My Ghost Story

Okay WhatTheH, here’s the ghost story I promised you:

When I was a kid back on the farm in Ohio, between the ages of six and nine, I used to have a recurring nightmare. It was always set during the night. I was frantically running from neighboring farm to neighboring farm, knocking on the door of the farmhouse. The door would open. I would hurriedly and breathlessly explain that something terrible had happened to my family. I would ask the neighbors if they could help me, but they would never answer. They would close the door in my face, and I would race off to another farmhouse.

For several years the nightmare would frequently make its appearance and it never had a resolution. I always woke up from that nightmare in a panic.

Thirty years later, I was visiting my parents in Montana. My father was telling me that he believes in ghosts. I thought this was a bit odd because my father’s an educated man of science. He has a master’s degree in electrical engineering.

He told me that when we lived on that farm in Ohio, he used to be awakened at night by a furious pounding on the front door. He would get up, often with his rifle, and investigate.

He said there was never anyone at the door.
He said this phenomenon continued for several years.

I was overcome with chills when he told me this.

“I think it was that girl and boy whose family was massacred by the Indians [1802 it turns out],” he matter-of-factly said.

“But we aren’t near their place,” I replied.

“Yes we are.” After a brief pause he explained, “Back then, there were hardly any farms here, the farms were bigger, the town didn’t exist, and the roads as we know them were different. I bet that if you measured the distance from our farmhouse to their farmhouse, as the crow flies it can’t be more than a mile. And who knows, the property lines of our farm could have been connected then.”

So there’s my ghost story. Corroborated by my own, and my father’s experiences.