Hope I Don't See a Ghost

I’m not a hopeful person. I usually hope against things.

I hope it rains so I don’t have to go to that picnic.

I hope my cousin calls to cancel our lunch so I can stay home and relax.

I hope no one sees me eating this entire carton of ice cream.

I admit it. These are not hopes I can write about that will inspire people. Talking about these hopes will not inspire people to have hope.

But wait. I have had a hope that might be interesting to some people. I write many stories about the supernatural. And so, a lot of people ask me this question: “Have you ever seen a ghost?”

I always answer, “No, I haven’t. But I keep looking.”

That answer may not be true.

I may have seen a ghost nine or ten years ago. I’ll tell you the story, and you can decide.

My wife, Jane, and I have a summer house in Long Island, New York, near the ocean. Two houses down from us, a man named Kravitz lived by himself. I don’t know how old Kravitz was, but he was very old.

We liked him a lot. We often invited him over for backyard barbecues. He had been the business manager of a circus, and he had hundreds of interesting stories.

One summer afternoon, we heard that Kravitz had been sick for a while.

“He’s all alone over there,” Jane said. “I’m going to make him something for dinner, and you can take it over to him.”

She made a pasta dish, broad noodles with meat and cheese, and she put it in a blue casserole dish. I carried the dish down the block to Kravitz’s house and made my way to his kitchen door.

It was a sunny day but cool, with a steady wind off the ocean. Sunlight filled the back window so that I couldn’t see inside the house.

I knocked on the door and waited. Silence inside. Kravitz didn’t come to the door.

I knocked again. He didn’t appear.

“Hey, Kravitz — are you in there?” I called. (Everyone called him Kravitz.)

I was about to try the front door when I realized the kitchen door was open a crack.

“Kravitz? Are you awake?”

I pushed open the door and stepped into the kitchen. It was warm in the house, stuffy, as if all the windows had been closed for a while. The kitchen was clean and bare. No sign that Kravitz had eaten breakfast.

I set the casserole dish down on the counter. “Kravitz? It’s me,” I called. “Are you okay?”

He appeared in the doorway. I almost gasped when I saw him. He wore a long gray nightshirt, and his face was as gray as the nightshirt. He had dark crevices under his eyes, which were only half-open. His lips were dark, almost blue, and his chin trembled as he started to speak.

“You woke me.” His voice was a dry whisper, like the wind through dead leaves. “You woke me.”

“Sorry,” I said. I stared at the gray nightshirt, avoiding his face. “Kravitz, how do you feel?”

He coughed. “I need to sleep now.”

“Yes. Good,” I said. “Jane made you a casserole.” I pointed to the blue dish on the counter. “When you feel like eating… ”

“I’ll sleep… ” he said.

I started to the door. “If you need anything,” I said, “just call. We’re two minutes away.”

He nodded. His eyes were nearly closed. His face suddenly appeared dark and light, like the surface of the moon.

“Enjoy the casserole,” I said. “It’s still warm, if you want to eat lunch.”

He nodded again.

I turned and went back to the door. I walked home thinking about how sick Kravitz looked. Maybe sleep would help him. I wondered if he had a good doctor. I should have asked.

I told Jane how I awoke Kravitz and how sick he looked. “You should look in on him tomorrow morning,” she said. “See if he feels any better and see if he enjoyed the casserole.”

And that’s just what I did.

The next morning was gray, with storm clouds hanging low in the sky. I walked to Kravitz’s house and stopped before the driveway. There was a big truck, a moving van, beside the house. Workers were carrying an armchair to the truck.

I walked up the driveway and stopped one of the workers. He was a big, bearded man in denim overalls and a flannel shirt. “What’s going on?” I asked him.

“You’re a neighbor?” he said.

I nodded. “Yes.”

“I guess you didn’t hear,” he said. “Mr. Kravitz died a week ago.”

Startled, I gasped. My legs suddenly felt weak. How could that be?

My mind spinning, I let myself in the back door. I gazed around the kitchen and spotted the blue casserole dish on the counter. I picked up the dish and opened the lid. The dish was empty.

So, I guess I did see a ghost. But when people ask, I always say I never saw one.

I guess the truth is, I hope I never see another one.