TERRIFIED

39. Tie A Black Ribbon. . . by Lisa Wilson 40. Visiting For One Last Time . . . Butch Proctor 41. Seekers Seranade . . . by Kaleeya 42. Aero-Tapes . . . by Chris 43. Uncle Jack Will Watch Your Back . . . by Jen from Detroit 44. The Bridges at Murder Road . . . by Brian Romstedt 45. Don't Talk About Me! . . . by Robert J Mckitchen

 

 

Tie A Black Ribbon
A Multi-Part Story by Our Own Lisa Wilson
E-mail: lisa@foxinternet.net
Hailing From: Redmonds, Wa.
Where the Weird Story Occurred: My Home

This is a ghost story . . .

Which is written in parts and happened over a period of 9 months.

I am going to submit the events of these stories a segment at a time to build the suspense of what happened, and hopefully to help me understand the meaning for this encounter.

-Part I-

It started when my boyfriend (let's call him Dan) was turning 40. I wanted to get the perfect present for him, but was unsure of what to purchase. I came across a black and white photo of his brother. His brother, let's name him Michael, had been killed in vietnam 19 years prior. His death was really never addressed by his family, and I always sensed a hidden anger and pain surrounding Michael's death which subconscientiously infiltrated into Dan's life.

This picture was one that you might see in Life Magazine. There was Michael squating in the center of the picture, dressed up in his army fatigues, with a semi-automatic rifle hangng from his shoulder, right in enemy territory. Surrounding him were 3 vietnamese boys around the age of 10, but looking like 80 years old. They were smoking cigarettes. You could see the anger in Michael's face, but his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. The lenses of the glass were so dark, it was as if the viewer was looking through two black holes emptying into a hollow shell. Although this picture unnerved me, I was also drawn to it.

I had the photo blown up, designed it's frame, and wrapped it up as a gift for Dan. In the 3 week process of designing the picture, Michael began to enter into my dreams. We would alway be walking through the city hand in hand searching for Dan. No matter how far we searched, we never met up with Dan, he was always just beyond the next corner, out of reach.

Then one night I woke up from my dream to find Michael, floating in a fetal position next to my bed crying. I could sense his sorrow. I sat up and my vision was gone. Was that vision just a dream, or reality, although I did not feel any fear.

Dan opened the picture up at his party. When he looked at the picture his face changed from happiness to sorrow. He said nothing regarding the gift and the time it took me to create it. After the party, he gave the picture back to me. There it lay under my bed.

After a couple of weeks, I decided to put the picture up next to my bedroom door. There it hung, with me being unaware of the supernatural forces that would be drawn from its energy.

The supernatural occurrences began on Christmas Eve. Dan was spending the holidays with my two girls and myself. On Christmas eve, Dan went to bed early. I stayed up being Santa, and then later myself, retired. Around 12:00 a.m. a knock on my bedroom door woke me. At first I thought it was the kids anxious for Christmas. I looked under the door, but saw no foot shadows. Again, the knock. Right at that point, I thought "this is not a person I know. Who is knocking? Then Michael flashed through my mind." I thought I was acting crazy. There was one more set of knocks, then nothing.

I did not reveal what I had experienced to anyone the next day. Later that Chistmas evening, Dan said that he had a wierd throught that morning in the shower. He said that while he was showering, a thought crossed his mind that "What if Michael knocked on the door, you answered it, and you didn't know the knocker was Michael?" My sense of alarm rose as I then told him of the knocks the prior evening, and that I was the one to hear the knocks, and sensed it was Michael.

Dan's mother also that same night had a dream that she was upstairs and Michael was knocking on the door downstairs, and she was unable to reach the door.

I told Dan that I believed that Michael was there that night, trying to reach both members of his family, but I was the only one to hear him. From that point on, Michael began his crusade to terorize my daughters and myself. ---- (Part II next)

Superb! Absolutely superb! You have my complete attention.
Over this past summer we have been busy relocating the Ghost site and experienced a ton of hurdles along the way. Now that we are finally back up and running full steam, this story and the previous short story from Ireland are a wonderful "Welcome Back" gift. Thank you very much! Much appreciated and send us Part II when you are ready.

---

Wow, here is Lisa's "PART II" -- it is awesome! All you have to do to read it is to Click HERE and then when you are finished, click "Back" on your Browser to return to this page.

 

Visiting For One Last Time
by Butch Proctor
E-mail: DRP1052@aol.com
Hailing From: Mesquite, Texas
Where the Weird Story Occurred: Marion, N.C.

When I was 17 years old, my grandmother, who had lived with us all my life, died. And, though there were many unusual events before and after her death, the most unusual occurrence involving my grandmother's death occurred the evening following her burial.

My grandmother's funeral had been a trying thing for all of us. My mother was an only child who had never had the opportunity to know her father and I am sure that the fact that her husband, my father, was stationed in Viet Nam and the fact that she could not get into contact with him through the Red Cross only made matters worse.

My grandmother was a much-loved and well-respected woman whose life and death touched many people. And, the outpouring of sympathy, the flowers and cards, the visits by friends and relatives proved to be almost overwhelming for my mother. Her grief and confusion was so oppressive that, following my grandmother's funeral and burial in the family cemetary, she confessed to me, my younger sisters of 16 and 13, and my baby brother of 4, that she could not bear to deal with all the people who would be coming to the house that afternoon. She suggested that we go to a restaurant, pick up a bucket of chicken, and go on a picnic. We did exactly that. Dressed in the same clothes we had worn to the funeral we went on a family picnic, just us five, remembering and talking about the woman who had meant so much to each and every one of us.

We stayed away from our house till just after dark and when we were sure that no one was visiting, we entered the house and got ready for bed, as we were all exhausted, both physically and emotionally. The following story was relatd to me by my mother and sisters the next morning.

I was asleep in the very bed in which my grandmother died, my sisters were sleeping together in their bed, and my baby brother was asleep in my mother's bed. My mother, who had insomnia, was lying in bed and reading. At around 2:30 in the morning, my 16 year old sister got out of bed and was headed to the bathroom when she ran screaming into my mother's room and told her that my grandmother was sitting on the couch in the living room. She told my mother that they had made a mistake and that our grandmother wasn't dead and that they had brought her home. My mother calmly explained that we all missed our grandmother and that my sister had been dreaming, that our grandmother was dead.

As my mother tried to calm her down, my other sister came running into my mother's room and said that our grandmother was in the living room. My mother now had two excited girls to deal with and explained that my oldest sister had had a dream and that the younger girl had heard them discussing that dream. She explained that my youngest sister had had a dream of her own after hearing that discussion. But, both my sisters were adamant, and my mother was forced to take them into the living room and prove to them that they were mistaken.

My mother got out of her bed and walked down the hall and into the living room, where she, herself, saw my grandmother sitting on the couch. My mother simply stood and stared at her mother, the woman who had been buried earlier that day, the woman who sat calmly on the couch and smiled at her and my two sisters.

My mother says that her first thought was one of joy, that my sisters were correct in their belief that my grandmother had not died. Her next thought was pragmatic and sobering. Her mother was indeed dead and what she was seeing was a figment of her overwrought imagination. A figment brought on by a state of mass hypnosis she shared with my sisters and their dreams. As she stood there, my 4 year old brother came walking out of her bedroom and into the living room, half asleep and rubbing his eyes he asked why was everyone awake in the middle of the night. At about the time he asked this question, he looked across the living room in the direction of the couch. Throwing his arms out in front of him, my 4 year old brother yelled,"MAMMAW!" and went running across the room toward the couch.

My mother relates that at this point, my grandmother smiled and simply faded away.

I was not a witness to the preceding story, but the same tale is told by my mother and two sisters as to what happened on the night of my grandmother's burial. My brother does not remember the events of that evening, as he was only 4 years old and too young to appreciate the unique circumstances involving a visit from the dead.

Now, there was one couch your Grandma must have really liked! Did it have angel wings or was it a love seat? Seriously, the kicker here is that I know for a fact that my Grandma hung in there until I could come back to visit for the last time. She actually hung in a little too long because she was really, really, really frail. But, wait for me to come home, well -- that she did. And because of that I personally know the power of the will to see a child for the last time.

Tell us, was your brother at the funeral? Did she see him that one last time? If not, then some of the answer lies in her will to see him one last moment before she moved into the next place. Remember the magnetism of the oldest matriarch in a family towards the youngest grandson. Think about it, and tell your brother to cherish it. It is yours!

And, thanks so much for the story! It was great!

 

Seekers Seranade
by Kalleeya
E-mail: Kalleeya@aol.com
Hailing From: Omaha, Ne.
Where the Weird Story Occurred: University in Illinois

Iwas a student at a small university in Illinois. One night, my two friends and I were really bored. It was a late week-end night, so studying was out of the question. We decided to go out and play a childish game of hide and seek. We set out for the field in between the dorms and music building.

Being left as the seeker, I quickly found one of my friends, Lynette, hiding underneath a tree (a story in its own right). Laughing over her antics, we realized that we hadn't found Crystal. We stood there a moment looking around as to where she might be. We spotted a person walking along the path on the outside of the field heading towards the music builiding. The figure was all in black, or what also looked as a shadow. Deciding that this was Crystal, we walked slowly to ambush her.

Now, the building that Crystal was heading to had two entrances, on opposite sides. When going through one door, you can walk straight through to the other. Crystal walked into one of the doors. We decided that Lynette would go into the building on the other side, scare her, and as Lynette escaped out the other door, I would scare her too. Great plan right? HA!

As I'm waiting outside freezing my you-know-what off, I hear someone start practicing scales on their trumpet. I thought nothing of it, it was a music building after all. A few minutes later the door opened, and Lynette was running down the stairs.

"Where's Crystal?" I asked.

She looked really pale and was shaking, "Can you hear the trumpet player?"

Wondering why she was asking me about the trumpet player, I responded, "Yea, so?"

"Well, I was upstairs following who I thought to be Crystal. I couldnt see her when she went around the corner, and when I rounded the corner, is when I heard the trumpet."

She took a breath. "I went to the only practice room with the light on to go say "Hi" to the person, so I wouldnt scare them with my footsteps, and when I got to the room, no one was there. "Kal, I mean no one! But the trumpet music was in front of my face. I felt the air!!"

She grabbed my arm, actually pulled me in the direction of the dorms. When we got around to the front of the music building, I looked up to the second story windows, the practice rooms. In one of the rooms, the light was on, revealing a yellow room (the practice rooms are all painted blue). And right in front of the window was a shadow, arms upheald with a gleaming gold trumpet in his hands, the sounds of the scales falling to us below.

I couldnt believe it. I wasnt scared, but more enthralled. In the few seconds that I had stood mesmerized, the shadow stopped playing, and turned and bent its head down to us. I couldnt help but stare back. What seemed like a few minutes only lasted a second. He once again picked up his trumpet and practiced his scales.....

I wanted to go back to the building and go upstairs to see him, but Lynette was about to tear my arm off of my body. I remember her saying over and over again on the cold walk back to the dorms, that there was no one in there.

So where was Crystal? She found a great hiding place. We found her in her room watching TV. I could have killed her.

Nope, nope, nope! Absolutely no killing here on Ghostories! We're more partial to those already dead, but getting dead, you must be thinking of I'll-Haveta-Kill-ya-Stories, which we haven't yet authored, but now that I think of it . . . hmmmmmm . . .
BUT SERIOUSLY! So that we don't end up on a sour note (pun, just a pun! I swear!), second story ghouls "tweek" it better when seranading "seekers!"
And, that's all I have to say about that!
Hey, really, thanks for the story and stop by any ol' time, I'll be sure to let 'em know you ain't just blowin' yer horn! (oh gosh, I must be on a roll!)

 

Aero-Tapes
by Chris
E-mail: Sevy97@aol.com
Hailing From: Overland Park, Kansas
Where the Weird Story Occurred: My House

On this particular night my parents had left me all alone at my house. I was down in my living room where my T.V. was. We always had at least three stacks of videos on the vcr.

I was right about to fall asleep when I saw something fly through the air. At first, I thought I was just exaggerating seeing something fly through the air. But then something flew through the air again, but only this time it hit me on my shoulder. I opened my eyes and suddenly all of the tapes from the t.v. started flying at me and hitting me real hard! I got sooo freaked out so I ran to the phone and called my friend Jacob to pick me up. I was still in my pajamas when he came. I told him the story in the car and he thought I was crazy but it really did happen and it scared the living daylights out of me.

My family moved to a new house in a different state but things still are weird. They're not as bad though. You can believe me if you want but this really did happen!

Another great story for Ghostories! Thanks Chris and please stop by and visit often.

(I do have to say, this was the only story ever sent to me where I remarked, "I can imagine this happening to Siskel and Ebert, but why you!" -- and I really caught some heat -- took a blast for not totally believing him (even tho I did!) -- Our Man Chris had absoluletly no sense of the humors! But now, after about a year, I think I can look back at it, relate it to my new readers, and get a chuckle).

For sure, I think a cabinet with a good lock on it would be the cure for this video enthusiast -- especially since I was just at the taping of the new music video filmed at the Mission Inn!

 

Uncle Jack Will Watch Your Back
by Jen
E-mail: jen@usa.net
Hailing From: Detroit, Michigan
Where the Weird Story Occurred: Illinois

When I was 3, my family moved into our Great-Great Aunt's old farmhouse. The house had been in our family for over 140 years and was given to the most recent newlyweds in the family while they looked for their own "home". Stories in our family were that the house was haunted by her husband, called "Grandpa Jack" by the family, who had died in the house years before. My mother would laugh these stories off and call the rest of the family "superstitious."

(I was told this when I was older, not when I was 3 :)

Anyway, we moved in and I took one of the rooms upstairs while my little brother (1 and a half) took the one across the hall from my parents. My room was at the top of a very creaky flight of stairs and locked from the outside only. My parents never used the lock and actually had it "fixed" in place so that it could never lock again. They were afraid I'd get locked in or something . . . not sure, but that's not important.

My parents usually tucked me into bed, waited for me to fall asleep, and then went downstairs to their own bedroom. This was our nightly routine and it never varied . . . at least, not on our part.

After tucking me in, my parents went downstairs, closing the door partway but leaving it unlatched, as was customary. I heard them go downstairs (I was a great fake-sleeper). When I heard their bedroom door close, I crawled out of bed to play with some of my dolls. While I was playing, I heard a very slight creaking on the stairs. Now, these stairs were old and very creaky, but you could tell if someone was on them or if they were just creaking from the house shifting.

These were definately the creaks of footsteps on the stairs. I hightailed it back to bed and threw the covers over my face, pretending to be asleep, afraid I'd get punished by whichever parent was coming upstairs. I waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. All I heard was the click of the lock on the door as it slid into place. I was confused for a moment, but figured they'd caught me playing past my bedtime and were punishing me (very unusual, but I was 3 . . . so it made sense to me). I got out of bed and knocked on the door, calling to my parents that I was sorry and to please unlock the door. I could barely reach the handle, but what I could touch wasn't budging.

I started crying and stomping on the floor, calling out to my parents to let me out. I heard their bedroom door open and heard their steps on the stairs (very solid, different than the steps I'd heard just a few moments before). My parents unlocked the door and comforted me. They hadn't locked the door and weren't sure what had happened, but as the house was old, the bolt might have just slipped. (I don't know what was going on in their minds . . . just slipped? Right.)

Anyway, they calmed me down and got me back into bed. After a few minutes, they left again, this time leaving the door wide open and placing a doorstop under the door to keep it from closing.

I waited until I heard their bedroom door close and, being 3, decided I wanted to play some more. I crawled out of bed, went back to my dolls, and as I started playing, I heard the steps creaking again as if someone were walking on them. I trusted my parents, and KNEW my brother wasn't coming up, so I wondered just WHO it was. (I wasn't scared..I was a curious kid, according to my parents).

As I walked over to the doorway, the door slammed shut and the bolt AGAIN slid down to lock the door from the outside. This time, my parents heard the door and ran up the stairs. As they reached the top, they heard someone call them from downstairs, shouting at them to "STOP".

Thinking it was my brother, my Mom started to turn around to go check on him when my Dad grabbed her arm. In front of them (in front of my door), the floorboards were creaking and bowing down, as if something heavy was sitting on them. My Dad reached out to touch them and they fell right through, all the way to the first floor. My Dad looked through the hole and could see their bedroom floor.

Before he could even say anything, the rest of the flooring fell through and the only space safe for them to stand was on the stairwell. The entire floor from my door over to the base of the stairwell had "rotted" through and was gone. Had they stepped on it, or had I stepped out to go to the bathroom during the night (as I often did), we would have fallen right through and probably broken our necks.

My parents were able to unlock the door and get me out of the room. I ended up sleeping with my brother that night, across the hall from my Mom and Dad.

When we told my Grandma about this, she kind of smiled and nodded slightly and said that things like that happened quite a bit. When my Aunt and Uncle and their kids lived there, they'd hear noises in the basement, like a clanging, sometimes and screeching (nails across a blackboard kind of screech). They got the kids out of the house, thinking their was an intruder, and when they went to check, discovered that their furnace was dangerously close to going off and setting the house on fire.

Other relatives had stories, as well. Cousins being "gently pushed" away from the street (the house was on a main thoroughfare) where cars were zooming back and forth; kitchen drawers containing sharp objects or medicines being stuck when a child tried to open them, but an adult being able to open them just fine; a bathtub that, when being used for a small child, would not fill up over 2 inches and when the child was alone, would drain entirely.

Now, I'm not saying that I believe all these stories as my family has some . . . imaginative people . . . in it. But, I know that I experienced things in that house when I was older that definately made me believe that our "Grandpa Jack" was looking out for all of us when we shared his home with him.

As I write this response a very close and wonderful friend is in the hospital in critical condition -- and I fear she leaving us. So bear with me while I share this with the Ghostory group because she would have been very pleased . . . she loved my site and helped me as a sounding board for all my worries and fears about trying to get a different kind of Web site off the ground. And, if anything should happen, I know that she will be watching over me just like your "Uncle Jack" was there with you. (Rae did pass away, it's been almost a year ago now while I am updating this page. I miss her and I know she would love what she would see here today. This site has had her as our guardian angel!).

The Bridges at Murder Road
by Brian Romstedt
Hailing From: Ottawa, KS
Where the Weird Story Occurred: The Haunted Bridge of Kingman Road

When I was very young, my father recanted to me the tale of 'murder road,' an old bridge out in the boonies about ten miles south of my home town. For my own story to make sense, I'd better summarize the story of murder road for you, the ever faithful readers.

It's been a good twenty years since the event occured, although I'm not sure of the exact date. Found by the bridge in an old car were the bodies of four unfortunate individuals who, by some cruel twist of fate, had been brutally murdered. All four, a family from out of town, had been shot at close range and left in their vehicle. The crime was never solved.

A crime such as this is probably no big deal to folks from New York or Detroit or other big cities where murders are unfortunately too common, but in Ottawa, Kansas, population now 12,000, it's a different story.

Since my youth, I have been fascinated by this place and the story behind it, and once I was old enough to drive, I made frequent trips to the spot, always alone, usually during the day. It's a heck of a creepy place at night, if you know the story behind it.

As my years and my bravery grew, it became common for me to venture to the spot after dark, although usually with high beams on and windows up. It took a lot of guts for me to finally bring myself to stop the vehicle.

But I never got out of the car.

I was making it a pretty routine trip by July of '97. It was a good place to be alone and think. There wasn't much traffic. I approached the bridge and got the usual chills as I got close. The area is pretty much open fields until you reach the bridge, where a thick grove of trees rises up on either side of the small stream that runs through, making it darker and somehow more sinister on the bridge itself.

I pulled off to the side of the road, no more than six feet from the bridge. I dropped my seat back and closed my eyes, relaxing.

Only a few moments later, there was a tap on my window. My eyes flew open and I sat bolt upright. There was a scraggly looking man outside, and he looked none too pleased with me.

"Out of the car," he mouthed. Terrified, I complied.

"Turn around," he whispered, "and put your hands on the car."

I did as I was told. It was unseasonably chilly out, and a light rain had started down. I began to shiver, but more out of fear than anything else.

I gasped as something cold and hard was pressed into my neck. From my right came a terrified scream, and I glanced over. In the corner of my eye I saw a black car, its bumper touching mine. The driver's side window was shattered, and a lifeless body was slumped over the steering wheel. I wanted to scream, but the cold metal of the gun on my neck kept me quiet.

There was a sudden, harsh gust of wind through the trees, and the pressure on my neck vanished. I whirled around, my heart thumping powerfully.

There was no one there. The car was gone too.

Needless to say, I was out of there in a flash. It was some time later before what had happened really hit me. I had nightmares for weeks.

I still go out there, although not as much. I assume that I was just out on a bad night.

But I won't be there again in July.

Holy Moly! I love stories like this! Thanks, Brian! This is a really welcome addition to Ghostories :)

I remember one time being lost off a side road in the Pochanos (sp?). I was with 2 of my college friends and we were on Easter Break. It was just after midnight and we had exited off a freeway that, for some strange reason, didn't have a return on-ramp. So we traveled this old, lonely dark road until we crossed a bridge.

Well, here is what happened: everything we saw after the bridge seemed odd. We came to a deserted motel with an old screen door banging in the night breeze and a phone booth that was out of order. We rolled our eyes and got back into the car.

We decided to backtrack over the bridge until we found ourselves more lost than before, so we all agreed we should return and follow the road past the bridge that we had been following. Only this time when we crossed the bridge, the motel and the phone booth were gone!

Later that night in the early morning hours we found a trucker and asked him about the road we had been on, and the motel. He only grinned and told us that the highway was "That-a-way" and there hadn't been a motel on that old road since the 50's!

You see, most bridges are built with sturdy steel spans that hold them up under the weight of traffic to cross the distance between one shore and another. Then there are other bridges, special bridges that span completely different shorelines . . .

Don't Talk About Me!
by Robert J Mckitchen
E-mail: dark-mann@webtv.net
Hailing From: Rehobeth, MA
Where it Happened: At my home
Favorite Author: Bill Waterson
Favorite Music: Eirre

Warning: This story is NOT for the faint of heart!

This tale is still very disturbing to me, since it involves my father, who had passed away almost 10 years before the occurrence.

My wife and I usually have friends over on a Saturday night. This particular Saturday night happened to be in the month of October -- which is a special month for my wife Jamie and my son DJ and our friends, John and Sonia. We love to sit around and scare each other with chilling ghost stories.

On this one particular Saturday night in 1994 we all gathered around my kitchen table to listen to our friend Sonia tell some very eerie tales passed down from her family. We did have a Ouija board to use but by the time she was done telling her tales, I was shaking so much that I broke the board over my head and threw it away -- outside and into the garbage.

The conversation of ghosts prompted me to talk about my dead father. In no uncertain terms I made it clear that I did not miss him at all because he was a mean, rotten man in life. I went so far as to say that if I ever saw his ghost, I would tell him so! Sonia told me not even to joke that way -- it's an open invitation to evil -- and I should recant immediately. I only laughed and got more bold, demanding an appearance so I could tell him how I feel. MY wife and Sonia were so upset, I decided to stop.

Later that night, after everyone had gone home, my wife and I went to sleep, my son was already out like a light. I must admit, laying there in the dark, I was fairly spooked. Finally, sleep came, but I was awoken at 3:00 a.m. by a steady and repetitive thumping noise.

Thump,

then silence

for three seconds,

then another thump . . .

over and over and over.

I lay there paralyzed with fear. What could this noise be? I tried to rationalize anything, even wake my wife, but I was too scared to move. Yet, the thump continued, only it was getting louder . . .

and louder and louder.

I finally realized that I have a family to protect, and using all my strength an courage, I got out of bed to investigate. My wife remained in a deep sleep.

As I walked through the hall in the dark, I noticed that the kitchen light was on. Hadn't I turned that off? Fearing the unknown, I snuck into my son's room for a baseball bat, which somehow didn't ease my fear.

I was almost at the kitchen now, close to an hour after hearing the first thumps. Yes, the noise WAS coming from the kitchen. Sweat formed on my forehead, and I was shaking like an autumn leaf. I entered the kitchen and turned to the left, where our table sat. I wanted to scream and run in terror, but I was paralyzed.

There, at the far chair, sat my father.

Ten years dead, yet there he was.

His right hand raised and came down with a fist on the kitchen table . . .

THUMP!

That was the noise that I've heard for the past hour. He was looking directly into my eyes, yet his were dead. He stared right through me, then opened his mouth and spoke in a voice I never in my life wish to hear again.

"STOP, STOP TALKING ABOUT ME!"

Then he slammed his fist down in one final violet thump.

The kitchen light went out.

I let out a gasp as my heart sank, and I quickly turned the light on again . . .

but he was gone.

I caught my breath and turned on every light I could find.

An hour later, laying in bed, I wondered, had I dreamt the whole event? The next morning my wife, Jamie, was up before me. She came in and woke me up and asked me if I had forgotten to turn the lights off before coming to bed. I told her I had. She asked me to come into the kitchen and look at something strange, and I almost screamed. I slowly followed her into the kitchen, trying to hide my fear. She pointed to the very chair where my father had sat only a few hours earlier. I then knew it wasn't a dream.

"Look at that!" She said, "Where did all that dirt on that chair come from?"

It was true, there was a thin layer of dirt on the chair and on the floor surrounding it. I muttered some excuse, and to this day I have never told my family, or friends, of this occurrence.

And, I've never spoke ill of the dead since.

It just goes to show ya, there's no business like ghost business -- like no business I know! (Bring out my top hat and cane, Ethel, cain't ya hear me signin' to ya now! I feel the Freddy Shuffle comin' on -- since I sat in the same row of seats as "Freddy Kruger" this afternoon at the Mission Inn! Regards to our host Frank.)

Seriously, thanks for the story. I would imagine your dad might have been a tad happier had you two gotten along a little better in life. I'm not saying I don't understand how ya feel -- but since it wasn't so (say it isn't so!), you might have been armed with a GhosTee to give him, say a size "medium," to at least send him away happy!

Or I guess you could have put a lemon under his fist and hoped for lemonade!

Am I babbling tonight? Could be, I guess . . . but the upshot is, I think your father has, how shall we say . . . had the last . . . g a s p !

Wait a minute . . . did you really say you broke a Ouija Board over your head???

 

 

Oh my, look where we are? Where does the time go? Well, one thing for sure, it's time to enter our next Ghostly Library -- we call it The Haunted Library . Pleasant Dreams!