Why I believe in ghosts

I have a deeply personal post I need to write, but it won't make sense without the context. So I'm going to break it up into multiple parts. They might seem disconnected to begin with.

This is part one.

In 2009, Talia and I went on a Contiki tour of Europe. Despite being the only married couple (we were only 22!) on a Contiki tour, we managed to have a great time touring Europe without getting too sloshed along the way. I even set the Contiki record for the number of double-scoop gelati eaten in a single, beautiful, Venetian day.

One of our stops was a little more sombre. Mauthausen.

Mauthausen was one of the cruelest of the Nazi concentration camps. Operating from 1938 to 1945 (when it was liberated by the Americans), the camp was notorious for its harsh living conditions, brutal treatment of prisoners, and the sadistic "Arrow Cross" guards. After about 2 hours drive north from Vienna, our tour group was expecting a sombre day. The group arrived, and lead by a tour guide, surveyed the camp learning about its various functions. Everyone was appropriately gloomy.

But something different happened for me.

The moment I walked into the camp, before even seeing a single plaque, room, or photograph, a heavy presence settled over me. I began crying uncontrollably. For the entire tour, I followed behind the group at a distance, barely hearing a word from our guide, just sobbing. It's hard to describe the sensation. It was like a weight was hooked to my soul. It was a sudden-onset desperate grief.

The moment I left the camp, the depression lifted. I stopped crying almost as suddenly as I started. I was on the bus again, confused, trying to describe the experience to Talia. What just happened? Was that normal? I wouldn't stop thinking about it for days.

But eventually, of course, I did. The whole incident became a wasn't that strange? story which we recalled a few times over the years. Almost forgotten.

Until last week.