If you ask most people they say they don’t believe in ghosts. However, it seems that most people want to. Otherwise, paranormal and horror movies wouldn’t be so popular.

It is easy for me to believe, if not in ghosts per-se, but in spirits walking the Earth since the house I grew up in had at least two. My grandfather built the house, and my grandmother died there and then five years later, my grandfather died in the fields. My mother was born with a veil over her face, and according to legend, these people are sensitive to paranormal activity.

I grew up hearing about the occurrences in the house after my parents moved back in shortly after they married. The first was my father had gotten up early to light the fire in the double sided fireplace that separated the living and dining rooms. The rest of the family was upstairs, sound asleep. He was stopped cold when he heard a marble begin moving on the floor, going in circles, small at first then widening out with each turn. It finally made its way over to the staircase where it decided to come down the stairs, only it was a slow process, hitting every step in its journey. At the bottom, it veered left and traced its way over to where he was stopping just before hitting his feet.

My grandfather visited with my mother quite often. He would come in through the front door and sit down on the couch. He would never say a word, but Mama knew by the look on his face if something good or bad was about to happen. His “predictions” always came true.

The door to my bedroom never closed correctly, so it was always open just a crack. Often, as I was lying on my bed watching tv or reading, the door would open and then close back. I could feel a change in the atmosphere around me, like an aura or presence of some type. Far from being scary, it always made me feel peaceful and serene.

Daddy gave Mama a Fred Flintstone piggy bank where they put all their change for vacation. She always kept it on the second shelf of the hutch in the dining room. One day, she went to add some change to it, and it wasn’t there. She and my sister searched the house, going back to the shelf several times. They finally got in the car to drive to Daddy’s job to see if he took it to cash it in or something. He hadn’t touched it. When they got back to the house, the bank was sitting on the shelf where it belonged.

There are other stories, but I think these will give a general idea of the happenings in the house I grew up in. So, yes, I believe in ghosts or spirits or whatever you want to call them. Fortunately, the ones I grew up with were friendly and loving and enjoyed playing pranks on us.