by Angelina Brown

Created on: May 03, 2008

Our house when we were growing up was filled with noises and unexplained things. When I was younger, my parents shrugged it off. It was an old farmhouse and there were three girls sharing two bedrooms and a single bathroom. There were going to be noises in the night and if I couldn't find my favorite pair of earrings, then I should check my sisters' jewelry boxes. But, as I grew older, there were things that just couldn't be explained away. The cat would suddenly sit up, stare into a corner, and hiss loudly before bolting from the room. Shadows moved in a still room. Things disappeared only to reappear in the same place they'd been before with no one around.

I believe her name was Ruth. She had raised two sons and a daughter in the house and died shortly before my parents bought the house. She died in the hospital, not in the house, but I think she came back to the only home she could remember. She liked dogs but didn't care for cats so our cat was often frightened by her but our dog would be found lovingly tucked into his box beside the fireplace in the morning (he was old and had arthritis so the cold bothered him) and no one would remember tucking him in.

She also loved jewelry and hair decorations. She would often "borrow" our jewelry or barrettes for a day or two at a time and then return it exactly where she'd found it. As my sisters and I got older, our tastes diverged so it was highly unlikely that one of us would borrow another's things. And, when a living member of the house borrowed something, there would be evidence. I'd find my new blouse under my sister's bed; my older sister would find her favorite shoes in my closet. Only Ruth returned things after she borrowed them. Though, I'm not sure if she ever returned my mother's pearl drop earrings. To this day, my mother is convinced that my younger sister took them. I helped my sister pack up when she moved out and I never saw the earrings in her things. Ruth had them. And Ruth never returned them; but she didn't particularly like my younger sister. She seemed to favor my older sister, to tell the truth, but my older sister had the same dark hair and dark eyes that Ruth's daughter had.

Just before I moved out, my mother had a new kitten, a lovely white kitten, that Ruth, for some reason, took a liking too. I would often find that kitten alone in a room, purring as if someone were petting him. He would, mysteriously, always have food in his bowl, even on the mornings when no one had gotten up yet to feed him. And he caught his first mouth almost by accident. The thing ran into the center of the room in the middle of the day. It was an old farmhouse, so there was a constant battle to keep the mice out but my parents didn't start putting down poison until after that cat died of old age. There was no explanation for that mouse's behavior, except Ruth's assistance in teaching the cat to hunt.

So, whenever someone tells me that ghosts aren't real, I smile a little smile. I know better. I don't believe in vampires, werewolves, water demons, or tree spirits, but I know that ghosts are real. I grew up with one. I used to talk to her, demanding the return of a set of hair pins, a favorite bracelet, or my new hairbrush. Seeing isn't always believing. Sometimes, what you don't see is as real as what you do, more so.

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