A Ghost in the Attic

My great-grandparents fled from Russia to the United States in the early 1900's to escape the new communist government. When I was growing up, my grandfather lived in the house built by my great-grandparents. My great-grandfather literally built the house himself, brick by brick. The house was large and had several bedrooms because my great-grandparents had eight children (however, 2 of the children were infant twins who died). The children slept on the second floor and my great-grandparents slept in the attic.  

My grandfather and I were very close.  My parents and I visited him often, and I absolutely adored him.  I also loved his big house with all the rooms.  Each bedroom had a door connecting it to the next bedroom.  I especially liked to play in my grandfather’s room.   The door to the attic was in his room, but I never paid much attention to it.   One day when I was about 4 or 5, my mom and I stopped to visit my grandfather.  I decided to take my dolls and go play in his room.  I was alone in the room, sitting on the bed, playing with my dolls.  While I was sitting there, I heard the attic door creaking as it slowly opened.  When I looked up, there was a man standing there.  He had dark wavy hair, he was wearing a dark suit, and his feet were bare. I could see him clearly, but it took me a minute to realize something wasn’t right.  Although I could clearly see his image, I could see right through him. As soon as that realization hit me, I grabbed my dolls and ran as fast as I could downstairs to the kitchen where my mom and grandfather were.  I was pretty young at the time, so I can’t remember what I told them about why I was scared.  Whatever it was, it wasn’t the truth about what I saw.  From that day on, I was terrified to go upstairs alone. This was very unfortunate since the bathroom was upstairs.  No one could ever figure out why I was so terrified about going up there alone.  Even as a teenager, I would get to the top of the stairs and make a mad dash for the bathroom while trying not to look toward any of the other rooms. 

One day, when I was in my early 20’s, my mom and I were talking about my grandfather’s house.  She said she never could figure out why I was so terrified to go upstairs alone.  That’s when I finally told her what I saw as a child.  After I told her my story, she said that my great-grandparents always slept in the attic.  I described the man I saw.  She said the person I described was my great-grandfather. He died when my mom was a child and I had never seen a picture of him.  Not long after that I told my mom my story she took me to the cemetery where my great-grandparents were buried.  I had never been there before.   When I looked at their tombstones, each one had their own picture on it.  I pointed to the picture on my great-grandfather’s tombstone and said, “That is the man I saw. His hair was darker and he looked younger when I saw him, but that is the same man. His facial features are the same.”  My mom said he had darker hair when he was younger. 

This wasn't my first experience with ghosts, but it was my most powerful one.