The names have been changed but the story is true
It was a warm, sunny day with just enough of a breeze to keep the temperature comfortable. I was sitting at a picnic table in front of the apartment I shared with my “then” boyfriend, Dale. Seated on the table with my feet on the bench I stared at the front door, pondering my options.
The apartment had a split floor plan with two master suites separated by a living room. One of the suites had been converted to an office for Dale’s business. He was in his office at that moment on a long distance call to his new love interest, Annie, with whom he had begun a relationship while in the mid-west attending his brother Evan’s funeral. Annie was Evan’s presumably bereaved girlfriend and mother of his child.
As I was sitting there trying not to listen to the steady drone of conversation coming through the wall behind me I caught sight through the window of a man walking out of our bedroom and heading towards Dale’s office. I waited for a break in the conversation or some other acknowledgement that the visitor had entered the room. Who was this person and how did he get into the apartment when I was sitting in front of the only door and had a clear view of every window? Completely puzzled, I waited for the phone call to end.
Finally I heard Dale say his good-byes. Walking into the apartment I met him in the living room. “Did a man walk into your office”?
He almost laughed, “No”.
“You didn’t see anyone”?
“No, how could anyone get into the apartment? Did you see someone”?
“Yes. I was outside and saw a man through the window. He came out of our bedroom and was heading towards your office”.
Dales face went slack. “What did he look like”?
“He was tall and thin, about the same build as you but he had dark hair”.
A few moments passed as Dale stood there staring at nothing, “You just described my brother”.
That night I was awakened by Dale talking in his sleep. He kept repeating the words “Annie, I love you”. So I did what anyone else would do; I woke him up and asked him if he knew what he had been saying in his sleep. He said he did and that it wasn’t him, it was his brother talking through him. I passed this off as him not being ready to admit his feelings to me and was disgusted that he would use his deceased brother as a scapegoat.
During the remainder of that night I was awakened twice more, not by talking but by the feeling of someone choking me. The first time I was pulled out of a deep sleep. The second time it was just as I was drifting off. I finally decided to get up and it was there in the early morning hours that I understood the message.
Evan had been schizophrenic and had refused to take his medication. During his last episode he had committed suicide. His spirit was troubled at leaving Annie with a six-month old baby. He was trying to tell us that he was in support of the union between Dale and Annie. He wanted Dale to take care of his family.
In the days that followed Dale was troubled, not because his brother had visited but because I was the one to see him. He began trying to contact his brother; he even created a scrying booth in which he would sit every evening but Evan did not return. He asked me why his brother appeared to me when I had never even met him.
Well, this is the best answer I have. On top of our mantle was an urn holding some of Evan’s ashes. Dale and his mother agreed they would each keep an urn for one year and then meet and scatter the ashes together. Dale had wanted to keep lit candles next to the urn at all times as a memorial. The problem was he did not pay attention to the wax level and the candles would burn out which would upset him Out of respect for his loss I took it upon myself to keep tall, glass cylinder candles lit at all times. Each time I lit a new candle I would say a little prayer for Evan that he may be at peace. It was only later that I learned that souls travel by candle light. I had been the keeper of the flame; the one who opened the door.
Do you have a true ghost story? Leave a comment and share with us.
A Ponderance of Things 
October 31, 2009 at 6:30 am
LIFE: much like a favorite old garment woven-patched-worn-hemmed-re patched-reworn…and loved
THE HOUSE: rescued from near demolition-patched-repaired-expanded-improved-worn-repaired-re improved…and loved.
As one reads one must ask…Can it be so? Was it truly meant to be? How can this be explained???
Beginning many years ago THE HOUSE first appeared to my mother in a dream ..described by her to a “T” including the physical surroundings which are very unique….and with it a warning “Something terrible is going to happen there.” For years I avoided purchasing or even entering any house that remotely resembled “the dream”
Beginning many years ago THE HOUSE was next revealed to me in the form of a recurring dram…a large home with many staircases…many doors..filled with people I did not recognise and constant activity yet above all LOVE. I thought to myself “What is this..Where is this..What does this mean?” My attitude transformed from one of fear to curiosity.
Today I am writing from a bedroom in this home that I call “mine”..where the people and events of a family past co exist with the people and events of the present…at times we “bump” into each other and that is ok now…we understand. “WE” the present inhabitants fondly speak of those footsteps we hear..the banging of the cupboards..the odd smells and humming and those figures that we catch in our peripheral vision…
It took a few years to come to this “understanding”…there have been moments so frightening that we have nearly ordered them to leave their home or at least be still for awhile…
One such event comes to mind as I write..a perfect example of how interwoven our existence is:
It was approximately 1 AM several years ago now…the oldest child here was 10 at that time …the youngest 2…we had been here only 1 year…the oldest was very ill that night..a fever exceeding 103…Mom (my daughter) was in his room..very concerned..the child obviously in distress as well. She was exiting his bedroom..upset, concerned…to speak with her husband when it began…The “play room” for the 2 year old located down the hall became in an instant the source of a ruckus as one could ever imagine…every electronic toy began in unison…one could hear “alpha bug” talking, “sponge bob” laughing, the wooden stick horse neighing etc…My daughter stopped in her tracks for one second…recognizing the sounds..scared out of her mind…and ran crying to her sleeping spouse.
Now years later we are a part of “THE HOUSE” …our lives ..our tragedies..our joys…our pains…their lives..their tragedies ..their joys..their pains….
A house of healing…a house of love…their home…my home…..
Note: My mother was right….
October 31, 2009 at 11:57 am
So that’s what has happened over there, you are all adjusting to living together. I wondered….
Readers, this is my sister and I can personally attest to my mother having the dream prior to Lynne’s ever finding this home.
Thank you so much for sharing this story. That last line,”A house of healing…a house of love…their home…my home…..” actually made me cry. I have to admit I am really curious why you had the dreams and then were eventually drawn to that house. In other words, why your family and them… A question which may never be answered.
October 31, 2009 at 7:57 am
It was a beautifully clear autumn day,the type we often refer to as a stolen summer day. My four daughters were romping with their cousins in the old wagon path. Monica and I (names changed) were picking Concord grapes that grew in profusion on the old wagon path on the old farm that she and her husband had just purchased.
Both of us had gathering baskets into which we were placing the huge, ripe grape bunches. We were laughing, catching up on family news and watching children play.
We had begun harvesting the grapes together, but as the morning wore on, we had separated. The wagon path was long with a slight rise.
As I placing the last bunch into my basket, I caught motion at the corner of my eye in the opposite direction of Monica and the children. Standing up and shading my eyes with my hand to the sun, I looked up the path. There, ahead of me at the end of the path was a woman in a granny-style dress and a broad brimmed hat. She, too, had a basket on her arm.
She turned, looked at me, nodding. I figured it was a neighbor and waved in response, turned to pick up my basket, started down the path back to Monica and the children. Before I took three steps, I glanced over my shoulder, but the woman was gone.
Catching up with Monica and the children, I asked who her neighbor was that was picking grapes, too. Monica looked puzzled. I don’t have any neighbors who would be picking grapes. (Her neighbors on all sides of the 10 acre property were elderly.)
“But I saw this woman on the path,” I said.
“Describe her,” Monica replied.
I described in detail what I remembered of the woman, up to what I perceived as a “granny dress” popular back in the 70’s.
By the time I finished my description, we were back at the farmhouse. Monica was unusually quite as we herded our children in for lunch. Preoccupied with getting the children lunch, I forgot about the woman.
As the children settled down to eat, Monica disappeared upstairs. I could hear her rummaging around, moving boxes that were yet to be unpacked. Finally, she returned downstairs.
“Is this who you saw?” she asked, handing me an old photo.
“Yes, exactly!” chills ran up and down my spine. The photo was OLD. This could not be the same woman I saw.
“You saw our ghost,” Monica said, a smile on her face. “This is the woman who owned this house. It was built for her by her husband. She was the last of the family to live here. She died on the property.”
Over the years that Monica and her family lived in the old farmhouse, which she and her husband lovingly restored, they had other encounters with the “woman of the house.” All encounters were loving and kind, including a time when Monica’s son was saved by the ghost when an old window sash broke and the window came crashing down his little toddler body in the path. The window suddenly stopped its descent as if someone had reached out to stop it. Monica grabbed her son, pulling him away. Once he was safe in her arms, the window came crashing down.
October 31, 2009 at 11:45 am
I Love It! Thank you for sharing this beautiful story, a love story really. The woman obviously loves her home and has adopted and adapted to her new extended family.