Ghost Story Tuesday

When I was younger, I lived on a road that ended at the back gate to the government air-force base. It made for a nice quiet street (save for rush-hour times, of course). It was a beautiful place to live. The kids in the neighborhood ran wild as long as the weather was agreeable (meaning as long as there wasn't a torrential downpour or an uncharacteristically nasty blizzard). Our favorite haunts included the railroad tracks way back in the woods, a couple of choice spots by the river, and the cement pad. The cement pad was just that; a block of cement with a ramp leading up to the top, about 15 x 15 feet in size. It was at the very end of the street, in plain view of the gate and the buildings inside. Somehow, though, that gate acted as a barrier to a different world; we didn't understand it, and we ignored it for the most part. Our world ended at the gate.
There was something else at the end of our street, across the road from the cement pad. The ancient, run-down house was the subject of endless scrutiny and curiosity from us kids. Strangely, it was painted white on the side facing the air base, and rotting and gray on the other three sides. The house was lopsided and decrepit, and one of its upstairs windows broken. Some of the kids claimed that they saw shadows in that window, and the stories attracted even more attention from us.
The house was owned and lived in by the Grandfather of one of the kids that lived on the street...which is how I came to find myself paying a visit one day.
I rarely played with the boy, but that day there were three of us hanging around the place, and the boy claimed, for the first time, that it was his Grandfather who lived inside. We, of course, scoffed at this claim, which prompted the boy to knock on the door.
I remember the day exactly. It was overcast and I was chilly in my shorts and shirt. I was tired from the activities of the day, and the prospect of meeting the owner of this famous (at least in our little world) house was disturbing, especially as it had happened so spontaneously.
The man who answered the door looked as ancient as the house. His wiry gray hair stood at all angles on his head. He regarded us with suspicion, then greeted his Grandson. We were invited in, although somewhat reluctantly, and I was instantly taken aback at the condition of the interior of the place.
Before that visit, nobody was sure whether anyone lived in the house. No-one was ever seen coming or going, and activity around the house was minimal. If I had entered the house on my own that day, I still would not have been sure whether it was inhabited. The stove was, like the house and it's owner, ancient. The table was not much more than some thrown together planks of wood. I shyly asked the man where his fridge was, and he informed us (rather proudly) that there was no fridge; he kept his milk in a cool cupboard.
The three of us kids stood awkwardly in the dark kitchen. I wanted to run, and had since we entered the house. Though I was still in my years of shutting out my gifts, I had felt an undeniable presence as soon as we'd entered the house which had intensified as we'd passed the stairs leading to the second floor.
The old man seemed to be searching for a suitable topic of conversation. What he came up with was...interesting. He went to a cupboard, pulled out a large bag and showed us the contents. I was shocked (and my urge to run was reinforced with a vengeance) to observe that the bag was stuffed full of used needles. "What're those for?" I asked, unable to rein in my curiosity despite being appalled at the contents of the bag.
The man explained that he was diabetic and that he had to give himself needles every day. I remember him pulling up his shirt and tracing a pattern on his belly - the pattern he followed to be sure he didn't stick the same place too often and bruise himself.
Suddenly, the man looked up and his face went a deadly white. "DON'T GO NEAR THERE!" he yelled, and I jumped back a few feet, ending up against that old stove. The third kid with us, most likely made queasy with the whole charming needle story, had wandered over to the stairs and was peering up them. He jumped away at the shout of the old man.
"I don't go up there anymore. Nobody goes up there."
Those word turned my stomach and sent a chill up my spine. We hastily said our goodbyes and left.
His Grandson explained, after we left, that his Grandfather had gotten worse since his wife had died. He never left the house and, as he had said, had stopped going upstairs, which was where his and his wife's bedroom was. I asked why and my friend simply shook his head.
It was some time later that I was alone with the boy, and he told me more of the story. When he was young, he would visit his Grandparents. His Grandmother had an ancient record player and loved playing a certain song over and over again. She was a kind woman and he loved spending time with her. Some time after she died, his Grandfather was taking care of him, and he went to sleep upstairs. He woke up in the middle of the night, in pitch black, to a song so familiar that he instantly knew who was playing it for him. His Grandfather, he learned later, had heard her song many times, and eventually refused to make the climb to his bedroom anymore.
The story always made me sad, and year later when the old man died, I wondered if there was something somebody could have done for the man. Maybe he didn't have to be so alone...
When I visit home now, I always make a point to drive to the end of my old street, up to the back gate, and I feel a little hollow when I see the old lot where that house used to be. They've since torn the place down.
But that old feeling is still there. I've always felt that there was much more to the story of that old man and his dead wife, and I still feel that way. Something unsolved. The house is gone, but its' inhabitants...still linger.