A Local Policeman

I believe one ghost story I have heard, because it was told to me by a man who would rather eat plastic and drink shaving cream than to be considered the type of person to see anything "hinky." He thinks all such" sensitive" individuals (those who see ghosts and whatnot) are KOOKS. I am talking about a local policeman I have known for several years. He is in his late fifties, a career officer and an ultra conservative fellow. But one time, and only once, he told me this story:

A little, old lady, a friend of his family, died several years ago. My friend was care taking the property and house for her sons, who lived out of town, until the estate could be resolved. He was keeping one or two lights on in the house most of the time. When he drove by on patrol one night, he noticed they had apparently burnt out. (He had left a light on in the kitchen, to shine out in the back yard from the first floor, and a hall light on the second floor, to be apparent to traffic driving by the front of the house.) 

He resolved in his mind to stop by before starting his evening shift the next day, and bring some light bulbs with him.

The next evening, just before dark, he let himself into her house, only to find the light in the kitchen was still on. He went up to the second floor and flicked the hall switch, and, sure enough, the light bulb was burnt out. He went into the old lady's bedroom to fetch a straight-backed chair on which to stand, while he changed the bulb. 

It was like something out of the Omen. Here he was, standing on a chair right next to the banister of the second floor landing, trying to screw in this bulb in the gathering gloom, when he sensed something and looked down to see the late lady standing at the top of the stairs, wringing her hands and looking up at his handiwork with an expression of extreme anxiety. She had been watching him screw in the light bulb. He darned near fell over the railing.

I asked my friend what he did, and he replied the only thing he could do. He finished screwing in the light bulb, and got carefully down off the chair. He backed up four steps to the wall switch and turned on the light. She was still there, at the top of the stairs he needed to get down in order to leave. 

Still looking anxious, wringing her hands, he could not tell whether in appeal or exasperation. He walked over and stepped past her, and backed halfway down the stairs, then turned his back to her and ran the rest of the way. He returned in strong daylight, with his wife, and there was nobody on the stairs or elsewhere. He never saw her again. He never went there again near dark. 

I asked him how he managed to pass her to escape down the stairs. He said "She was a little woman. There was room to get by without touching her. I had to go."

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