❤
