On special occasions, a great-uncle of mine regales the family with
the story of the ghost he saw.
How he awoke, one night, with the uneasy feeling that someone or
something was near, and how he saw a little lady clad in brown at his
bedside; how he thought it was his wife because she, too, was small,
but, on second thoughts, knew her to be asleep at his side; how he
saw the “little brown lady” walk—not glide—into a large cupboard at
the end of the room; how he roused his wife, and how she, not he, went
to the cupboard, only to find no trace of the “little lady.”
All this he recounts, and, on his word as a Christian, swears it to
be true. He appeals to his wife, who nods, and tells us of the colour
of his face, of the beads of perspiration on his brow, and emphasises
how terrified he was, and that it was she who investigated.
If a member of the circle ventures to suggest that it was the
after-effects of a good supper, my uncle has his answer ready, and
recommences: How a special organist, playing in the village, stayed
at his house for the night; how, next day at breakfast, on being
asked how he slept, he replied, ‘Very fair, but I have had a
disagreeable nightmare,’ how the organist had seen a “little lady”
enter his room, walk to his bedside, and then disappear into a
cupboard.
This is the final point in the narrative, and my uncle sits up
straight in his chair and exclaims, “Here's his address, go to him
and ask him; he is still alive!” And the doubting one does not move—my
uncle’s ghost story has another believer. We of the family know that
our uncle would never have told of the incident if he had not
actually experienced it, and are, thus, bound to believe in ghosts.
Yet this ghost signified nothing—no one died, neither misfortune nor
pleasant surprise occurred, and we have no family tradition.