Because its that wonderful time of year and I love reading ghost stories, I am going to post my own ‘not a ghost’ story.
I was fourteen a year after my father died and my Grandmother, his mother, came to live with my mother, my sisters and I. She was getting on in years and was not the most present of individuals, still no dementia or senility, but a little odd at times.
Up to this point I’d had the normal mildly-creepy encounters a lot of children growing up in very old houses experience, but nothing earth shattering. One night my Grandmother and I were alone in the house, the entire place dark except for the kitchen where she was making herself dinner.
I was walking through our living room towards the kitchen when she poked her head around the wall and jumped a little bit. “Oh.” She said and looked me up and down. “Thought you were one of the ghosts, sorry sweet pea.”
She turned back and continued her efforts in the kitchen and I just blinked, not quite sure how to process ‘one of the ghosts’.