They say that when you suddenly wake up in the middle of the night, that’s because someone is there staring at you. I was only six when Grandma Wendy told me this and I remember being petrified. Mom scolded her every time I woke up in the middle of the night and, unable to control my fear, I let it all out in a terrified scream. I’d scream and scream, my arm too frightened to reach out for the lamp. Mom hated it and eventually forbade Grandma to tell me these things. Why telling nonsense to a young child who doesn’t know better?

‘But it is true, the sooner she knows the better,’ Grandma Wendy would say shrugging her shoulders as if seeing ghosts was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it was for her. ‘And, as you know, it doesn’t mean they come back to hurt you. Most aren’t that bad.’

‘Oh, please. Just drop it,’ mom would say, rolling her eyes and sighing.

As I grew up my fears vanished. Vanished up to the point that I even forgot about these old wife tales. I attended school, went to University, got a job, my life just went on without grandma or her stories.

Until one day mom called me to the office, her voice feeble.

‘She has passed, Grandma Wendy. The funeral is the day after tomorrow.’

I didn’t react straight away to the news, the reality took its time to sink in. We humans go through these funny phases whereby as a child you adore your grandparents but as you enter adolescence, grandparents become just old boring crones. As an adult I wasn’t close to her either, maybe my unconscious mind didn’t want to hear her stories event though I could swear I had really forgotten about them. I felt guilty though. For not having been a close granddaughter, all thanks to unfounded fears. Or were they? That night I slept with the TV on as if that stupid bright square could protect me from unwanted visits.

The funeral day came quicker than I had wanted. It was a family tradition too to kiss the dead’s forehead, something my mom never forced me to do as a young child or even teen, but now that I was 36 I was supposed to.

I’ll never forget her lemon coloured, lifeless face, her eyes closed, yet I could feel as I approached my lips to her forehead that she was watching me somehow. I was quick, hardly touched her. I was invaded by this irrational fear that she would suddenly wide-open her eyes and grab me.

I still spent a couple of days with mom until she felt strong enough again to be on her own. She was always very quiet, which I associated to her pain. Until the day I left.

‘Don’t be scared if she visits you at night,’ she unexpectedly said as I kissed her goodbye and prepared to get in the car.

‘Sorry, mom?”

‘She loves you, she might want to see you. Just don’t be scared. It’s been in our blood for generations, even if we try to deny it or push it away.’

And she closed the door leaving me wondering if her sadness was making her talk nonsense or if there was any truth in her words.

I drove home slowly and as night time approached I decided to put myself together. I was 36, for goodness sake. I was too big to believe in ghost stories.

It was just after 2am when my eyes wide opened. The stories came back, sweltering in my mind. My heart was galloping. A chill went down my spine but just like when I was six, my hand was too scared to reach out for the lamp. I took a deep breath. It was my imagination, highly affected by Grandma’s recent death. I was very shaken, that was all. I gripped my pillow tight and closed my eyes, hoping to fall back to sleep soon.

‘Hello, sweetheart. Don’t be afraid, I am ok.’

I jumped off my bed panting heavily. I didn’t know if I had fallen asleep again and dreamed of her voice or if she had really been there talking to me. I closed my eyes and as I pulled the blanket over my back, her cold hand grabbed mine. The screamed died in my throat.

‘Shhh, sweetie. I’ve told you I mean no harm.’