This is a story about one or two not-at-all malicious ghosts. It’s a little bit creepy, but no one gets hurt. Just how a ghost story ought to be.
There’s a house across the street from where I was raised that was built in the 1880s. My mom has lived there on and off throughout her life — when she was a child, again in her late teens, just after I was born and for a few summers when I was in high school. It’s next to a creek, and it’s a lovely place to sleep when the windows are open and it’s warm out. It’s not a good place to sleep in the winter at all, because it’s very, very cold.
Anyway, the house is old and in need of renovation; it looks like a haunted house. According to the local historic society, there was a coffin-making business on the site before the house was there. Local word-of-mouth has it that someone, sometime was hanged in a big tree on the property. And there’s a c. 600 AD Cherokee mound next door. How could this house not be ghosty?