You're listening to Sala by Abigail Washburn, a Patagonia music benefit track for the China branch of Jane Goodall Institutes, Roots and Shoes.

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When the fall weather finally turned cooler in California, I'd start checking out books of scary stories from the library.

Tucked safely amongst my blankets, I'd read one after another.

I love the creeping sensation that would slowly slither up my neck, the shallowness of my breath as I reached the story's end.

I simultaneously believed and didn't believe the stories.

They were silly, too far fetched to have actually happened.

But what if there was even just a bit of truth in them?

I grew up in an old house that creaked and popped at night.

Doors would open unexpectedly, cold air drafts that flickered candle flames seemed to appear and disappear without a predictable rhythm.

These things only bothered me when I really started to think about what was making them happen.

Otherwise, it was my house, safe, comfortable, ordinary.

But when the Christmas tree fell over three times one year, my sister and I saw another explanation.

The simplest one, of course.

We had a resident ghost. It was friendly, but sometimes a little clumsy.

Our ghost was something to be proud of.

Our friends would ask whether there had been any recent sightings or incidents.

And we'd report the random house foibles that we attributed to our ghost.

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