I have always believed in ghosts. Ever since I was a child, I read books of hauntings and spectral encounters, watched ghost-hunting television shows, and visited several “haunted” locations hoping to witness something supernatural firsthand (though I always came away empty-handed). Countless times I had imagined what it would be like to have my own ghostly experience and solidify in my mind the existence of an afterlife. Despite the years of anticipation, nothing quite prepared me for the day I would finally encounter the paranormal and just how personal the connection to the spirit would be.
It was still dark out when I was jolted awake by the shrill ringtone from across the room. My thoughts still lingered on pleasant dreams while I stumbled out of bed. An early morning call was not completely unusual; I grew up in Western New York and still had a phone number with a Buffalo area code, so I was used to the occasional telemarketing call at an ungodly hour out in Los Angeles.
Without my glasses, the world was a blur. I fumbled in the darkness for the phone. When I finally located the small device charging on my desk, I pulled the phone close to my face, ready to see a 1-800 number and hang up on the call as usual. Instead, the caller ID flashed “Dad”.
A quick glance at the digital display revealed that it was 4:30 a.m. PST – 7:30 a.m. back home on the East Coast. If it had been my mom, I would not have thought much of it. She habitually rose before sunrise and had a penchant for forgetting the time difference. My dad, however, was a night owl and preferred to call me closer to dinner time when he was in the mood for a long-distance chat. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I answered the call. I braced for something bad.
My dad greeted me with a quiver in his voice, holding back sobs as he delivered the news. I know that much was said in the two short minutes of that call, but only one line echoed in my head again and again, “Papa died”. The unexpected news hit like a punch in the gut. My grandfather (“Papa”) had helped raise me – along with my dad and Grandma – after my parents’ divorce when I was in middle school. He was the one I went to when I needed advice and kept me calm when my dramatic temperament threatened to erupt. None of it made sense – we had just spoken three days prior. He had been sent home from the hospital, having gotten over a bout of pneumonia and was doing well. How could someone whose heart was so strong with love have a heart attack and die so suddenly?
My knees buckled as I hung up the phone and I collapsed to the ground weeping. My boyfriend, Johnny, rushed to my side, holding me while I cried onto his shoulder. Eventually he ushered me back to bed, where I laid awake for what felt like an eternity.
Aside from the death of my great-grandmother when I was six, no one instrumental in my life had passed away up to that point. Papa’s passing was my first close encounter with death. I thought back to all the stories I had read about individuals who experienced the loss of a loved one and then were visited by their loved one’s spirit shortly after the time of death.
Laying awake that November morning, I desperately searched every corner of my room for a spectral vision, something to tell me Papa’s soul was at peace and to let me say goodbye. Though I waited until the first rays of sunlight began to creep through my curtains, no such sign appeared. I finally drifted into a restless slumber.
When I woke later that morning, I decided to focus on the things I could control and get my affairs in order instead of succumbing once again to grief. I booked a flight home for that afternoon, called my employers, and packed a suitcase. Johnny went into work to take care of a few things so he could return early to drive me to the airport. By quarter after eight, everything was arranged and I felt relieved to at least have a plan for the next few hours. The only thing left at the moment was to tell my roommate, Moriah, who was still asleep.
I had already retold the story of Papa’s death four times that morning – to Johnny, my mom, and my employers. Each time re-opened the wound in my heart, flooding me with the same wave of sorrow as that first call. Every retelling made the death even more real. Once I told Moriah the news, I would not have to relive that feeling again until I made it back to Buffalo. I was looking forward to that momentary reprieve, so I waited anxiously for any sign that she was awake.
Outside my window birds chirped, the neighbor’s dog barked, and I could hear the familiar sounds of morning traffic wafting by. It felt so off to know that my world had forever changed, and yet to everyone else, it was just another Thursday. As the world continued on with their usual routines, I was standing over my suitcase packing a somber black dress.
Just after adding the last of my socks to the luggage, I heard the clomp of shoes start down our long hallway. I was relieved that my friend would be able to comfort me and help me keep my emotions in check until Johnny returned to take me to the airport. The footsteps sounded not like bare feet or even sneakers, but like a flat dress shoe worn by someone taking confident and heavy steps. Moriah must have gotten dressed and was ready to head out for work soon. The gait was slow and steady. As I knelt near the suitcase, I saw the dark figure pass by my doorway out of the corner of my eye.
I called out to Moriah, but the footsteps continued down the hall towards our kitchen without pause. She often wore headphones and listened to music or podcasts in the morning, so I did not take any offense to her lack of response. I finished packing my last shirt and walked down the hall to get her attention.
When I walked into the kitchen, I found it empty. Although it was not inconceivable that she had retreated to the living room for a quick breakfast, something did not feel right. Once again, I heard the slow and steady clomp of shoes on the tile floor in the living room. I turned toward the doorway, and this time saw the dark figure straight on – it was tall and black, with soft edges that faded into nothingness. I had a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach as the figure glided across the doorway moving straight into what would have been an armchair and a wall. Then the footsteps fell silent.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl as I stood deathly still in the kitchen. When I finally mustered the courage to move, I gingerly kept to the edge of the doorway and peered into the room. There was no one there, except my cat, Spooky, who sat in the opposite corner staring at the space where the figure should have been.
To this day I cannot explain what occurred that morning. I have lived in that apartment for over ten years, and never before nor since that incident heard or saw anything similar. I believe in my heart that it was my Papa, letting me know that his soul was still there, and making sure I was alright. The encounter helped to put me at peace and gave me the strength to console my family in the following weeks, months, and years. I have lost other loved ones since then, but I take comfort in the fact that I have seen a sign that our souls continue on after death.
