Just a Part of the Family

When I was a child, my family lived for about five years in a sixty year-old house in Auburn, California. We noticed numerous strange occurrences when we first moved in, such as the television turning on and off and stomping sounds on the staircase at night, but we thought nothing of it until we had been living there for about six months, when we met our neighbors. They were very friendly people, and at one point in the conversation asked us if we had met Kenny. Naturally quite confused, we asked what they meant.

"Oh, he's the ghost," they explained. "He was a seventeen year old boy who died in the barn sometime in the sixties."

Suddenly, the innocuous red building that was sitting out behind our house had a history! Apparently, Kenny had been working in the barn when he fell on a pitchfork, essentially skewering his abdomen and killing him instantly. There were suspicions that foul play had been involved and that he had actually been killed by his father, but no official allegations were ever made.

As we continued to live at the house, our family got used to Kenny's presence and occasional pranks, which came to include playing with my toy cars, opening and closing windows, and sitting on the edges of beds when we were in them. The footsteps on the staircase continued quite frequently as well, which was slightly annoying for me as part of my room was situated directly underneath his nightly pacing grounds. He never acted maliciously, however, and after a while we came to appreciate Kenny as a part of the family (sort of). My mother would talk with him while she cooked dinner, and could tell when he was around because she claimed that his presence was very comforting.

It has been over a decade since I have been inside of the house, but I appreciate having known Kenny and hope that he has been able to pass on.