When I was 24 years old, I briefly lived in a cavernous 50-year-old single-family house that never saw a single renovation. It wasn’t bad, it was just a temporary place to live while I finished school and got my life sorted out. With a lot of TLC, it could have been gorgeous. I don’t know much about the history of the house, but I do know that before I lived there, an older lady lived in the house by herself. According to some of the neighbors, she apparently had died there several years prior. At first I paid no attention to the story, until I realized something. I could hear her walking around.
Often times, I would be working in my basement, when I would hear her light footsteps above me. There was no one else in the house, and I had no pets. This happened regularly. I would hear her walking back and forth, seemingly whenever.
It didn’t bother me. I embraced her presence. During my tenure there, I usually felt a feeling of comfort moments before any kind of bad news would come my way. It was if she already knew that something had happened and was bracing me for the worst.
I believe that she was a caring soul and she looked out for the best in me, like I was one of her own kids. I never knew her name, or anything about her. But I know she looked out for me. I miss her presence.
Not all ghost stories have to be scary.