Home for Wayward Spirits: Part 1

by Shannon Kostyal

I’m often asked how it started. Being a foster parent is challenging work, but fostering lost spirits is something else entirely. And I mean that in the most literal sense. Ghosts, fae, brownies… ghosts are generally who I take in, more often than not - but I don’t discriminate. I love them all, and all are welcome. And with the right amount of care and patience, I’m usually able to help them find their forever home. 

Thinking back on my past, I can probably pinpoint where it began. I was only a teen at the time; too young for traditional foster work. But the spirit world doesn’t necessarily abide by human regulations. 

Growing up, it was just my mom, sister, and I. We lived in a quiet little town. The kind you might read about as part of an opening Stephen King novel. While I hated horror in general, I grew up with a low-level disappointment in the lack of paranormal activity and fantastical bizarreness. It felt like our lives should be more exciting. There was magic out there - I could feel it down to my soul… but wherever I looked, it was like trying to peer through fog. Everything muffled in a cloud of horrid normality. Adults seemed to indicate that it was just part of growing up. I hated it.

That spring break started off much as any of the others had. Mom worked as an admin at an MRI office so wasn’t able to do things with me while school was on break. My sister was in college, and I was in my junior year of high school, only months away from starting senior year. I lived in a weird half-state of feeling like I had all the time in the world to decide what to do after high school, and paradoxically feeling like I had no time at all. My friends were talking about their dream colleges and majors, or which branch of the military they planned to join. And me? I felt like I was holding my breath, desperately waiting for… I don’t know what. Something.

I spent my spring break reading and roaming about town. Sometimes with friends, but sometimes alone. There wasn’t much of a booming social life where we lived, but we had a few small businesses, to include my favorite used bookstore and a funky old thrift shop that tried to present itself as an antiques store. Every town and city has at least one. Mostly those stores wind up being glorified junk yards with roofs, filled with old plastic toys and other knickknacks. But every now and then an interesting item gets donated.

It was early into spring break when I first saw it. I’d been on my way to the bookstore when I saw a new shipment of donations sitting outside the thrift shop, waiting to be cataloged and brought inside. Curious, I was drawn in and quickly fixated on a vintage dresser. 

It wasn’t like anything I’d seen in the stores before: A beautiful aged sage green paint, embellished with hand-painted florals in faded whites and pastels. There was an almost grey quality to some of the white blossoms. No doubt from age. The dresser top surface was a rich russet brown. But it was the add-ins that really made it unusual. There were little wooden compartments that rose up from the top, sage green like the body of the dresser. Upon closer inspection I saw that they weren’t attached - just matching wooden boxes, some with flat top lids, and one that rose taller and had a delicate double swinging door closure. An oval mirror rose up from a decorative wrought iron centerpiece and was framed on either side by candle holders. 

I reached out and traced the surface of the dresser with my fingers, thrilling at a faint jolt of excitement. I could feel the tiny abrasions and time-worn crackle of the paint against my fingertips. The intriguing tactile tracing of bumps and cracks in the paint was almost addictive. I found myself following the whirls of the floral patterns with my eyes, completely mesmerized as I realized the swoosh of delicate painted lines mirrored the lines of the decorative wrought iron mirror. This was the one. I needed this dresser; it was the most beautiful piece of furniture I’d ever seen. I crouched down, scanning the front and sides of the dresser, looking for any sign of a price tag. Nothing.

I glanced to the front of the store, and in doing so, finally saw the rest of the donations. The parking lot was pretty crowded with furniture, boxes, and bags. Chances were high this had all been part of an estate. It would probably take the store owner the next couple of days to sort through everything, bring it all inside, and price it.

Straightening, I rested my hand on the dresser, reluctant to leave it, but knowing that staying wouldn’t make any of the processing go faster. With a lingering caress for one of the wrought iron candle holders, I sighed and continued on to the bookstore. The image of that dresser stayed in my mind, however, obsession taking root. I couldn’t explain why. While it was an intriguing, unique antique, I’d never been much into interior decorating before. But now? All I knew was that I needed that dresser. 

That following weekend, everything changed. That Saturday was the day my mom, sister, and I made an outing to the thrift store. My not so subtle pleading for us to go probably factored into the decision. 

Mom thought I would see the dresser and realize it wasn’t as special as I initially thought (and that I’d finally shut up about it). My sister was mildly interested, but mostly she was bored. Her friends had gone on a road trip for spring break, but she’d stayed behind to work on a major writing assignment. The family trip to the thrift store was at least a break from her keyboard. And a chance to poke some fun at me, as older siblings do. 

No one, including myself, was prepared for the ramifications of bringing that dresser home.