My grandmother had waited for my grandfather to come home 14 days after he passed away.
The dead. They’re all supposed to come home on the 14th day after their passing.
To have one last look.
One last goodbye.
My grandmother waited till the clock struck 12 before she finally gave up and went to bed.
He came back.
He came back as she drifted off to sleep.
The door slowly creaked open and after a few moments of silence, it slowly creaked close.
My grandfather had taken one last good look at his beloved and crossed over.
I don’t remember who told me that story.
It could only be 2 people — my grandmother herself, or my late mother.
It’s funny that only now — as I’m trying to tell the story — I realize I can’t remember who had told me that story.
My life has been littered with this sort of stories for as long as I can remember.
Stories of superstitions and the supernatural, scattered all around my brain, waiting to be retrieved when they are needed.
Do you believe in ghost?
It’s a question I’ve been asking myself since I slowly read more and more on the subject of life and science.
Do I believe in something I have yet to see with my own eyes?
Not that I want to, see it I mean.
There lies the issue.
I would like to say I don’t — believe in ghosts.
But that would be a lie.
Someone who doesn’t believe in ghost wouldn’t be scared of seeing one.
There’s gotta be something right?
Things well secured on their places suddenly falling off without anyone touching them. Door closing by itself — with a loud bang, a slow creak — when you know for a fact there’s no draught, wind anywhere to make it possible. A presence — alone but somehow feeling not quite… alone in an empty room, house.
And what about the stories?
The woman in white long dress your mother and aunt had seen in the hotel rooms when everyone was fast asleep.
2 different women woke up face to face with a red-eyed woman, who had stared at them and vanished seconds after they woke up — in your bedroom.
The woman with half burned face, seen by the workers, walking around the warehouse of your father’s factory.
Tales of apparitions spreading like wildfire in town. Of the lady who had jumped to her death in a shopping mall.
The security guards had seen her. A woman with bloody crushed head, wandering in the mall at night, sitting on the display piano.
Stories from the patrons — a fleeting glimpse of the woman in the bathroom mirrors late after midnight movies.
A soul forever trapped.
I… don’t know.
And I don’t think I’ll ever know.
It’s one of those mysteries you’re not supposed to crack I suppose.
At least not until it’s time for you to know.
It’s one of the things you would probably know when death knocks on your door.
Before my mother passed away, I would say I am more inclined to believe that ghost is not real.
I’m afraid of seeing them, but it doesn’t mean I believed they are real.
The fear is just a product of years and years of stories — tales passed down from one generation to the next. Stories that spread through a race, a nation.
A belief system.
Then my mother passed away.
Suddenly, I am a desperate woman, grasping at straw. At any sliver of hope.
A desperate woman — as it turns out — is willing to believe in almost anything.
She never came back though.
Perhaps I just missed the signs.
An old Chinese belief.
The dead comes back in the form of a butterfly.
One happened to perch itself in front of our family photo, until it finally took its very last breath.
There has never been any apparition, a spectre, spirit — the so-called ghost.
I haven’t seen my mother.
My family’s religion said she had been reborn in the higher realm of gods and goddesses and therefore, will never return again to the realm of the living — our world.
She loves (I’ll use present tense here as I believe she still does) us so much, and she had been taken away from us so suddenly.
I never really got the chance to have a last conversation.
Wouldn’t she come back even for a fleeting moment?
A massive part of me is ecstatic that she had been reborn in the realm of gods and goddesses. She deserves it. She had been so kind in her lifetime.
But a small selfish part of me wishes she would come back. One second. Just one second so that I can remember the shape of her face, the lines on it (she would have said what lines? and I would have laughed).
Part of me has accepted that was not to be.
But the other tiny stubborn part has yet to give up.
I am still waiting.
Do I believe in ghost?
I don’t know.
It is not a question for a soul desperate for answers.
We all need a bit of hope, living and breathing on this Earth, don’t we?
A hope that there’s something more out there. Something we have yet to understand.
A chance for a final goodbye.
Do I believe in ghost?
I don’t know.
A special thanks to Trisha Traughber for the intriguing Vagabond Voices prompt — Mysteries: Doubt and Hope.
It feels great to let this one out.
I have yet to decide whether I believe in ghost or not. Perhaps you on the other side of this screen can shed some light on this.
Thank you for stopping by.
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