Six Feet Over: Adventures in the Afterlife

Last Words

SOMEWHERE THIS past year, I read that the most powerful influences upon your opinion about paranormal phenomena are your friends and family. The closer you are to the teller of a ghost story, the more likely you are to believe that the ghost in the story was a ghost, and not a raccoon or a temporal lobe seizure. Your beliefs are formed not by researchers or debunkers or television psychics, unless perhaps one of them is your mother or your good pal. Your beliefs are formed by your own experiences and those of your inner circle. And then validated by the researchers or the debunkers or the television psychics.

Now that you’ve spent 275 pages with me, I suppose I almost fall into the category of a friend, or anyway, someone that you know. And you might be wondering what it is, at this point, I believe. Has my year among the evidence-gatherers left me believing in anything I didn’t believe in a year ago? It has. It has left me believing something Bruce Greyson believes. I had asked him whether he believes that near-death experiences provide evidence of a life after death. He answered that what he believed was simply that they were evidence of something we can’t explain with our current knowledge. I guess I believe that not everything we humans encounter in our lives can be neatly and convincingly tucked away inside the orderly cabinetry of science. Certainly most things can—including the vast majority of what people ascribe to fate, ghosts, ESP, Jupiter rising—but not all. I believe in the possibility of something more—rather than in any existing something more (reincarnation, say, or dead folks who communicate through mediums). It’s not much, but it’s more than I believed a year ago.

Perhaps I’m confusing knowledge and belief. When I say I believe something, I mean I know it. But maybe belief is more subtle. A leaning, not a knowing. Is it possible to believe without knowing? While there are plenty of people who’ll tell you they know God exists, in the same way that they know that the earth is round and the sky is blue, there are also plenty of people, possibly even the majority of people who believe in God, who do not make such a claim. They believe without knowing. I remember once standing in the kitchen of my friend Tim, having a conversation about organic milk. I explained, in my usual overagitated, long-winded way, why I wasn’t yet convinced of the need to part with an extra dollar a quart. I didn’t believe in organic milk. Tim, who buys organic milk, listened to me for a while, and then he shrugged. “It’s just a decision,” he said. In other words, you don’t have to go out and read every published paper on antibiotics and bovine growth hormone, weighing those that speak for milk’s safety against those that warn of its dangers, before you can decide to believe in buying organic. You don’t need proof. You just need an inclination.

Perhaps I should believe in a hereafter, in a consciousness that zips through the air like a Simpsons rerun, simply because it’s more appealing—more fun and more hopeful—than not believing. The debunkers are probably right, but they’re no fun to visit a graveyard with. What the hell. I believe in ghosts.