Papa and Me - a Ghost Story

When I was a little girl, I had a favorite great-uncle who used to come by for visits very often. We all called him Papa. He was a tall man with a ready smile, a hearty laugh and big hairy arms. He would take me for rides and play horsey with me. He was a character, often slightly inebriated, but harmless and always fun. I was never in any danger with him, and he would have protected me with his life.

Papa died, and my mother and great-grandmother thought that I was too young to understand what death was, so they didn't tell me. That lack of information is what set off the turns of events that made them believe that there was much more to the universe.

A few days after the funeral, my great-grandmother was in the kitchen when she heard a commotion in the living room; I was yelling about something. She put down her dishcloth and ran in to see what had me so worked up. When she came in, she said that I ran to her and told her that I had been telling Papa to get out of her chair and he wouldn't move. Her chair was one of those vinyl plush chair that let out an audible "whoosh" when you first sit down. In the midst of her telling that it wasn't possible, she looked at the chair and saw an imprint that looked like someone was sitting there. She told me that it was alright, and she left.

When my mother came home. my great-grandmother told her about it, and my mother asked me about my day and I told her all about Papa and his visits. She tried to tell me that Papa was gone, but I wouldn't  hear it. She told me that I shouldn't make up stories and that Papa would not be coming anymore. It was one of those arguments that little ones have with their parents, and it ended with me doing what little ones do when they're frustrated; I cried and told her that she was mean. She put me to bed still sniffling.


My mother finished up and went to bed. She liked to sleep in total darkness. As my mother relates it, she was sleep and felt the covers being tugged. Being half asleep, she said that she thought I'd gotten up, so she mumbled something about going back to bed. It was then that the covers were yanked off the bed and something grabbed her ankle. She looked down and saw two hairy arms in the darkness - and nothing else. She knew those arms anywhere; they were Papa's. She screamed, and when my great-grandmother came running and switched on the light, there was nothing there - nothing at all, just my mother and the covers on the floor. 

She apologized to me for not believing me. None of us, including me, ever saw Papa again. My mother was happy about that; can't say that I blame her.