This is about a ghost story.
One night shortly after his passing, my mom, sisters, and I were fast asleep in our respective bedrooms. We lived in a split-level ranch-style house, the frontal appearance showing only a single level excepting for two levels indicated in the back and along the sides. My sisters had the front upstairs bedrooms across from each other, while I had the rear one; our mom slept in the downstairs master bedroom in the front corner of the house. In an instant, all of us were jolted awake by the sound of heavy footsteps on the roof. Emerging from our rooms, we stared at each other in fearful bewilderment. Simultaneously exclaiming, inquiring about the noise, we shared one thought with no definite answer. Hesitant, but acting swiftly, I threw on jeans and shoes to investigate outside in spite of pleading reservations. I was the “man” of the house now, and I intended to carry on that duty.
Snatching a flashlight from the utility room, I cautiously walked out via the garage into the backyard with equal parts bravado and dread. Given the direction of the presumptive footsteps - and the reasonable necessity of a ladder not only to climb up but also escape down - it seemed the appropriate location to search first if someone had been on the roof. With all the external lights turned on, I also grabbed an implement - most likely a shovel, although I do not recall specifically - from the garage to use as a weapon. After sweeping the perimeter and street, both by myself and with our spooked but generally agreeable dog, nothing and no one turned up. Whoever, or whatever, had made the sound - remembered, even to this day, as the unmistakable cadence of human footsteps - had vanished without further commotion or evidence.
Sometime after on another late evening, mom noticed a man, tall with an average build, standing outside on the step leading to the window-paneled backdoor. No one else home, he impassively stared into the kitchen without further action or apparent intention. Dressed in a red flannel jacket, she witnessed him simply turn, as if walking away, and disappear into the shadowy backyard as quickly as he had appeared. When I returned from a neighbor’s house shortly thereafter, she described the event to me in tearful panic. Same as before, I grabbed a flashlight and leashed the dog to search the surrounding area. Once again, whoever it may have been had vanished without further commotion or evidence.
In hindsight, it obviously may have been prudent to call the police concerning both incidents, but, honestly, that never even crossed our minds. Often, though, I think about the times dad and I spent perched on the roof watching various fireworks displays from surrounding municipalities during celebratory holidays. Or, I think about the times he worked in the yard or on the family cars wearing his red flannel jacket in the cooler months. Perhaps the sounds and sights were nothing more than an indelible farewell conjured forth by residual energy and memory. Illusive reminders that his spirit lives on, not to haunt but as echoes watching over us. And to affirm that the collection of bolts, nails, nuts, screws, etc, always will continue to grow.
©2018 Steve Sagarra