A Ghostly Encounter

A Ghostly Encounter is a short story I wrote in 2023 based on a true-life paranormal experience. While the incident occurred in 2015, it continues to shape my beliefs to this day. Here is the piece in its entirety.

A Ghsotly Encounter - By Emily Louise Rua

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.

More Creative Writing

Want to check out more of my creative writing? While this is my only true-life piece to date, I have other works of fiction available:

All Hallow’s Eve (Poem)

Haunter’s Tale: Volume II

Thanks for reading!

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Mr. White’s Resort

By Emily Louise Rua

Mr. White stood next to the model of his resort. His goatee was sharply pointed, his suit neatly pressed, and, of course, this presentable presentation was topped with a fine boater hat. He wore a smile, his friendliest yet – though if you looked in the corner of his left eye, right where it creased when he blinked, you could see a glimmer of the truth behind it all. Mr. White always stood with his right side to the audience.

The model of the resort sat atop an immaculately white podium, illuminated from above by a single spotlight. Even in this small scale, one could see the architectural marvel these buildings would soon become. The entrance to the resort stood tall and welcoming, a white even brighter and cleaner than the podium it rested on. There were arches and atlases, parapets and a porte-cochère, columns and copulas, and a lemon- yellow stone molding to line each element. It was opulent and awesome, yet had a strange allure that invited you to explore further comforts within. Even as a model, Mr. White’s resort beckoned you inside its oddly enticing doors.

Past the main entrance and lobby stood the resort’s various areas of attractions and amenities, each its own color – a clever theming Mr. White insisted upon personally. Mr. White personally insisted upon every aspect of the resort, though this fact does nothing but reinforce that Mr. White himself picked this theme. The hotel stood like the palace from Arabian Nights in a majestic indigo. Every inch shaped and curved – absolutely no jarring angles or incitant scenery, creating a seamless haven for repose. Each room would be spacious, with no less than one king-size bed. It was best not to look upon this model for long, as its miniature somnolent exterior could almost lull one into a drowsy state.

In a bright delectable orange the food court and gift shop area could not be missed. Even in miniature, one could see the detailed hodgepodge of buildings – pagodas for the Chinese noodle house, a leaning Tower of Pisa atop the Italian pizzeria, an Eiffel Tower above a Parisian café, and a mini Statue of Liberty at the entrance of the burger joint. Spattered amidst the restaurants were the gift shop façades, with neon signs already touting “sales” and “great deals”. Buttons and bobble heads, snow globes and sunscreen, knick-knacks and more would be found in the gift shops once built. All these structures led to a massive eatery at the far end of the area – an all-you-can eat buffet for guests who could not choose just one place to dine. A mouth-watering display, if Mr. White could say so himself – and he did, every time he described the area to an audience.

Now, trinkets and burgers could entice some, but many of the guests of Mr. White’s fine resort would be of a higher caliber, expecting the finest of luxury and exclusivity. To the left of the orange food court, atop a hill, stood the elite, members-only pool and gym. A royal violet was the color that defined this section; the pool floor was violet, as were the chair covers, the free weights, the changing rooms, the pool-side bar, the towels, the treadmills, the Pilates mats, and the flowers (plastic in the model, but Mr. White assured all buyers that all flora would be real and meticulously maintained once the resort was built). Only VIPs and the most special of guests would be able to set foot in this majestic retreat overlooking the rest of the resort. A common pool would be built for the masses somewhere else on property, though as everyone in the room with Mr.White was surely elite enough to enter this exorbitant expanse, no one quite cared to discern where.

Only a short walk away from the pool – judging by the model’s scale – was the high-end shopping center. Made entirely from green-tinted glass, guests could gaze into every store, drool at the luxury, and – if anyone could afford it – even buy an item or two from only the best and most sophisticated designers. Prada, Gucci, Chanel, Armani – a designer would sell their soul (though Mr. White was not one for such figures of speech) to be able to be included with these elite retailers – and the guests would feel just as lucky to be able to see such grandeur.

On the opposite side of the model resort stood the most vibrantly red sports & recreation center one had ever seen. Sporting events of every type would occur daily; from fencing to football, boxing to basketball – every fan would be able to root for their sport and their team, and, of course, boo their opponents. The bloodier the better – all sports would be full contact and no holds barred. The Greek-style coliseum would incorporate every amenity the modern sports fan could desire: sectioned seating to divide rival fans, betting stations for those who like to up the ante on their experience, and of course shops to buy team merchandise. Even the athletically inept could enjoy competitions, with special board gaming rooms filled with such classics as Monopoly, Risk, and Diplomacy. Atop the massive coliseum a crimson-colored bar would freely serve winners and fans of the day’s winning teams. Losers could only gaze at the celebrations from afar; no consolation prizes. Mr. White believed man’s drive to outperform an opponent was one of the most natural things in the world, and he never missed an opportunity to forge at least a little friendly competition.

Now, one thing few could accuse Mr. White of was misunderstanding the desires of his customers – and the few who did accuse him of such were undoubtedly wrong. Not all guests are as enthusiastic about competition as Mr. White; some prefer other things to do, and Mr. White would happily provide other vices. To the right of the sports stadium a navy blue cluster of small buildings stood down a single strip of road. This Entertainment District would include a wide variety of enticingly exciting venues. Couples could re- ignite their passions while dancing romantically close at one of the many dance halls or by cuddling in a darkened movie theater. Singles could seek out companionship in the hottest nightclubs and bars, or visit special speed-dating venues. Strip clubs and more exotic faire would also be dispersed throughout the area, for those customers who were more willing to shed their angelic façade. Entertainment and passion, pleasures and pastimes, this area would promote carefree fun and indulgence.

One area left to explore, though the investors were already all but throwing their money at Mr. White’s feet. Such meetings were never much of a gamble for Mr. White – he always made sure the odds were in his favor (and he always had an ace up his sleeve for emergencies, though no one dare accuse him of such). With all that said, it is no surprise that next to entertainment district Mr. White planned to construct a golden high- rise casino. Guests would have the chance to win big on thousands of different slot machines and dealer tables. Their ticket to the high life and having it all, massive jackpots would soon lure a multitude of guests through the lemon-yellow doors. With convenient ATMs, tellers, and credit guests could pursue their dream of wealth to their heart’s content. Mr. White was certainly never going to discourage anyone from such a gallant pursuit.

All in all the resort seemed like it would easily return all investments and then some, which made the investors practically salivate. Yachts, mansions, large Jacuzzis, big-breasted blondes half your age – they all require wealth to both acquire and maintain, a fact the investors knew well. By all calculations they could expect a return on their investments in mere weeks after opening (and receive the keys to their new Ferraris only a few days after). Without even batting an eyelash the men signed Mr. White’s contract and wrote their more than generous checks – after all, the road to the resort couldn’t be solely paved with good intentions.

The presentation was over. Mr. White showed the investors to the exit and turned off the lights. The bulldozers would be called that evening and ground would be broken the next day. For a brief moment Mr. White allowed the glimmer of truth in his left eye to spread to the deviant smile across his thin lips. Soon we’ll all see Mr. White’s resort.

And we’ll never leave.

A Ghostly Encounter

A Ghsotly Encounter - By Emily Louise Rua