From Elizabeth Tam, Manoa
When I was 6, my mother came into an inheritance and bought an old home in Manoa Valley with gardens and a pond. The entire top floor of the home was the children’s quarters, where my younger brother and sister and I lived and played.
The entire bottom floor of our home was my mother’s quarters, which she used largely for entertaining.
There was a long wooden staircase that connected the first floor to the children’s quarters. Almost from the very beginning, strange things began to happen. It started when we were awakened at night by the sound of footsteps running up and down the stairs. We would wake up, terrified, and run to the top of the stairs and look down, only to see my mother at the bottom of the stairs, her frightened face looking up at us.
“Go back to sleep, children,” she would say, “it was just a dream.”
When I would insist that it wasn’t a dream, she would admonish me not to frighten the little ones, or she would say, “It was the cat.” or “Old houses creak.”
There was a grand piano on the first floor that none of us knew how to play. It came with the house and sat untouched, except when one of the kids fooled around on it. Soon after we moved in we would be awakened in the middle of night by the sound of someone playing loudly on the piano. We would jump out of bed and run downstairs, but before we could get there, the music would stop. Often we would encounter our mother running into the room ahead of us. “It was the cat,” Mother would say. When I argued that the cat couldn’t possibly lift up the fallboard that covered the keys, she would say, “A cat is capable of doing anything it chooses.”
In the second grade, I told my teacher that we had a ghost in the house. My teacher called my mother. My mother had to go to school and talk to my teacher. She was very upset with me. Afterward, she sat me down and said, “A well-bred lady never airs her dirty linen in public.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but figured she didn’t want me telling my teacher about the ghost anymore.
As I got older I began to sense the presence in our house was a gentleman. Some nights I would feel him sit down on the edge of my bed. I wasn’t afraid, because I felt he was watching over me. I liked it when he came, because it made it easier for me to fall asleep. Sometimes he would sit on my little sister’s bed, but mainly he just sat on mine. One night my mother came up to my bedroom when he had just been sitting with me.
“Who were you with?” she asked. It was almost as if she knew. My bedroom looked out over Diamond Head, and the moon was shining in on my bed. My mother smoothed out my sheets where he had been sitting. “Were you alone?” she asked. I thought that was an odd question – she had to know I was alone. Later, I wondered if he sat on her bed too.
It wasn’t until high school when my mother finally admitted the truth. She was hosting a large dinner party, and I was in the kitchen helping her. The kitchen was in the very back of the house separated by a long hallway, a butler’s pantry and a set of swinging doors. As we were fixing drinks, we heard the sound of a man’s shoes echoing down the hardwood floor toward the kitchen. As the kitchen doors swung open, we both turned to greet our guest. The doorway was empty. No one was there.
“You see, Mother!” I demanded. “Are you going to tell me that was the cat?!”
She stood there staring at me, unable to speak.
“Admit it!” I insisted, “Once and for all, admit the truth! You know there’s a ghost in this house!”
“Yes,” my mother finally admitted. “But why?” I demanded, “Why did you always try to convince me I was imagining him?”
“Because,” she said, “I didn’t want you to frighten the children.”
Twenty years later I was at my daughter’s piano recital when a young boy sat down at the piano and began to play. I almost fell off my chair. It was Beethoven’s 5th – the same music the ghost of my childhood had played.
http://www.midweek.com/midweek-readers-ghost-stories/
When I was 6, my mother came into an inheritance and bought an old home in Manoa Valley with gardens and a pond. The entire top floor of the home was the children’s quarters, where my younger brother and sister and I lived and played.
The entire bottom floor of our home was my mother’s quarters, which she used largely for entertaining.
There was a long wooden staircase that connected the first floor to the children’s quarters. Almost from the very beginning, strange things began to happen. It started when we were awakened at night by the sound of footsteps running up and down the stairs. We would wake up, terrified, and run to the top of the stairs and look down, only to see my mother at the bottom of the stairs, her frightened face looking up at us.
“Go back to sleep, children,” she would say, “it was just a dream.”
When I would insist that it wasn’t a dream, she would admonish me not to frighten the little ones, or she would say, “It was the cat.” or “Old houses creak.”
There was a grand piano on the first floor that none of us knew how to play. It came with the house and sat untouched, except when one of the kids fooled around on it. Soon after we moved in we would be awakened in the middle of night by the sound of someone playing loudly on the piano. We would jump out of bed and run downstairs, but before we could get there, the music would stop. Often we would encounter our mother running into the room ahead of us. “It was the cat,” Mother would say. When I argued that the cat couldn’t possibly lift up the fallboard that covered the keys, she would say, “A cat is capable of doing anything it chooses.”
In the second grade, I told my teacher that we had a ghost in the house. My teacher called my mother. My mother had to go to school and talk to my teacher. She was very upset with me. Afterward, she sat me down and said, “A well-bred lady never airs her dirty linen in public.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but figured she didn’t want me telling my teacher about the ghost anymore.
As I got older I began to sense the presence in our house was a gentleman. Some nights I would feel him sit down on the edge of my bed. I wasn’t afraid, because I felt he was watching over me. I liked it when he came, because it made it easier for me to fall asleep. Sometimes he would sit on my little sister’s bed, but mainly he just sat on mine. One night my mother came up to my bedroom when he had just been sitting with me.
“Who were you with?” she asked. It was almost as if she knew. My bedroom looked out over Diamond Head, and the moon was shining in on my bed. My mother smoothed out my sheets where he had been sitting. “Were you alone?” she asked. I thought that was an odd question – she had to know I was alone. Later, I wondered if he sat on her bed too.
It wasn’t until high school when my mother finally admitted the truth. She was hosting a large dinner party, and I was in the kitchen helping her. The kitchen was in the very back of the house separated by a long hallway, a butler’s pantry and a set of swinging doors. As we were fixing drinks, we heard the sound of a man’s shoes echoing down the hardwood floor toward the kitchen. As the kitchen doors swung open, we both turned to greet our guest. The doorway was empty. No one was there.
“You see, Mother!” I demanded. “Are you going to tell me that was the cat?!”
She stood there staring at me, unable to speak.
“Admit it!” I insisted, “Once and for all, admit the truth! You know there’s a ghost in this house!”
“Yes,” my mother finally admitted. “But why?” I demanded, “Why did you always try to convince me I was imagining him?”
“Because,” she said, “I didn’t want you to frighten the children.”
Twenty years later I was at my daughter’s piano recital when a young boy sat down at the piano and began to play. I almost fell off my chair. It was Beethoven’s 5th – the same music the ghost of my childhood had played.
http://www.midweek.com/midweek-readers-ghost-stories/
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