ghost stories


How does one politely tell the spirits to bugger off?

They mean well. I know this. Our dead family only has our best interests at the center of their wispy insubstantial hearts, but my personal preference is to live in psychically deaf ignorance of any coming catastrophes or even minor bumps. And I am not talking “bumps” in the night.

Or the early morning light.

I haven’t been able to get a full night’s uninterrupted sleep since Rob’s heart attack. Some of it, I will concede, is the reactivation of my caregiver’s spidey sense, but the physical presence(s) in our room are not helping.

For some reason, I am able to tune in to the frequency of the departed with nerve jangling clarity in the early morning hours. I wake nearly every night to the powerful sense of someone standing by the windows.

Thursday morning I was awakened by footsteps that started at the door and ended at the foot of the bed. I started because they were loud and opened my eyes to spy a human shape heading towards Rob’s side of the bed.

Sunrise filtered illuminated the shape and I assumed it was Rob. He is often up to use the bathroom on the main floor. I heard him ask,

“What’s wrong?”

“I heard footsteps,” I told him and thinking now that they were his, I went back to sleep.

Only it wasn’t Rob.

Later as I thought about it more – while sitting in the ER as the doctor tried to determine if Rob had suffered another heart attack – I realized that the figure was clad in light coloured clothing. Rob’s robe is dark and even when he shuns it – which he isn’t at the moment with my mother visiting – he is dark.

The chest pains turned out to be a reaction to the Lipitor, which is another kettle of fish for another day, but as I headed into town to spring Rob from the Fort Hospital – also a tale for a day soon – Metallica came on the radio.

Metallica is hardly in popular radio rotation anymore. When the rare song turns up, it usually comes at “interesting” moments in my life. As they were my late husband’s favorite band, I have to wonder at the timing.

“These are definitely messages for you, ” Rob remarked when I told him about it later.

Perhaps I should pay more attention than he did.


My house is haunted. Literally. And though they (yes, there is more than one and only two of them are connected to us personally) have been very quiet since last fall when I lost my temper a couple of times with the non-family ones, it seems they are back. Things are happening again. Banging noises in empty rooms. Footsteps overhead where no one is. Rustling sounds of activity that have no discernible origin.

The topper was the other night after we had gone to bed and Rob felt someone pressing on the side of his face. This has happened to him before and I am glad they choose him because that sort of thing would earn them a scalding verbal lashing from me, but I am not glad to know that the weirdness of late is a return of creepiness and bad b-movie spiritual cheesiness.

So what do my ghost-busting issues have to do with you? Tell me a ghost story. Personal or one you remember from slumber party or camping days of yore. Write it. Link to it. Something scary (and ugly women don’t count, Uncle Keith) for all to enjoy.

Here is my story. Looking forward to hearing, seeing or listening to yours.