I Met My Father-in-Law Years After He Died

A true ghost story

In the early 2000s, I lived in a haunted Victorian farmhouse built in the 1850s. It was inhabited by one ghost, a man named Al. His car was hit by a firetruck on his way home from work, mere yards from his driveway. It was a tragic accident, as his four children were playing in the front yard and witnessed the crash.

Years later, I married the eldest son and we lived in his childhood home. The fact his dad’s spirit remained in the house didn’t scare me. I was more curious than anything and had a healthy dose of skepticism. I believed in God and angels but wasn’t sure where I stood on ghosts.

With giddy excitement, I moved in and waited for anything weird and whacky. Al didn’t turn on and off the lights, open the cupboards, clang a chain in the attic or any of the other antics stereotypical ghosts do. What a disappointment! My first couple of months living there were woefully normal.

My friends wanted spooky stories.

I had nothing.

I longed for an eerie moan, some unexplained shrieking. The house was almost 150 years old, for crying out loud. Couldn’t I get a bump in the night?

Why was the family so insistent he was there? Wishful thinking?

Or maybe I wasn’t as in tune with the spirit world as they were?

Nah. Grief must have manifested his presence here in their minds.

It was understandable.

I thought twice when the youngest nephew came over.

He was about four-years-old and running up the spiral staircase. He made the turn, clinging to the handrail on the left. Then, he dodged to the right as if avoiding running into something and said, “Sorry, Grandpa.” He continued up the stairs as if nothing had happened.

After that, I noticed little kids saw Al on a regular basis. I didn’t want to encourage or discourage it, so I followed the rest of the family’s lead and didn’t make a big deal out of it.

My first interaction with Al was in the middle of the night. I woke up and there he was, sitting calmly by my side of the bed, his legs crossed, casual-like. At first, I thought I was dreaming. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, and at a glacial pace, rolled to my side for a better look. This is real!

We stared at each other and his presence calmed me. Somehow, I felt a message from him instead of heard it.

He liked me. I brought life to the house. He was happy I married his son.

I wanted to speak, but couldn’t, afraid to shatter the moment.

I closed my eyes, reviewing and questioning what I saw. It was dark in the room, but I had seen Al’s polyester pants and leather dress shoes clearly. His left leg dangling over his right. His chest, shoulders, and face were more a suggestion — a bit faded and blurry. He sat in a high-backed cushioned chair with ornate wooden armrests and legs. I had never seen the chair before.

I waited a few minutes, trying to summon up the courage to speak to him. When I opened my eyes, he was gone. So was the chair.

After that, I saw a lot of Al’s pants and shoes. I’d pile clothes on the couch and start folding them while watching TV and Al would show up on the other side of the couch. Just his crossed legs and shoes. I found it amusing. I didn’t say anything to him, just went about my business, smiling to myself.

One morning, my husband woke up at 5 AM for work and wanted me to get up with him.

Uh … I didn’t have to go anywhere. I had worked 44 hours in the last four days. I was sleeping in.

He tried to do a guilt trip.

Didn’t work.

He sighed and went out to the kitchen to make coffee.

I made use of the extra bed space and blankets and buried myself diagonally across the mattress. Only my foot stuck out. I had just about drifted off to sleep when an ice-cold hand grab my toes and gave my foot a shake.

I threw back the covers and bolted upright, prepared to mount a high-pitched protest to my husband to let me sleep in.

There was nobody there.

What?

Now, wide awake, I hopped out of bed and found my husband sitting at the table reading yesterday’s paper.

There was no way he could have grabbed my foot mere seconds ago.

I said, “If you want me to get up with you, that’s one thing, but you don’t have to get your dad to gang up on me.”

I told him what happened.

He laughed. “Well, that’s a first. He’s never touched anyone but my mom.”

I took it as a compliment.

After that, if I saw Al’s legs hanging around, I’d say hi. I didn’t try to get into any big conversation, just acknowledged his presence. It seemed the polite thing to do.

We peacefully co-existed another year or two. He didn’t trip me with those legs and I didn’t step on his toes.

One day Al decided to shake things up.

It was around 1999 or 2000. A brand-new Dell computer with all the bells and whistles arrived from QVC. Wahoo! Not long after, a NASCAR steering wheel and the gas pedal was delivered — accessories to a computer game.

I pretended to be Kyle Petty as I mashed my foot on the gas and spun the life-size steering wheel. On my computer screen, I could race Dale Earnhardt and Terry Labonte on tracks like Talladega, Bristol, and Charlottesville.

And then … I wiped out … More accurately … My computer wiped out.

I had no idea what was wrong or how to fix it. Luckily, the computer had a fancy-schmancy 90-day warranty.

The morning the repairman came, I was cooking sausage links on the stove. The computer desk was in my large kitchen, so I could show the man what the problem was and still keep an eye on breakfast.

He was a chubby, friendly sort. He had a ready smile and a hearty laugh. We bantered back and forth as he tapped on the keyboard. He called it “troubleshooting”.

I had my back to him, getting a plate down from the cupboard when he made a sound between a shriek and a gasp.

Something in my stomach told me this wasn’t going to be good.

I faced him as he pushed the wheeled office chair away from the computer. His mouth hung slack as he gaped at the NASCAR steering wheel. It spun wildly to the left and the right. Back and forth it went, like a driverless car weaving between a set of cones at 100 mph. Swishhh it whirled. Whoooshhh it twirled.

“Wow,” I said, swallowing hard. “How’d you get it to do that?”

He looked at me with wild eyes. “It’s unplugged! What’s going on here?” He ran his hands down the cords of the game and held up the loose wires as evidence.

“Huh,” I said. A thin, second-skin of nervous sweat coated my body. I knew Al was behind this. I felt strangled from tamping down the hysterical laughter bubbling up. My eyes started watering. I was going to burst.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” he said, shaking his head.

I clamped a hand over my mouth and tried to look innocent. Once I composed myself, I said, “I am really dumb on all this stuff, so that’s why I called you –”

His terrorized face stopped me. He was staring at the stove.

I made myself follow his gaze.

One of the six sausage links in the pan flew eight to ten inches into the air, did a few flips, landed in the pan, and then cartwheeled above the pan again.

I bit my lip.

This was not a result of a too-hot pan. This was Al having fun.

We watched the dancing sausage and my face burned with a mix of hysteria, embarrassment, and amazement. This was Al’s greatest performance since I’d met him.

“We have a — ” I couldn’t say it.

The man shoved his tools in his bag. “I’m outta here,” he said. “I’ll tell Dell to send you a new computer. I’m not touching this one.”

He was out the door and peeling out of the drive before I could apologize.

I turned off the stove and put five links on my plate.

I didn’t eat the crazy one.

I was afraid it’d come back to haunt me later.

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