I was at my daughter’s house for dinner.
“Grandma, there are ghosts in our attic,” my six-year-old granddaughter blurted out.
“Honey, don’t be silly!” my daughter said. “There’re no such things as ghosts.”
“Yes there are, grandma says so.”
My daughter and her husband turned and glared at me.
“Mom? Have you been telling her ghost stories?”
“Yeah!” my granddaughter blurted out again. “She tells me stories about ghosts and vampires and werewolves and zombies and witches.”
“Well, she likes to hear them.”
“Mother! She’s six. You’re the adult. You should know better.”
“But all kids love ghost stories.”
“But now she’s afraid of the dark.”
On the drive home, I thought about what my daughter had said that there were no such things as ghosts.
Yeah, she’s probably right.
And I shouldn’t scare my granddaughter with such stories.
No good could come of it.
Getting out of my car, I looked up at the sky. Black clouds streaked across the half-moon. Suddenly, the wind picked up. Dead yellow leaves whirled around my feet. Sugar Maples rustled all around the apartment complex casting strange shadows that quivered on the sidewalk beside me. Their limbs groaned. The air felt colder as I walked to my front door, my fingers searching in my purse for the house key. Once in my hand, I aimed it for the door, but it seemed like an unseen force knocked it loose. I dropped to my knees, grappling the cement to find it. No sooner had I stood back up with the key almost in the lock, than a swirl of leaves slapped across my face.
“Ahhh!” I heard myself wail like a wuss.
I burst into my apartment, slammed the door shut, my heart thudding.
Breathing heavy, I blurted out, “There's no such things as ghosts! There's no such things as ghosts! There's no such things as ghosts!”