Real ghost stories from real people. This is Into the Paranormal with Tony Bruske.

It's a peculiar thing, isn't it? The way memory clings to the simplest gestures, a wave through a window, a smile shared at dusk, a child's voice calling out into the night expecting no knowing, there will be a reply.

Tonight's story doesn't begin with fear. It begins with kindness, a man tending to his garden,

a pocketful of humbugs, a child who felt safe, seen and heard by the old man just over the

fence. But what happens when a familiar

ritual refuses to end, even after death? Our narrator swore he saw him not once, but night

after night, a man who had already been buried, a man who kept waving, is this grief playing

tricks on a young mind, or is it possible

that some bonds are strong enough to hold through the veil? Let's get to the letter. They write,

Dear Tony, this is going back to my first experience with something I still can't quite explain,

and even after all these

years, I remember it clearly, as if it happened just last night. I grew up in a quiet cul-de-sac

in a small English town, the kind of place where everyone knew everyone. The houses were close,

but the lives lived within them often felt like entire worlds apart. Ours was a modest two-story home,

and out back, a narrow garden stretched down to a weathered wooden fence. Just on the other side

of that fence lived, Mr. Ellis. To me, Mr. Ellis was everything a grandfather should be, though he

wasn't actually family.

"'He lived alone in a brick house with pale yellow curtains

"'and a garden he tended like it was sacred.

"'He grew rhubarb, rose and rows of it,

"'and took pride in giving bundles to my mom when it was ripe.

"'He always wore a flat cap, always had a story to share,

...