My Ghost

My One and Only Ghost

A STORY FROM Judith Jones‑Ambrosini

I had never given much thought to ghosts. If anyone had asked whether I believed in them, I would have laughed and said no. Ghosts belonged to folklore and Halloween tales, not to the practical world I thought I knew.

Then, one October 31st, something happened that I still cannot explain. I’ll tell you the story. And I wonder what you would have done.

It was years ago, when two friends and I left busy lives in New York City to travel to the Eastern Townships of Canada for what we thought would be a simple freewheeling summer camping adventure. We planned to enjoy a few months living outdoors—cooking over a fire, sleeping in tents, and letting the rhythm of nature guide our days. But as Robert Burns so wisely wrote, “The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.”  The adventure grew into something far larger, stranger, and more transformative than we ever expected.

As summer came to a close we hesitated. Instead of returning to city life, we thought, why not stay? We had fallen in love with the area and the idea of experiencing a Canadian winter seemed like the perfect continuation of our adventure. We could ski, snowshoe and experience a Canadian winter. Thus the search for a rental house began. We soon became disillusioned as the search led nowhere.  Houses were either too big, too small, not well located or not affordable.  Until one day, serendipity shined on us. It happened in a local tavern in Ayers Cliff. We sat at the bar pondering our situation. We bemoaned our lack of finding a suitable house to rent for the winter as we sipped local Molson Ale.  The bartender overheard our conversation and mentioned an old farmhouse nearby that for rent. He said it was old and dilapidated but it was for rent. We hurried to take a look. 

Yes, old and dilapidated but, at first glance we knew.  It was exactly what we had in mind. This was the house for us. After some minor negotiations with the owner we moved into the beautiful old farmhouse in the tiny village of Ways Mills. The house had been vacant for years—maybe decades—and needed more restoring than any of us had experience with. But the rent was cheap, the area was ideal, and the notion of living simply appealed to us. We were young, idealistic, and eager to try something different.

The farmhouse sat on a small rise overlooking a patchwork of fields and forest with a small uncared for apple orchard that grew at its border. Its white clapboard siding had faded to a soft gray, and the roof sagged slightly in the middle, as though tired from holding up so many winters. The windows were old and wavy, distorting the view like ripples in a pond. Inside, the floors creaked with every step, and the walls held the faint scent of dust, cedar, and something else—something older.

We found a charm about the place. It had a wide front porch, a big kitchen with a woodstove, and a living room with another woodstove. There were two small bedrooms upstairs and one on the main floor. The house had no running water and no electricity, but we were determined to make it work. We were young enough to believe that inconvenience was simply part of the adventure.

It was early Fall when we moved in. The air smelled of apples and woodsmoke, and the once green leaves were turning vibrant red and russet, yellow and orange and falling to the ground. We spent our days preparing for winter—hauling water from a rain barrel, chopping wood, digging a root cellar in the basement, and learning how to live without the luxuries we had always taken for granted as New York City sophisticates.

Local villagers occasionally asked where we were living. When we mentioned the farmhouse in Ways Mills, some nodded knowingly while others simply changed the subject. At the time, I thought nothing of it

Life quickly settled into a demanding but satisfying rhythm. We ground wheat berries into flour for bread and muffins with a hand grinder, hauled water from a rain barrel in heavy metal pails, chopped hardwood for the woodstoves, and relied on lanterns and candles after sunset. Every task required effort, yet each left us with a deep sense of accomplishment.

We dug a root cellar to store turnips, potatoes, carrots, and squash. We pressed apples from the old orchard to make sweet cider to drink immediately and added yeast to glass jugs to ferment the apple juice into hard cider for winter.

It was hard work, but we loved it. There was something deeply satisfying about living so close to the land, about relying on our own hands and ingenuity. We felt connected to the farmhouse, to the village, and to each other.

But as October deepened, darkness began to creep in earlier and earlier each day. The sun slipped behind the hills before we finished our chores, leaving us to work by lantern light. The nights grew colder, and the wind rattled the windows like a restless visitor.

By supper time, we were hungry and exhausted. We ate big bowls of brown rice and vegetables from the garden, leftover pan bread from the morning, and occasionally a roast chicken that our neighbor Madame LaVien brought by. After dinner, we lit the woodstoves to warm the house and turned in early, knowing we had to rise with the sun to begin the work again.

On this particular night—October 31st—I followed my usual routine. I lit the lavender-scented beeswax candle on my small pine night table, pulled up the soft down comforter, and snuggled into my featherbed. I opened a book of poems by A.E. Housman, started to read “To an Athlete Dying Young”, but the lines soon blurred. My eyelids grew heavy. I blew out the candle and let the darkness settle around me.

The only light came from the faint glow of the cedar logs burning in the living room woodstove. I watched the flicker of orange through the doorway until my eyes drifted shut.

I don’t know how long I slept.

But something awakened me.

A sound? A shift in the air? A presence?

I sat up in bed, heart thudding. The room seemed cold—colder than it had been when I fell asleep. I turned toward the living room.

A bright, shimmering light pulsed in the corner where the woodstove’s glow had faded. It flickered upward, then swirled, then shimmered again. It was not the warm orange of firelight. It was white—almost silver—and it moved with a strange, deliberate rhythm.

The light seemed alive.  It was not drifting aimlessly like a reflection or a trick of moonlight. It appeared purposeful, as though it had entered the room with intent and was aware of my presence.

I stared, stunned. My breath caught in my throat. The light grew brighter, then dimmer, then brighter again, as though breathing. It shifted along the wall, rising and falling like a dancer tracing invisible step.

I felt it beckoning.

A warmth spread through my chest, urging me forward. I didn’t want to move, yet something coaxed me. I pushed back the comforter and placed one foot on the floor.

An icy shock shot through my body.

I gasped and jumped back into bed, trembling. The light continued to shimmer, undisturbed by my fear. It pulsed gently, almost soothingly, as though waiting.

I blinked several times, hoping it would disappear.

It didn’t.

Instead, it seemed to grow more defined. I thought—just for a moment—that I saw the faint outline _ a shoulder _the curve of a head? a suggestion of movement?

I couldn’t be sure.

Time lost meaning. I might have watched for a minute or an hour. My body felt hot and sweaty despite the cold air. My heart pounded. My hands shook.

Then something—some instinct, some whisper—told me to light a candle.

I felt my body turn toward the nightstand, though I wasn’t sure I was the one moving it. My trembling hand reached for a match. A warmth—different from the shimmering light—guided my fingers.

I struck the match.

The candle flared to life.

I looked up.

The shimmering light was gone.

Vanished.

The corner was dark again, save for the soft flicker of the candle beside my bed. The room felt still, silent, and strangely empty, as though something had departed.

I waited, listening to the quiet. Eventually, exhaustion pulled me back under the covers. I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Morning arrived with a tug on my shoulder.

“Get up, sleepyhead!” my friend Annie called. “Coffee and oatmeal have been on for almost an hour!”

I sat up, groggy and disoriented. The October sun shone through the window, bright and cheerful. The sky was cloudless and blue. Everything looked normal.

Had I dreamed it?

Over a mug of strong hot coffee, I told Annie and Carl what had happened. I described the shimmering light, the pulsing movement, the icy shock, the strange warmth guiding my hand. They snickered, teasing me gently. They said I must have imagined it—material for one of my stories.

But I insisted. It had been real.

They wanted proof.

We walked to the living room. Carl examined the corner where the light had appeared. His expression changed.

“Look at this,” he said quietly.

On the wall were several faint discolorations—marks none of us had ever noticed before. They looked like smudges or stains, but they formed a subtle pattern, almost like the outline of something that had pressed against the wall.

Annie and Carl exchanged a glance.

Maybe I wasn’t imagining things after all.

That afternoon, we drove to the library in the nearby town of Magog to research the paranormal. We spent hours reading old books, flipping through dusty pages, searching for anything that might explain what I had seen. Then, in one brittle volume, I found a passage that made my breath catch. It said that ghosts sometimes appear as flickering, moving lights in the corners of rooms. That must be it, I thought.

 I had been visited by a ghost.

But whose ghost? Someone who had lived—or died—in the farmhouse? A former resident? A traveler who had passed through? A spirit tied to the land? Or perhaps a spirit who knew me and had come to say hello -- to visit me?

I would never know.

The shimmering light never appeared again. But the farmhouse felt a little different after that night. Sometimes, when I walked through the living room, I felt a faint warmth in that corner, as though something lingered there.

Winter came, and we settled into our routines. The farmhouse creaked and groaned under the weight of snow. The wind howled through the eaves. We spent long evenings reading by candlelight, telling stories, and listening to the crackle of the woodstove.

Occasionally, I thought I saw a flicker of light in the corner—but it was always just a trick of the fire or the reflection of a lantern. Or so I told myself.

One night in January, I woke again to a strange feeling. Not fear—more like curiosity. I sat up and looked toward the living room.

The corner was dark.

But the air felt charged, as though something had just been there.

I lit a candle and whispered into the quiet, “Are you still here?”

Nothing answered.

. Yet I realized I no longer felt frightened. Whatever I had seen on Halloween night, it had left me with curiosity rather than fear.

But I seemed to feel a soft warmth brush my cheek, like a gentle exhale.

Spring eventually arrived, and with it came the decision to leave the farmhouse and Canada. Life pulled us in different directions back to city life. We packed our belongings and said goodbye to the place that had sheltered us through one of the most memorable winters of our lives.

On our last day, I walked into the living room and placed my hand on the corner wall. The discolorations were still there, faint but visible. I traced them with my fingertips.

“Goodbye,” I whispered.

A soft warmth spread through my hand.

And faded.

I stepped outside, closed the door, and left the farmhouse behind.

But I never forgot my ghost.

More than forty years have passed since that Halloween night, and I still cannot explain what I saw in that farmhouse corner. Perhaps it was a ghost. Perhaps it was something my mind has never been able to name.

But whenever someone tells me they do not believe in ghosts, I simply smile.

Once upon a time, neither did I.

And now, dear reader, I wonder: what would you have done?