When I was a child, we'd travel regularly to visit my grandparents who lived two hours away in an old farmhouse. My older brother, whose main goal in life was to torment me, liked to tell me spooky stories about the farmhouse. These invariably kept me from a good night's sleep. But no story came close to what he and I witnessed firsthand, one night at Grandma's.
Our family history contained a sad and scary tale about my uncle who died as a small child. The house, built by my great-grandfather had a long flight of stairs leading to the bedrooms on the upper floor. One Christmas morning, my uncle, who must have been three years old at the time, found a shiny, red tricycle under the tree. He pestered and pestered for someone to take him outside to try out the trike, but his parents and older siblings were busy opening their holiday gifts. The way the story goes, no one noticed little Jimmy missing until he hollered and got their attention. There he was, at the top of the stairs, sitting on his tricycle. How he dragged it up there, to this day, no one knows. Just as his folks dashed to the staircase, Jimmy shoved off to take the bumpy ride of his life. He finally fell off the trike about two-thirds of the way down, snapping his neck in the process.
Fast forward thirty years or so. My grandmother made the best homemade candy with chocolate, nuts and sometimes peanut butter. My brother and I could never get enough of the stuff. After the grown-ups were in bed, the candy was left unattended. We'd sneak out to the room where grandma kept her table of treats and indulge in some late night chocolaty goodness.
One night, after we were sure the elders were asleep, my brother and I slipped out of our makeshift beds on the floor and tripped out to visit the candy. Just as we rounded the corner to the living room, we heard a noise at the top of the stairs. We froze, fearful it was mom or dad catching us in the candy-thieving act. When we saw who was on the stairs, the air couldn't whoosh from my lungs fast enough. A small boy, on a shiny red tricycle, hurtling down the stairs at an amazing speed. Only this time, he didn't fall off the trike. He rode it all the way to the landing and raced past my brother and me. His face was a mask of victorious triumph. We turned our heads to follow him and see where he'd end up, but the boy and trike vanished as they reached the stone fireplace.
I'm lucky I onlywet my pants that night. It took my brother and I years before we could talk about it. Both of us remembered it the same way, and we never talked about it again. We didn't sneak out for candy after that, either. And when grandma and grandpa sold the farm and moved into town, I wasn't unhappy. That place literally scared the piss outta me.
Thanks so much for reading my "Real life ghost stories" blog. I hope you'll check out my titles on my website: http://www.jennabyrnes.com/ and visit my publisher's website at Books We Love, where single titles are always $2.99 or less!
About the Author:
Jenna thinks everyone deserves a happy ending, and loves to provide as many of those as possible to her gay, lesbian and hetero characters. Her favorite quote, from a pro-gay billboard, is “Be careful who you hate. It may be someone you love.”