by Richard Seifried
Signal Hill Musings
December, 2007
Statistics indicate that as many as twenty-four percent of Americans believe in ghosts. I would argue that the percentage of believers is far higher. People just don’t want to admit it. I am one of the minority. I don’t believe in ghosts, I KNOW that they exist.
Way back in 1964, my first wife, Betty, our four oldest children, and I lived on the truly enchanting island of Tutuila, American Samoa. Our home, a hundred foot long concrete block structure, was in a 130 house settlement built by the United States government. Its name was Tafuna. We lived along a breath-taking coastline, seven miles from the main settlements, where most people and government employees lived.
Our Samoan home
On the second Sunday of our being there, having attended church in the morning, Betty was working in the tiny kitchen and I was sitting in the spacious, airy (our house had but two solid end walls and the sides were mostly screens) living room.
From the sandy, sun-blasted street came a peculiar noise. Clatter. Bang. Bang. Chug. Clatter. Clatter. Up our superhighway came a dirty, badly rusted VW bug. Father Heslin was paying us a visit.
He was a marvelous, extremely kind person. Sun bleached. Watery eyes. Hair like white silk. Father was a true pioneer, a Catholic missionary hailing from jolly old England. All of his garments were white, thus partially protecting him from the fierce tropical heat.
He came in and we gave him a glass of iced tea. He refused to stay for dinner. Betty had to keep working in the kitchen, listening through the open counter.
Initiating our conversation, Fr. Heslin told us how, before Tafuna was built, there was no road. He would have to take a pao pao (an outrigger canoe) to Fatumafuti and then by horseback ride the very long trail to Leone, where his second church was located.
Father paused. He seemed somewhat uneasy. For a time we said nothing.
Then, rather forcefully he began. His words were something like the following: “The reason I am here is to give you some advice. You are Americans and most of you are closed-minded, unable to accept certain aspects of reality.”
He had our attention.
“There are some things in Samoa that Palagais (people from the States and Europe) refuse to accept.”
I asked him what he meant.
“For instance, there are ghosts.”
Betty let out a loud burst of laughter. Her response made me angry. Although her reaction was understandable, it was rude. I’m sure that she was sorry.
Father Heslin, rather red-faced, continued.
“There! You see what I am talking about and why I came here to warn you.”
I sat, captivated, listening to father’s stories. What he was warning us about was that there was a red headed ghost, an aitu, who protected foreigners, particularly white people. Whenever one was in danger (and there were dangers in Samoa), the aitu would protect us. He would also warn us by knocking three times.
His responsibility concluded, Father Heslin rattle-de-banged back down our sandy street.
Our bedroom was rather small. We slept with our heads a mere foot or so from the screen canvass-covered outside wall. Over the following two years, Betty would hear someone walk up to our wall, just inches away, and listen to see if we were breathing, as in sleep. She would hit me on the chest, causing me to come wide-awake. I would lie there listening, while she went back to sleep.
A few weeks after Fr. Heslin’s visit, during the first full moon, I was awakened by a very loud knock. Opening my eyes, I saw the louvered wall to the hallway trembling in the moonlight. Perhaps I had imagined it.
No. Another knock sent the wall quivering in the fantastic tropical moonlight.
Then another. Three knocks.
Fully awake, I decided that I had better check on the children. I slid the door open. The hall was empty. Steve was sound asleep. So were Carol, Jane, and Julie. Everyone was safe.
I made my way down the hall to the kitchen and living room. Both front and back doors were secure. My action may sound foolish, but I knew that we were being protected. I went outside, into that amazing moonlight, and saw no one.
There was no doubt in my mind – and still isn’t today – that something, someone likely, had been a danger to us but our red headed aitu had protected us, driven it away.
That was my first-ever experience with what we call the supernatural.
Life is such a wonder. Signal Hill is no exception. Strange energies abound here in our Ozark Mountains. More ghost stories later!
