I don’t mean metaphorically. Ask me whether I believe in ghosts, and I’ll tell you I don’t know, but I’ll tell you that my uncle is one.
He died of an asthma attack in the late 70s, before I was born. After my grandparents died, their kids sold the house. The men in my dad’s family tend to have these rugged James Dean-type Hollywood good looks. They look a lot alike. That becomes important later.
One day, a few months after the house had been sold, one of my uncles was in the neighborhood. He swung by, and was surprised to see a ‘For Sale’ sign. A woman was outside gardening, so he decided to chat with her. With one look at him, she turned and bolted for the house. My uncle, terribly confused, approached the door anyway and knocked. When she answered, this was the story he got….
Shortly after the new family moved in, a ghost began to haunt the place. On many nights, he attempted to climb the stairs up to the second floor, where the bedrooms were located. Every time, he collapsed and “died” of an asthma attack on the landing of the stairs before reaching the top. They could see him, and they could hear him wheezing. Pretty gruesome.
My uncle who stopped by the house that day looked more like the one who died than any of the other brothers. They were the spitting image of each other. The woman thought he was the ghost when he got out of the car.
My uncle asked if she was going to tell any prospective new owners, and she replied, “Would you?”