Campfire Tale: Not Myself

I stepped off the bus shading my eyes from the bright sunlight. The familiar stately stone buildings that lined my hometown’s downtown area surrounded me.

I looked at the bustling crowd that walked passed me on the sidewalk wondering which direction I should take.

As I walked down the sidewalk I was confused. Why was I here instead of at work? Where had I been earlier? Where was my car? Why was I riding a city bus?

It dawned on me that I didn’t even know what time it was.

As a woman approached me I smiled and said, “Miss, I am sorry, I forgot my watch . . . before I could ask for the time she dropped her purse, screamed and ran.

The faces of the other people near me—all looked frightened. They were going out of their way to avoid me—some flattered themselves against the building—others ran across the street.

I realized that there must be something wrong with me. Scared myself, I decided I best head home. I hailed a cab.

When this taxi driver got closer to where I stood he sped away.

Why is everyone acting so crazy?

Not understanding what was going on I decided to call home and ask my wife Jean to pick me up. I walked to a pay phone and put in several coins.

A strange voice answered my home phone. I asked to speak to Jean.

The female voice responded. “I’m sorry she isn’t home. Her husband died in a horrible car crash two days ago. She is at his funeral.”

Campfire Story: The Wrong Choice

This ghost story is always presented as a” first person” account. It holds the reader in suspense and has a scary surprise ending.

24 years have past but what happened to me when I was 6 years old still haunts me. My parents where killed in a car accident when I was two and I was given into the custody of my strict maternal grandmother.

She lived in an old farmhouse in the middle of a neglected field. The house from the outside looked as if it were abandoned.

It was the summer that I turned six years old when I first decided to defy my grandmother’s wishes. For sometime I had been curious about the old attic that lay directly above my bedroom.

For a reason not revealed to me my grandmother had sternly warned me that I was never to go into the attic. Unfortunately, this warning only piqued my interest.

One late Tuesday evening I made up my mind. My grandmother had retired for the night so I headed toward the attic. My heart beat faster as I walked up the old squeaky attic stairs.

Later I knew that my decision to explore the attic was the worst possible choice that I could have made.

I don’t know what I expected to find but the room was darker and colder than the rest of the house. I reached around the door to turn on the light switch only to discover it didn’t work.

I stepped further into the room shining a flashlight around. At that age I hoped to find a toy or even better yet, a ball.

I found neither but as I reached the other side of the room I stopped abruptly at the sight that lay before me. Horrified, I realized that I was looking down at the cold still form of my grandmother’s corpse.

My grandmother had been dead for some time. It was her ghost that had been looking after me in recent months.