She settled in, met a few other seniors in the upscale neighborhood and seemed to forget her beloved Sally. Until the night a burglar broke in.
The woman was startled awake by the sound of someone foraging around in the next room. She was terrified. Should she pretend to be asleep or should she boldly confront the intruder. Just when she determined that feigning sleep was the wiser of the two choices, the woman heard Sally's angry growl and ferocious bark.
Oh my goodness I must be dreaming, she told herself rolling back over. Then the sound of someone tripping over her footstool and Sally growling viciously. She slipped on her robe and rushed into the living room just in time to see a man running out the door with the ghostly Sally nipping at his ankles. No matter what the police officers or anyone else thought, the old woman was convinced that the ghost of her dearly departed pet had protected her and her belongings that night.
Years ago we lived across the street from a family who'd recently come from Sri Lanka. The patriarch of the family was a kind old gentleman who generously shared the fruits and vegetables from his bountiful garden with us. One afternoon he handed me a bag of fresh picked tomatoes and informed me that my house was haunted. "The ghost is quite comfortable in your home, you know." He said matter of factly. His daughter, obviously embarrassed, attempted to change the subject. But he wasn't having any of it. "I know ghosts." He insisted.
"But it wasn't always so. When I was a boy in Ceylon. It was Ceylon before Sri Lanka, you know." I nodded. And he began his story.
"When I was a boy, my older brother and I often walked to the next village for our mother. One day I ran up ahead and stopped to wait for him at the graveyard. There, I saw a woman, a man and two little children, all crying loudly. 'What is wrong?' I asked them. 'We are lost.' The man cried. 'I will help you find your way. My brother and I know this area very well.' I childishly bragged.
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