I joined the ghost walk just after sundown, the air cooling quick in that Blue Ridge way, where the warmth of day drains fast once the sun slips behind the ridges. The guide’s lantern cast a soft circle as we moved through Salem’s narrow streets. Crickets stitched their steady chorus into the background, and every so often a breeze carried the faint scent of woodsmoke from a chimney already preparing for autumn.

Most of the stories were familiar shapes, soldiers, sudden deaths, whispered names of old hotels and graveyards, but when the guide began to speak of the Pinkard house the tone shifted. The group leaned in as if pulled closer by the story itself.

She told us about John Henry Pinkard, the folk healer of the late 1800s, known for his jars of roots and tinctures. People came to him when doctors had no answers, and sometimes he helped. Sometimes he did not. What lingered, though, was stranger. The shelves of jugs were said to cry at night, their sealed mouths releasing low moans like breath struggling to escape. Some neighbors said it was only the gases of fermenting herbs. Others believed the jars had absorbed the voices of sickness, that the house itself had become a keeper of grief.

Even after Pinkard was gone, the house never grew quiet. Passersby swore they saw a figure slip across the windows, or felt a heaviness press against their chest as they walked by, as if the building itself was paying close attention. The guide paused then, and the silence of the street seemed to deepen. The insects still sang, but softer, and the cool air carried just enough stillness to make the tale feel near.

There was no violent history to anchor the story, no single bloody tragedy. Just a house that remembered every whispered prayer and every final breath that crossed its threshold. The kind of haunting that does not scream but sighs.

By the time the walk ended and I made my way back toward the car, the streets were nearly empty. Porch lights glowed here and there, throwing shadows across old fences. I found myself glancing up at the darker houses, wondering which one might have been the Pinkard place, wondering if even now it still remembered, if somewhere inside, a jar was letting out a slow, sorrowful breath into the night air.

Saturday night, rain steady outside. One of those nights where the streetlights look blurry and the whole world feels a little softer. Made some chamomile tea and put on Working Girl. Been a while since I last saw it, but it’s still such a comfort watch.

Melanie Griffith’s Tess McGill is the heart of it. A Staten Island secretary with brains, nerve, and that quiet kind of hope you recognize if you’ve ever felt underestimated. Sigourney Weaver is all sleek suits and sharp edges as Katharine Parker. Harrison Ford grins his way through as Jack Trainer, but he softens in the right places.

Mike Nichols captures late 80s New York like a living thing. Office lights buzzing, taxis honking, the smell of copier toner and coffee you can almost taste. Carly Simon’s “Let the River Run” rolls over it all like a hymn, and suddenly you believe Tess can climb her way to the top with nothing but grit and a borrowed suit.

Watching it now feels like finding an old Polaroid in a shoebox — colors faded, but alive. Tess feels real. She could be someone you’d see at a diner counter, scribbling plans in a notebook over a cup of coffee that’s gone cold.

Saw a possum wander past the window while the rain kept on, steady and soft. The kind of small moment that makes you smile without thinking. By the time the credits rolled, I felt lighter. The movie’s a reminder that ambition can be kind, and stubbornness can be gentle.

A good film for a rainy night.